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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY:
Today’s episode is about a music legend, a bandleader who could have been one of the all-time greats had his brilliance not been snuffed-out before his time. Only his untimely death wasn’t brought-about because he was black and gay, but owing to one of the most random of tragedies.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Cafe de Paris at 3-4 Coventry Street is located with a light blue cross, just near the words 'Leicester Square'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with the episode. They are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: Lancashire Evening Post - Monday 10 March 1941 Nottingham Evening Post - Saturday 05 April 1941 Leicester Evening Mail - Saturday 05 April 1941 Bradford Observer - Monday 08 September 1941 The Stage - Thursday 06 October 1994 The Stage - Thursday 11 October 2001 West London Observer - Friday 04 October 1957 Bradford Observer - Wednesday 10 September 1941 West Middlesex Gazette - Saturday 05 November 1938 The Era - Wednesday 15 January 1936 The Scotsman - Monday 07 April 1941 Sunday Post - Sunday 06 April 1941 Daily Mirror - Friday 14 March 1941 Derby Daily Telegraph - Saturday 05 April 1941 Lincolnshire Echo - Saturday 05 April 1941 Liverpool Echo - Saturday 05 April 1941 Halifax Evening Courier - Saturday 05 April 1941 http://uncover-ed.org/ken-snakehips-johnson/ https://londonist.com/london/history/when-a-music-legend-was-killed-playing-in-central-london https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpJ1hzoPB0A https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1264532/The-blitz-70-years-Carnage-Caf-Paris.html http://adrinkershistoryoflondon.com/eighty-years-on-cafe-de-paris-8-march-1941/ http://www.westendatwar.org.uk/page_id__246.aspx https://www.cwgc.org/find-records/find-war-dead/casualty-details/3123240/JOHNSON,%20KENRICK%20HYMANS/ https://www.blackhistorymonth.org.uk/article/section/music-entertainers/black-british-swing-caribbean-contribution-to-british-jazz-in-the-1930s-and-1940s/ https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2006/oct/05/secondworldwar.world https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/the-bombing-of-the-cafe-de-paris/#note-7422-20 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a music legend, a bandleader who could have been one of the all-time greats had his brilliance not been snuffed-out before his time. Only his untimely death wasn’t brought-about because he was black and gay, but owing to one of the most random of tragedies. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 150: The Day the Music Died. Today I’m standing outside of Café de Paris on Coventry Street, W1; one street west of the killing of David Knight, one street south of the unsolved shooting of Black Rita, one street east of the Blackout Ripper’s failed attack on Greta Hayward, and a few doors down from the most radioactive shisha bar in the West End - coming soon to Murder Mile... the book. Connecting Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square, Coventry Street is an eyesore; a hideous boil on the West End’s rear-end, dotted with the ugly bum-grapes of consumerism. Tourists flock here to see ‘the real London’ – like fish n chips, moaning and bad teeth - only to have their senses assaulted by a hotch-potch of tacky un-British tat; whether that’s the mecca to sickly American sweets at M&M World, a lisping Asian Frank Sinatra impersonator who croons “stwangers in the night”, flanks of hairy Turks peddling Indian-made rickshaws as five Croatians on a stag-do eat Falafel while dressed like Pikachu, and lines of garish hell-holes flogging-off trashy trinkets like a Princess Di car waxing kit, a Queen Mum toenail clipper, a Prince Andrew ‘wipe clean’ diary sponsored by Pizza Hut, and – Police Constable Arsenal Guinness’ favourite – a Princess Kate face flannel (PCAG) “ooh, put me down for three”. And although this particular street is a disgustingly lurid example of what happens when some of our worst cultural ideas are shared - when it’s done properly – it can be what makes Britain truly great. In the basement of 3-4 Coventry Street sits the Café de Paris; an opulent music venue famed for jazz and swing orchestras, and it’s here that the Charleston was introduced to London. Royals and regulars mixed, race and sexuality were unseen, and it hosted many famous names such as Judy Garland, Dita Von Teese, Dorothy Dandridge, Marlene Dietrich, Louise Brooks and Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson. Ken was a bandleader, who was tipped to breaking-through into the music mainstream, and the only reason he isn’t regarded as among the greats – like Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman and Glen Miller – is owing to a series of random and almost unbelievable events, which led to his untimely death. As it was here, on Saturday 8th March 1941 at roughly 9:45pm, that Ken ‘Snakes Hips’ Johnson would entertain his last ever crowd... and although the music died, his memory would live on. (Interstitial). Legends aren’t born fully-formed; some strive, some stutter and some spurt, but where-as others like Ken would be so musically untalented it’s unbelievable that he would ever be hailed as an infamous bandleader - even his own musicians would state "he couldn't tell a B flat from a pig's foot!"... ...although music wasn’t his real gift, what he had in spades was personality and enthusiasm. Kenrick Reginald Hijmans Johnson was born on the 10th September 1914 in Georgetown, Guyana; a former British colony on the north coast of South America between Venezuela, Suriname and Brazil. With his mother a nurse and his father a doctor (and the Minister of Health), pressure was put on him to enter the medical profession. In 1929, aged just 14, this young boy boarded the SS Nickerie and docked on 31st August in the British port of Plymouth. Being tall, skinny and clutching a small suitcase, Ken was alone in a foreign country with a population of 45 million, of whom barely 15000 (like himself) were black, and although this was the height of summer, the young boy shivered with cold and fear. To please his parents, Ken was privately educated at Sir William Borlase Grammar School near Marlow in Buckinghamshire. Being bright, he excelled. Sprouting-up to an impressive six-foot four-inches tall, he stood out in a crowd, as well as a cricketer and a goalie. And being so personable, he was well liked. In 1931, changing to law - it is said – that he studied at Edinburgh University. Only there are no records to prove this; so, either the files were lost, the archives had erased any evidence of a black student, or – maybe to shield his eager parents from the real truth – Ken only said he studied there, but didn’t. Music was in his blood, which was unsurprising as his uncle was the pianist, Oscar Dummett. In 1932, he enrolled in the West End dance-school of Clarence ‘Buddy’ Bradley, a successful African-American choreographer, and owing to Ken’s lithe body and fluid dance style, the nickname of ‘snake hips’ stuck. Touring Guyana, Trinidad and New York as part of a dance troupe, Ken used this time to broaden his skills; he ingratiated himself with the latest dance and music styles, he formed his first all-black dance-band alongside saxophonist David ‘Baba’ Williams; he honed his tap-dancing among Harlem’s finest, he drew inspiration from Bill ‘Bojangles’ Robinson and his infamous ‘stair dance’ as performed on the vaudeville stage, and – idolising Cab Calloway – he was inspired to become a band-leader. But not a ‘stick wiggler’, a technically-proficient if slightly-starchy conductor as too many band-leaders were, Ken wanted his band to entertain, with him as the tall elegant figurehead. Backed by a truly talented swing orchestra, all dressed in fine tails and bow-ties; Ken would bring his inimitable style and charm, as well as his fast feet and hypnotic snake-hips which always wowed the crowds. But as America had already embraced this style of swing, he needed a new audience... ...one, which he knew, was particularly stiff and lightly-uptight – Britain. Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson would go on to shape the sound of swing across London in the 1930s and 40’s, and – having let trumpeter Leslie Thompson direct the music - as "he couldn't tell a B flat from a pig's foot.... he had the gift of imparting his terrific enthusiasm to those who were talented". Returning to Britain in 1936, later renamed as ‘Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra’, the band toured the variety club circuit. Being an all-black orchestra, this was certainly a selling point and a novelty for many British audiences, seeing musicians from such exotic climes as Jamaica, Sierra Leone, Trinidad, South Africa and Cape Verde, with some hailing all the way from South Wales. But being unwilling to sully the mix by adding a white-face – as they couldn’t find two suitable trombonists - Reg Amore and Freddie Greenslade, two pasty-white musicians had to wear black-face to blend in. That said, it was the band’s talent and Ken’s electrifying personality which shone through. Becoming famous fast; they became the resident house-band at the Old Florida Club in Mayfair, played gigs at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, did stints on BBC World Service where they rose to the ranks of stars, and recorded their first discs - ‘Goodbye’, ‘Remember, ‘Washington Squabble’ and ‘Please Be Kind’. By 1939, Ken wasn’t even 24 years-old, but already he was a bandleader, an entertainer, a famous name and a well-known face; he was widely respected by the industry and audiences, he was on a good wage and he had a natural gift in an era for whom the music of swing was about to explode... ...only fate would deal an unfortunate hand for the man with rhythm in his hips. Everything could have gone so wrong for Ken in so many ways. Being a black man from a former enslaved colony, Britain wasn’t the most welcoming place for Ken. In 1863, the President of the London Anthropological Society had stated “the negro is intellectually inferior to the European and can only be civilised by Europeans”, a statement many still believed. By the 1940’s, barely 20,000 black people had made Britain there home, with many eking-out a living in badly-paid jobs in some of the most deprived areas. By the 1950’s, of 1000 landlords surveyed, only 15 would let a room to a black person, who had to pay double the rent of a white person. Persecution was wide-spread, segregation had become the norm’, and denied all but the most menial of jobs, black people were banned from entering many clubs, except as waiters and performers to white audiences. And even then, a black musician in an all-white band could be problematic, as the venues had the legal right to block their inclusion. So, performing as an all-black band was truly ground-breaking. To overcome this ingrained bigotry, Ken strove harder than most and pushed the band to excel; the music was impeccable, their professionalism was unparalleled, his showmanship was second-to-none, and for maximum impact, the band wore bright-white dinner-jackets with black bow-ties, establishing Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra as one of the best swing bands in Britain. Only being black wasn’t the only issue which made his life hard... ...as Ken was also gay. In the 1930’s; it was illegal to be gay, a crime to admit to being a homosexual, laws were drafted which pigeon-holed gay-sex alongside such moral debauchery as prostitution, incest and bestiality, with the act itself (often dubbed as ‘sodomy’ or ‘buggery’) punishable by 10 years in prison, and the consensual sex between two adults of the same gender wouldn’t be decriminalised for almost another 30 years. His sexuality was a secret he kept hidden from his family and all but his closest of friends, and for good reason too. In 1940, Ken met and fell in love with Gerald Hamilton; widely regarded as “the wickedest man in Europe”, Gerald’s former bunk-mate was the infamous occultist Aleister Crowley, he acted as an informer for Sinn Féin, Special Branch and the British Military Mission in Berlin, and served prison time for bankruptcy, theft, gross indecency and being seen by MI5 as “a threat to national security”. Only Ken wasn’t a political dissident hellbent on underpinning the state, what drew him to Gerald - a man 20 years his senior - was his fascinating life, his Edwardian airs and malicious anecdotes. The two were like chalk and cheese, but being in love, in 1941, they moved in together at 91 Kinnerton Street in Belgravia and later bought a cottage called Little Basing in Bray, overlooking the River Thames. Besides, it wasn’t like Ken could hide in the shadows, as being an elegant and handsome gentleman, a full half a foot taller than most males, his electrifying personality was his calling-card. Ken was a star, whose bright light was about to blow supernova... ...but even the brightest of stars don’t get to twinkle for long. The year was 1939, the world was at war and Ken’s plans for an overseas tour were scuppered. With British musicians conscripted to fight, his West Indian band were in high demand, but with theatres shut and nightclubs closed as the bombing raids ravaged the city, Westminster Council issued very few licences for fears of public safety, so - with gigs in short supply - many musicians found other work. But Ken wasn’t about to give up. Opened in 1924, Café de Paris was the epitome of sophistication. With its ballroom and supper club modelled on the opulent interiors of the Titanic, and featuring oval mirrored dance-floor and elevated stage encircled by ornate curved staircases, it was the night spot for London’s society elite. Given a licence, its owner Martin Poulsen would hail it as “one of the safety and gayest place in town”. Built below the Rialto Cinema, with four storeys of stone and steel above, hidden underground and encased in concrete, it dodged the blackout rules and was impenetrable to the Luftwaffe’s bombs. On 5th November 1940, eight weeks into the eight-month long blitzkrieg campaign in which German bombers levelled great swathes of the city, Café de Paris re-opened to great fanfare. Having stockpiled 25,000 bottles of champagne, even as the shock-waves shook its foundations, the people danced, because as hard as he tried to break the British spirit, this party was be a big f**k you to Adolf Hitler. To aid the war-effort, Café de Paris was requisitioned as a place of recreation for active servicemen. To return a sense of normality to a wider audience – not just its usual clientele like the Mountbatten’s, the Aga Khan, Cole Porter and King Edward VIII – it lowered its prices. And it also played host to many of Britain’s finest comedians; such as Frankie Howerd, Tommy Cooper, Tony Hancock, Michael Bentine and Benny Hill, as well as Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Spike Milligan from The Goon Show. Not to mention a whole host of famous musicians, singers, dancers, performers and band-leaders. During war-time, Café de Paris was the perfect place to be; it was friendly, popular and safe... ...only, a series of random, tragic and almost unbelievable events would lead to Ken’s untimely death. Bursting into the starlight, Ken Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra were snapped-up as the resident band for the Café de Paris, often kicking-off the night or headlining at the top of the bill. With the venue fitted with state-of-the-art recording equipment, the band's popularity rose and their shows were broadcast on BBC Radio and BBC World Service across large parts of the UK and the world. But success wasn’t the only boon for Ken, as being a respected artist, he had the power to showcase any new and upcoming talents, many of whom – being black and/or female – would previously have been denied this opportunity, and this helped bridge the gap between music, business and oppression. Ken was at an all-time high... and his ascent into infamy had only just begun. Six months into the blitz, the British were yet to surrender as the bombing continued, so as they went about their everyday lives, the Luftwaffe targeted smaller cities giving London a little breathing space. For Ken and his band, they had settled into a comfortable life in the rumble-strewn chaos of the West End; the gigs were good, the pay was solid, crowds were appreciative and their popularity was rising. Saturday 8th March 1941 was an ordinary day; cloudy and rainy with a hint of drizzle. Having woken late, Ken had caught the river boat from the cottage he shared with Gerald from Bray to Embankment, where he did some shopping and met a few friends for drinks at the Embassy Club on Old Bond Street. At roughly 9:20pm, he politely excused himself, and although they wanted him to stay for one more drink, as he and his band due to be on stage at 9:45pm, Ken would never dream of being late. And there’s the irony, had he not been the epitome of professionalism... he may have lived? At 9:25pm, he exited the Embassy Club in Mayfair, with Café de Paris being less than one mile away, roughly a fifteen-minute walk. He considered hailing cab, but as the streets were busy and although relatively famous – being a black man - the chance of getting a taxi would be slim, so he chose to walk. Had he waited, he may have been late... and maybe have lived? Strolling towards Piccadilly, there was no real panic in Ken’s lengthy strides, as - like everyone else, eighteen months into the war – they heard the bombers and felt the blasts, but being finely-tuned to know which way they were heading, how close they were and how long it took to run to the nearest air-raid shelter - so commonplace had the blitz become - avoiding a bomb was like catching a bus. Had he sought to seek safety in an air-raid shelter, he may have lived... ...but he’d have also missed the start of his show. At roughly 9:40pm, Ken arrived at the Café de Paris. He dressed in his tailored white tails with a bright majestic flower in his button-hole and grabbed his slightly over-sized black baton. With the patrons either seated, supping chilled champagne or eager to groove, even though the bombers loomed closer and the explosion grew louder, from the safety of the club, the party was about to kick off. At 9:45pm, ’Snake Hips’ and his swing band entered the stage... ...to play the last song Ken would ever play. The bombing wasn’t particularly heavy that night. Around 130 tonnes of high explosives and 30,000 incendiaries pummelled the West End, as it had many times before. With British anti-aircraft batteries positioned in the parks unleashing volleys of flack, many German bombers flew outside their range at 20,000 feet (with some pressurised to fly higher), therefore the chance of a bomb hitting its target was slim. But this bombing campaign was no longer about precision, it was about maximum casualties. At roughly the same time that Ken instructed his band to play the opening bars of the Andrews Sisters' hit ‘Oh, Johnny’, a squadron of Heinkel HE 111’s had loomed over the blacked-out gloom of Piccadilly. As many bombs exploded across Regent Street, Shaftesbury Avenue and Haymarket, two hit Coventry Street. Dropped from high-up in the troposphere, two SC50 fifty-kilo high-explosive bombs fell at a rate of 400 feet-per-second. Being 110cm long and 20.3cm wide, to aid its direction and flight, as air rushes across its spiralled fins, this forced the projectile into a fast rotation causing it to nose-dive. So, as it gained speed, it hit the ground at maximum velocity, detonating the explosive warhead in its tip. By chance, these two bombs missed the glass roof of the Rialto Cinema. They missed stone and steel structure of the building above. And they both missed the concrete reinformed ceiling of the club. But being in a basement, with no windows and few doors to expel the noxious gases from the kitchen and to supply the customers with fresh-air, the club was fitted with one-metre-wide ventilation shafts. Had the bombs fallen flat, they would only have damaged the roof of the empty cinema, as many of them had. But falling tip-first, scoring an almost impossible bullseye into two different vents, both bombs flew straight down the four floors of the ventilation shaft and landed in the packed club below. Thankfully, one bomb hit the dance floor and failed to explode... but the other did not. In a blinding blue flash, a bomb exploded in the gallery directly above the band. Packed with 23 kilos of TNT, its steel shell shattered, firing hundreds of hot dense fragments in every direction, piercing anything in its path; whether glass or brick, bone or flesh. Eighty people were injured, many seriously. Survivors told the press of cuts, burns and broken bones, but many stories were too grim to be shared; one patron witnessed her lover’s back blown out as they sat eating supper, one saw a lady in a green dress sat at the bar, a champagne in hand, too shocked to realise that her other arm was blown-off, and a rescuer tripped over a dead girl’s head, only to see her decapitated body still sitting in a chair. Thirty people died, including the club’s owner Martin Poulsen, the head waiter, several staff and diners, and the band’s saxophonist Dave ‘Baba’ Williams, as well as the band-leader himself Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson. Being at the front of the stage, entertaining the crowd with his mesmeric hips and fluid dance style, as the bomb ignited, from his shoulders down, his lithe body was cut in half by the blast. The band's guitarist Joe Deniz later stated: “the next thing I remember was being in a small ambulance, as bombs lit up Dean Street. Then someone came to me and said: ‘Ken's dead’. It broke me up”. (End) The rescue was hampered by confusion, so as civilians and off-duty medics fought to save lives - in this so-called golden era, where you could leave your doors open - the looters descended. Nabbing purses, swiping bottles, filching the pockets of the dying, and cutting off fingers to steal their rings of the dead. The Westminster ARP declared the incident as closed at 11pm, civil engineers declared the structure as unsafe, and – being closed - Café de Paris wouldn’t re-open its doors for another seven years. The next day, Gerald Hamilton, Ken’s lover was informed of his death and was asked to identify the body at the Westminster Mortuary. Oddly, although Ken had been decapitated, most of his body was unmarked, parts of his suit were still white, and even his little flower in his button-hole was untouched. Ken’s funeral was held on 14th March 1941 at Golders Green crematorium with his ashes placed in the chapel of the Sir William Borlase's Grammar, where he went to school. For the rest of his life, Gerald kept a picture of Ken in his tuxedo, with him at all times, and called him “my husband" until his death. There was a huge out-pouring of love in the press, Melody Maker paid endless homage to Ken in the weeks after his death, and – albeit belatedly – the BBC broadcast a memorial one year later. But being too devastated, traumatised and (in many cases) injured, the band broke up and never played again. The impact that Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson had on swing, the innovation of sound and the elevation of black talent can never be understated, but given that he was only 26-years-old when he tragically died, this begs the question; what could he have achieved had he missed his death by mere minutes? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if your favourite part of the show isn’t the bit which takes days to research, write and edit, but the pointless bit where a fat bald man talks crap and makes a tea, stay tuned till after the break for more info on this case, a little quiz and a treat in Extra Mile. But before that here’s a little promo. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Gaz Porter and Phelps Boyce, I thank you for supporting the show, it’s very much appreciated. You get access to lots of exclusive goodies, plus you get to hear to episode of Walk With Me where I get attacked by a horse-fly. Ooh, exciting. Plus, if you liked this story and you want to learn more about Ken ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson, check-out the Soho Bytes podcast starring the lovely Dom DeLarge. It’s an excellent podcast for fans of classic movies and local history. He’s also a jolly nice chap to share a pint with. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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