A night at the Orange This podcast is brought to you by Tāmaki Paenga Hira Auckland War Memorial Museum. Steph Strock Newton Road, Eden Terrace, Auckland. Today, it's a busy road that connects central Auckland to the motorway with a constant stream of traffic. It's an area that’s seen a lot of change, with buildings scattered on either side that seem to represent all the evolutions of 20th century architecture. Even the trees that dot the footpath lift up and warp the pavement, not quite happy to sit still. These days, Newton Road feels more like a place you just want to pass through on your way to somewhere else. But there was a time it was a bustling hub of nightlife and community. Kia ora, I'm Steph Strock, your host for this episode of the Amp, the new podcast from Auckland Museum, which amplifies the incredible stories from our collections, our mahi and our place in the Pacific. Today, we're posting up at the Orange Coronation Hall on Newton Road, or the Orange Ballroom as it was once known. The red brick building, adorned with its 1920s take on Corinthian columns and a grand entrance way, is now home to a swanky furniture store, but in the middle of the last century, it was the place to be, where sweat would drip down its orange painted walls and people of meet, dance and fall in love. So head up the steps to the ticket office window and get ready to twist tango and polonaise, because we're taking you out for a night at the Orange Ballroom. Buddy Wilson The inside was just like a great big hall, without the band there, without the customers there, it was just a big empty shell. It's only when the people started to come in that it got the nice feeling. Had a supper room downstairs, because that's another thing too, about the Orange, that at 10 o'clock we stopped, everybody went downstairs for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Kath McGhie If we take ourselves back, it's the nightclub of the day hey, so if you're single and you're heading out, 100% that was their place. You know, you'd go, you dress nice, and you'd head out. And they danced together. Tania Jeffs-Maindonald At one stage I remember dad telling me a story that around a thousand people ended up in that hall, they were packed, lined to the walls, that the walls were dripping sweat. Andrea Low I have photographs from some of the events at the Orange Ballroom, and the dancefloor is packed. So hundreds, hundreds of people would go in an evening, and it's just packed with dancers. It's really amazing. Steph Strock It's 1954, the Second World War is over, and opportunity reigns in Aotearoa New Zealand, there's a feeling of excitement in the air. People are upping sticks and moving to the city, meeting new people, encountering new technologies and new ways of thinking. Things are looking up and everyone wants to put their best foot forward, and where better to put that foot than on the dance floor. The Orange Ballroom was an iconic venue for live music and dancing. A Night at the Orange meant a chance to show off your moves and your snappiest looks. The girls with hairspray-secured beehives and cinched-in waists and the guys in their best suit, or one borrowed from Dad. Dr Andrea Low is Auckland Museum's Associate Contemporary World Curator in her research for this story, she was struck by just how excited everyone was to be a part of the Orange scene. Andrea Low People were dressed to the nines. You know, there wasn't like maybe now, where you just go straight from work in those days, people really took care. And it was a really, it was an event to go there, and people dressed up and really went to town as far as preparing for the night. Steph Strock It was a place where things were done properly, hair up, shoes polished, tie on. Kath McGhie It was very much, you know, you dress, you dress because you're beautiful and you you dress that way. So, skirts and blouses and so forth. So, they loved all that. And the men were always suited up in beautiful suits. They always had dancing shoes. You didn't wear the same shoes that you walked around in. You had your own dance shoes because they would have a certain kind of bottom to them that would help them to move smoothly on the dance floor. Steph Strock That's Kath McGhie. She's Auckland Museum's Head of Learning and Public Programmes, and her parents were regulars at the Orange. Kath McGhie So they used to have quite a strict code. And again, remember, not a lot of these guys had a lot of money, so they wouldn't have been able to afford to buy half of this stuff. So a lot of them would have borrowed. They would have borrowed the shoes, or they would have borrowed the trousers. And I did. Dad used to talk about the tie, because not everybody had a tie. So they used to share the tie. So one of them would wear the tie to get themselves in through the door, and then they'd go around and then find a window, and then throw the tie out the window, and then the next guy would pick it up, and then, and that's how they used to get themselves in. So, which I thought was hilarious. I suppose you've got to go back to the time period. And they just made the best of what they had. And the tie was one of them. It was probably quite pricey. I suppose, back in the day. Steph Strock We talked to Kath for this story outside the Orange Ballroom itself on Newton Road, looking up at the neatly painted sash windows and imagining being in the queue for a night out, eagerly waiting for the next time to drop, keen to get inside and onto the dance floor. With a strict dress code, a biscuit break and an emcee keeping watch. It was a tightly-run ship. The supper room below the dance hall area catered for the crowds, and even up to the late 80s, still served sandwiches, cakes, tea and coffee. Alcohol was banned by the owners, the Auckland Orange Hall Society, counter to what you might think about the name, the hall is not actually named for its colour. The name tracks way back to the 17th century and is linked to William of Orange, whose supporters set up the hall when they arrived in Auckland in 1840. It was built by the Protestant Orange Society, who believed: Voice actor Alcohol, chewing gum and jitterbugging would be the ruin of the hall, not to mention the morals of the young people attending the dance. Buddy Wilson The Orange Ballroom was quite different from normal, normal dances that I used to play at, because this is very, very, very formal, whereas most other dances are informal, people just milled around. But this is quite controlled, the Orange and rightly so too. You know, Bill liked it strict. And there was an emcee there, I forgot his name, but he made sure that everybody sort of behaved, and anybody causing the trouble, they were turfed out the door. Steph Strock That's the legendary musician, Buddy Wilson. He's a descendant of Te Arawa and Ngāti Rangitihi. He played rhythm guitar at the Orange when he was starting out in bands. Buddy Wilson When they danced, there was no interference. Nobody caused any trouble. Everybody danced, and all went around the ballroom quite smoothly. I think was very, very formality of the Orange I did like that it like, you know, strictly run. But other places I played it, you know, you could sneak a bottle of beer in on the stage and never have a drink behind the drums and all that sort of thing. Couldn't do that there, that was the difference. Steph Strock It was definitely a more formal scene back then, but the goals were the same, meeting new people, grabbing a bite to eat, enjoying music and dancing and generally having a great time, plus you might meet your special someone on the dance floor. Buddy Wilson It’s always what we called The Last Waltz. Gentlemen, take your partners for the Last Waltz. And that was it say. And there's always a mad rush across the floor. Is it meant to get their partners? Because that's we probably have gone home with, you know. So, the last waltz was always the last one on the night. Kath McGhie I remember him saying that towards the end of a dance, the last lady you danced with, you walked home him and his mates, they used to walk around and go, ‘Where do you live? Where do you live? Where do you live? Where do you live?’ And then pick the one that was closest and go, all right, you're with me. And they used it, which I thought was always funny. And I could see him doing that too, kind of dance with everybody throughout the whole night, and then towards the end of the night, go, All right, now, where do you live? ‘Where do you live, right? You're just down the road. Come on, I'm dancing with you, and then I can walk you home.’ And we don't do that probably anymore, but yeah, I could see him doing it. Steph Strock Chivalrous and practical. Back then, men would escort their dance partners home to make sure they arrive safely. When we look back at the air of dancehalls and the etiquette of the time, it must have been a more civilized time, right? Andrea Low Yeah, I'm not sure about that, because one of the things I believe about the times is that we want to believe that things were more proper then, but they're just like us. Steph Strock Outside of work and church, dance halls like the orange ballroom, were another place for people to come together and connect. If the 1940s were a time of war and recovery, the 1950s were a time of growth and change, the standard of living was on the rise, and industries were beckoning more and more people to the cities. Rural New Zealand didn't have the same job opportunities, and in particular, many young Māori sought greener pastures, or as the case may be, greyer cityscapes. In 1945, more than a quarter of Māori lived in the city, and by the mid-sixties, that number had grown to over 60%. Cities were a place of promise, prospects and also fun. At the same time, Pasifika migration to Aotearoa also expanded, encouraged by business and government to support our booming economy. Central Auckland became a hub for these growing communities, but that hub didn't always feel like a hub. Kath McGhie You've got to think back to New Zealand at that time period. You've got a time when you've got a lot of people, Māori, Māori, unable to speak their own language, moving into the cities and becoming urban, you've got Pacific arriving in and off the boat, not speaking English. And I remember Dad always saying, you know, I literally couldn't walk into a dairy and say, ‘Can I have a loaf of bread?’ He said, I just, I knew nothing. And that was a massive struggle. That was a massive struggle back then. So there's a lot of trauma that sits in that space. Steph Strock Kath’s Dad was one of the migrants who took up the call to work in New Zealand. Kath McGhie He comes from Rarotonga, so he when he arrived, it was probably in the late 40s, and he arrived not being able to speak English. And it was around a time period when that wasn't, you know, possible, and that everyone had to speak English, so a hard time. And it was the same for Māori as well. So they couldn't speak their own language, and he could speak three other languages, but not English. So dancing was probably kind of a mutual language that they could do, and he was very good at it. Steph Strock Language is what connects us, but not having it can be incredibly isolating. Kath McGhie …And anyone with a language issue means they can't express themselves. It means that who they truly are can't be expressed or they can't do a joke, they can't have a laugh, they can't talk about their family, they can't share any life experiences with another person. But the jobs that they're looking for in English, they're not jobs that speak their language. They've got to find jobs that they can get through that they can potentially have at least one person who can help them, or they can mime it and figure out what they've got to do. And if you're trying to survive and you're trying to earn money and you're trying to build a life for yourself and feel like you're you belong, then those are really, really hard things to come across. You know, you didn't dress the same. You arrive into a country which which has a very western style of dressing. It's not how you dress. There's a lot of things that in the islands, they don't it's not important and and so you're coming in, you're having to assimilate. You're having to look a way that that is accepted. You're having to talk a certain way. You're having to behave a certain way. It's a massive change for especially young people, to have to take on. Steph Strock A lot of Auckland's newcomers found belonging at the Orange, and a night at the Orange meant a chance to let your feet do the talking. Voice actor At the Orange Ballroom tonight, Bill Sevesi and his band of the times! Kath McGhie Dancing was how you came together, how you met, how you had fun. You could introduce yourself if you didn't know very much English, you didn't need it on a dance floor, if you were very good at dancing, you'd find the other female who is really good at dancing, and you could have a lot of fun. And at that time, the Jive was kind of coming in, and they loved it. If you imagine yourself, hey, if you're in a ballroom, and you're a good dancer, and that's the main thing, that's that's quite a big thing in this world. And you're Pacific, or you're Māori, you're identifying as something that's not quite understood or not quite accepted, and is struggling and finding it hard, but all of a sudden, the tables are turned, and it doesn't matter, and you're this beautiful dancer, and suddenly you're handsome. Hey, we all know that rock, rock and roll people are you look at a band, and suddenly they're handsome. They might not be if they weren't on a stage. So, you know, suddenly the light changes. And so I imagine that would have just been a beautiful place to feel more, to feel better about yourself, to actually have that beautiful feeling in who you are, where you probably didn't get it in your day to day life, is my assumption. Yeah. Steph Strock But what's a dance without music? Tania Jeffs-Maindonald Dad always used to say that no matter what language you spoke, that music was universal, because you all felt. Felt the same joy you all interacted and were there for that same common reason to enjoy the music, the sound, the interaction with all of the people that had the same, you know, connection, or commonality being the Orange Ballroom and the dancing. Steph Strock That's Tanoa Jeffs-Maindonald. Her dad, Bill Sevesi was a musical pioneer. Before becoming an inductee of the New Zealand Music Hall of Fame, and being busy launching the careers of some of our most renowned talents, he had a residency at the Orange where he honed his iconic sound. Bill was born in Nuku'alofa, Tonga, the son of a Tongan mother and a dad from Liverpool. He came to Aotearoa when he was eight to start school in Auckland, and during the late 1930s heard his first taste of Hawaiian style pop on radio station 1ZM. He was captivated by the sound of the electric steel guitar, but also by the power of the radio itself. He took a job making radios and relished the fact that he could listen to music from all around the world. Tania Jeffs-Maindonald I remember dad talking about when he heard the steel guitar sound being played when he was very, very young. He was very curious, and wanted to know a little bit about, you know, where the sound came from. So he ended up duplicating by making his own steel guitar after finding out what the instrument was. So that would have been in his, I believe, early 20s. There’s photos, black and white photos that shows him playing the steel guitar when he was very, very young, I believe, even before he went to the war. But then when he came back, that's when he really was intrigued and started, you know, investigating more into the sound of the Hawaiian steel guitar. Steph Strock While working at the radio factory, Bill made his own Hawaiian side guitar. They're played on the lap, and instead of strumming, the guitarist plucks the chord as they run a steel bar over the neck. He taught himself to play by listening to records on a wind-up gramophone. This incredible technological know-how served him really well in later years, when he began his long residency at the Orange Ballroom in 1958. Buddy Wilson Oh I heard him say one day, shortwave radio was one way of doing it, picking up the tunes from overseas and releasing them here, because the records got here too late. Steph Strock Using a high-powered shortwave radio, he was able to intercept radio waves from around the world, including American Samoa, where the GIs were being treated to the latest hits direct from the USA, long before a hot new hit from an up-and-coming Elvis Presley could even be scratched into vinyl, Bill was able to learn the tunes by ear, transcribe the notes and keep his band at the cutting edge. Tania Jeffs-Maindonald So back then, dad was very good at learning some of the songs that were played on what they called the bandstand. So, anything that was like doing number one hits overseas, Dad would get the band together and very, very quickly learn those songs, and they would be playing them here in the dance hall before any of the other bands could actually, you know, play some of that music. So yeah, he was, he was very good as a band leader and and giving everyone what they wanted to hear and what they wanted to dance to. So, yeah, that was quite ingenious on his behalf. So, it was basically just listening on the radio and listening to the top hits. I can't remember the name of the different radio stations that they used to listen to, but they quickly picked up a lot of the music from, you know, especially in the UK, if you're talking about the Beatles and and you know, bands like that, dad was very good at, yeah, playing that music live here in Auckland. Steph Strock But it wasn't just the Rock and Roll hits and waltzes of the day in a time where it was actively encouraged to leave your non-Anglo language and identity at home. Bill brought a proudly Pacific sound to the orange and to Aotearoa. He adopted the stage name Bill Sevesi as a sort of Pacific-isation of his birth name, Wilfred Jeffs. Tania Jeffs-Maindonald So Bill Sevesi came from when he initially started in the music industry. His English name didn't sound very Polynesian or Pacific, so he was suggested by someone in the music industry to change the name to call it Bill Sevesi, which is kind of like how you would say his surname, Jeff's, but in a more ‘Island form’. So Jeff's, which is spelled with a J, it turns into a S. So they just called it like SE-vessi. Instead of Jeff's. Steph Strock Playing as Bill Sevesi and his Islanders, the Hawaiian sound exploded in popularity. Andrea Low I think it was a time following World War Two where Bill was able to, kind of put his finger on the pulse. And economic times were booming after the world and young people were finding, I mean, the 20th century had been a burgeoning of popular music, with things like radio and recorded music being available. And Bill was able to sort of activate that in a way. And people had disposable income. There were a lot of young people who had come with their families from part of Pacific diaspora, and they were making finding place in Auckland and making their own spaces as well, and that included church, but it also included social venues like the Māori community center and the Orange Ballroom. Steph Strock Bill's music had a wide appeal and transcended cultural differences. Andrea Low Bill was very good at popular music and creating a space where people could experience that. Steph Strock Armed with his music and backed by a band of talented musicians, he brought people together. Tania Jeffs-Maindonald It actually really comes from the person. I mean, Dad had such a passion, and because of his passion for Pacific, Polynesian Māori music. That, to me, I think, is the character that came with my father really being intrigued with the music. So when you're looking at the ingredient, it really does come for the from the person who basically performs, you know, the Polynesian music. And dad had his own style, and then people got to know, you know, his music. So when we look at the ingredient, I think it actually comes from the artist itself. Steph Strock Bill's absolute love of music leaps out in everything he did. It was in his soul. Once he and his band took up residency at the Orange Ballroom, they played a wide variety of styles and adapted to what was popular as the times changed. Tania Jeffs-Maindonald The orange ballroom was quite a hub for the Polynesian people. So, you know, there was a mix of English, Tongan, Samoan, a lot of our Polynesian people would go there. So, yeah, it was just such a lovely place that they could go and hang out, interact and look forward to going to dance somewhere, you know, in a weekend, they wouldn't have anything else to really go to, you know, dance. So that's where it ended up being quite significant, having the Orange Ballroom there for decades and decades after, and even when he wanted to take a break, the manager would still pay him to make sure he wouldn't leave. Andrea Low Bill talked about there being queues around the block for people to get in. Steph Strock From 1958 to 1981, Bill Sevesi and his Islanders captivated audiences at the Orange while the soundscape around them morphed at breakneck speed, beginning in the late 1950s they played during a time where easy going pop melodies were king, echoing the simplicity and charm of post war optimism. But the arrival of the 1960s signaled a seismic shift - Rock and Roll exploded onto the scene with the raw energy of the Beatles, the rebellious spirit of Elvis, the psychedelic flair of Jimi Hendrix and the gritty edge of The Kinks. The 1970s bought a kaleidoscope of genres where the intensity of power ballads met the deep grooves of soul, the shimmering lights of disco and the unmistakable rhythm of funk. As the 1980s dawned, a new era emerged defined by the pulsing beats of electronic dance music and the edgy evolution of modern rock, marking the end of an incredible journey through some of the most transformative years in music history. Bill mastered the new tunes of the changing times, all while defining the sound of the Pacific. Andrea Low My own opinion about Hawaiian music in the early 20s is that it's like a punk it's a rebellion. There's a rebellion inherent in that music that lots of young people were caught up in. So, you know, it's not a common thing to think that Hawaiian music is like punk music, but of the times, there's a dress code, there's a hairstyle, there's a radicalisation of people's understanding of what music is. And I don't necessarily see that in Bill, but I assume I see a sort of more cohesion, social cohesion, being brought about by Bill a place where people from diasporic beginnings in Aotearoa coming together and being able to socialise together in places where they were there was more acceptance. Steph Strock A Night at the Orange during Bill's residency was an opportunity to be proud of your Pacific roots as well as have a great night out. We can see from the grainy black and white photos of its heyday that young people of all backgrounds came together, danced, fell in love and had fun. Tania Jeffs-Maindonald I think you know, because of people like dad, who played and performed in that place, really put the Orange Ballroom on the map in the music industry, and it gave it a little bit more significance when it came to the only place that you could really go. There really wasn't anywhere else that you could go to basically go and have a good time. Steph Strock Starting in the late 60s, the loosening of strict alcohol laws led to the demise of the six o'clock swell. This ushered in the advent of late night closing and nightclubs bands starting to perform in pubs or later simply pushing play on a tape on the pub stereo signalled the beginning of the end for dance halls. And 1987 saw the Last Waltz at the Orange Ballroom. Rhythm guitarist, Buddy Wilson joined Bill's band just before the scene ended at the ballroom. Buddy Wilson Bill had quite a turnover of music musicians, and I was just one of many that he had there, but I was in the last stages of the Orange Ballroom because 10 o'clock closing the next year killed all the dance halls off, and people had other places to go to besides the Orange Ballroom. Steph Strock In later years, it became home to the performing arts school, who repainted its trademark interior orange colour, cream, and in more recent years, a church and then offices. The Orange Ballroom now a much quieter place, but if you decide to pay a visit outside the venue, you'll find a subtle nod to its iconic history. Just outside on the courtyard, there are dancing feet patterns on the tiling. Our role at Tāmaki Paenga Hira Auckland War Memorial Museum is to remember. We hold on to memories so Aucklanders know their stories will live on. Kath McGhie It's knowing in a museum that you can walk through those doors and see yourself and recognise yourself, and this is yours just as much. So, I think it's important for us to embrace everything that is Auckland, that is Tāmaki, that is Aotearoa, that everybody has a sense of belonging and is acknowledged and seen and heard. Steph Strock Our Tāmaki Herenga Waka, Stories of Auckland gallery is a love letter to Auckland and the many faces that call her home. When deciding what to include, Curator Andrea Low knew the city's musical legacy had to take centre stage. When you walk through the gallery, there's a huge photo of Bill Sevesi and his Islanders, including Buddy Wilson, almost life size. It's slightly raised, so standing in front of it, you have to tilt your head upwards to take in the band…right at the angle the dancers at the Orange would have seen them. Andrea Low When we were working on Tāmaki Herenga Waka together, I was really interested in first person narratives and ways in which Pacific people got together and formed communities, not just sort of expected communities, but this was community formed around music and dance and popular music and dance. And there was also another dimension to that, which was Hawaiian music, because that's what Bill focused on, and was a very, very popular form of music. And the Orange Ballroom seemed to be a centre for that. And I knew that there, like we didn't even know what the interior of the building looked like at that time that was very hard to find people's experiences of it, even though once we got into it, people were talking about how their parents had met there, or their grandparents had been there, or even their great grandparents had met there, depending on how old they were. So the Orange Ballroom was a place where you could draw stories out. And I wanted Tāmaki Herenga Waka to foreground the lives of Pacific people, because that was my job, but also to do that in non-standard ways. And not long after I got here, we got contacted by Vika and Tania about Bill's belongings, and maybe whether we wanted to collect any of those, or whether we were interested. Steph Strock Vika is Bill's wife, and Tania is his daughter, who we heard from earlier, Tania Jeffs-Maindonald You never know how you will absolutely feel until you give that peace you know hand over to someone. So I remember when the staff from the Auckland Museum turned up, and they were in gloves and and they thanked mum very much for handing over the steel guitar. She had no idea that when she physically handed over and let go of the steel guitar that she would break down crying. So they realised it was hard. So they said, Look, maybe we should give it back to you and just take a bit of time to to work through this. And then, you know, Mum was ready after after that. So she felt she felt okay later, but she said to me, gosh, Tania, I didn't realise that when I handed over Dad's steel guitar to me, it felt like I was giving a piece of Dad to someone else. Yeah. Well, no one would ever, you know, think that that was going to happen. And she was quite shocked herself. So it did take a while to go through the whole process. So not only is the steel guitar now here in the Auckland Museum, but dad's ukulele, his original ukulele that he used for recordings and performances is here. Yeah, it's good to see that the that the pieces that's been handed to the Auckland Museum are now being used for some of the exhibits, and these stories added to it to give it context, like, who owned it, who played it, and why? Why is it in here? What's the significance to a five-year-old that might be looking through the glass thinking, what's this? I don't even know. But hey, look, a kid will look at the ukulele and go, I know what that is. But why is that here? Well, part of Bill Sevesi and part of the his dream of, you know, having the Kiwileles program. Steph Strock Years after the orange hosted its Last Waltz, Bill was still championing the Pacific sound. One of his proudest legacies was getting ukuleles into school, co-founding the Kiwileles with Mike Chunn of the Split-Enz and Maria Winder, Bill's first instrument was the ukulele, and from that first connection sparked a career spanning decades, his music reaching thousands and thousands of people. Tania Jeffs-Maindonald Dad would always, always encourage people to play music, just listen to music, play music, learn music and how music can help you on a sad day and help you on a happy day. But music, you put it on, and it can just change your mood completely. So, I think that's what really drove dad. And he had a love for seeing how it transformed people. The music transformed them, and that's why they were looking forward to listening to him playing, and that because of the way it made everyone feel. Steph Strock You might remember your first chance to tackle playing an instrument was belting out some good old Primary School classics on the recorder. Now, primary school kids across New Zealand can have their first connection with music through the ukulele, just like Bill. Plus the ukulele is arguably more enjoyable to listen to than three blind mice on a recorder. The Kiwileles, officially known as the New Zealand Ukulele Trust, Te Runanga Ukerere o Aotearoa supports hundreds of children to play the ukulele every year. They have delivered over 2800 free ukuleles to schools since the organisation was founded. It was Bill's dream that every child in New Zealand would get the chance to play the ukulele. And this dream lives on thanks to the trust. Who knows, some of the kids learning the ukulele today could be grandchildren, or even great grandchildren of dancers who met by chance one night at the Orange. That was ‘A night at the orange. This podcast is brought to you by Auckland Museum, supported by the Stevenson Foundation. This episode was written and produced by me, Steph Strock and Laura Skerritt. Sound design by Sara O'Brien. The executive producer was Teresa Cowie from Connect Content. Thanks to our guests Kath McGhie, Buddy Wilson, Tania Jeffs-Maindonald and Andrea Low. Bill Sevesi’s music was reproduced with kind permission from Viking Seven Seas New Zealand. Voice acting by Adam Burrell. For a link to the original blog post and to find out more about the Orange Ballroom, head to the link in our show notes on the next episode of the Amp, we talk to the creators of RELICS: A New World Rises, and discover how they made the exhibition, their Lego Masters journey and what it means to be a maker. Jackson Harvey I was definitely known as the Lego kid at school. I was really, really into it, but then it wasn't until we went on Lego masters, I think our passion was reignited in a big way.