In my youth my father often used to take me to the famous Glasgow
Empire music hall (vaudeville) theatre. The audience there were reputed
to be so hostile to visiting English comedians that one victim sagely
noted "If they liked you, they let you live". Certainly the
Saturday night crowd of beery Glaswegians, most with cigarettes alight,
created a steamy atmosphere of high-spirited good humour which surged
in anticipation when a putative comedian from South of the Border
nervously trod the boards. One of the rare exceptions to the disrespect
afforded to English comedy performers came on the night in the early
1950's when I saw the great Stan Laurel appear there, with Oliver
Hardy, in one of their last appearances together. The audience's
taste generally ran more to lachrymose Scottish musical ballads
involving bonnie lassies, purple heather and so on, sometimes also
including the deployment of bagpipes. But personally I always preferred
the "speciality acts": the man who would fill the stage with flags
concealed about his person, the plate spinners, the contortionists, the
unicycle riders, and many other bizarre turns.

By far my favourite, who I saw three times, was a performer billed as
"The Great Swami". He was a large bearded Indian gentleman with a
suspiciously Scottish accent who dressed in flowing white robes and
(improbably) a red fez. He performed a mind-reading act, guessing
playing cards selected by audience members and so on - entertaining but
fairly routine material. But in a unique close to his act he would ask
someone to secretly write a six digit number on a card and then,
dramatically, call on "The One True Smoke Spirit" to reveal the
numbers.

At this point the stage lights dimmed and a large glass box, about four
foot on each side and with only the lower face open, was lowered from
the flies and suspended about six foot above the stage. The Great Swami
then fired-up a large hookah pipe which had adorned his stage set,
placed it under the box, and puffed on it mightily so that great
billows of smoke rose upwards and filled the glass box. Then came the
moment I loved: The Great Swami stood beneath the box, raised his arms
heavenwards and began swirling the smoke with his hands while incanting
"I invoke The One True Smoke Spirit - REVEAL YOURSELF !".
Suddenly there was a huge cymbal crash and blinding spotlights
illuminated the box from the wings of the stage and from above, and
there in the box appeared, indubitably, a man's head, large and grey,
apparently solid but made of smoke whorling in the light. The mouth
opened and a booming voice intoned the numbers on the card. Then the
stage lights came on and the box collapsed leaving only a pall of smoke
drifting upwards. This marvellous spectacle made a great impression on
me.

Many years later while drinking in an old-style wood-panelled bar in
Kelvinbridge I saw, sitting in a corner smoking a mighty cigar and
drinking a pint of heavy with a man-sized whisky chaser, none other
than The Great Swami himself ! Though older and fez-less he was still
instantly recognisable. I went over and introduced myself and
complimented him on his act. It seemed that following the demise of the
music hall circuit after the popularisation of television he had
retired to Glasgow from Dundee where he had been brought up as plain Mo
Das by parents who had immigrated from Calcutta (as part of the jute
trade) - his many appearances at the Glasgow Empire and on the
Scottish circuit had won him many friends in the area. After yarning
for a while I raised the question I was burning to ask "How was the
smoke head effect created ?". Mr. Das replied:

"Well Mr. Woodley, according to convention I should not disclose how
any trick was performed, but as it was many years ago I suppose I can
give a few details. The spotlights we used had templates over them to
shape the beams, and the glass itself was not clear except at the front
and back - on the sides and top it was etched and slightly ground-out
to concentrate or diffuse the light, so when the beams crossed they
illuminated only a rough head-shaped volume of smoke in the centre of
the box - your imagination did the rest ! - of course moulding the
smoke with my hands was pure showmanship, it would have been impossible
to shape the smoke in that way".  I must admit that, illogically, I
was a little disappointed at this prosaic explanation and felt that
something of my childhood had been lost.

After talking a bit more it was time for me to leave, I shook Mr.
Das' hand and he graciously said it had been a pleasure reminiscing
about the old times and he took up his pint and cigar again with (I
thought) a small tear in his eye. As I reached the door I glanced back
at him - there in the air in front of him, quite clear and
unmistakable, was the head of The One True Smoke Spirit, smaller than
before but grey and solid. As I watched, the head drifted slowly
upwards as the smoke curled away and dissipated into the air. The Great
Swami winked at me and took a sip of whisky.

Happy Days,

Many thanks,

Ted Woodley

Abide a wee wi' Ted here:

http://tedwoodley.tripod.com/