An ability that an announcer must have is a complete dedication to the moment. They need to focus on the now so that the delivery is clear and smooth. It seems I need to work on this particular aspect of my announcing.
The big problem is ignoring the interior monologue I’m sometimes shouting at myself while I’m trying to speak on-air.
A few hours ago I was back-selling some songs, including Roxette. I looked online before I turned on the microphone and came to realize that Roxette had broken up in 2001 but were re-forming for a big tour which will kick off in Holland on the 23rd of this month –this is staggering news, I know.
Anyway, to myself, I thought, Ah! This is relevant to the listening demographic who love Roxette.
So I went on the air, “That was Lifehouse, Broken, on 95-7 Sun FM the energy of Powell River. Before that you heard Lenny Kravitz, and Roxette, It Must Have Been Love, “ I paused, “Hey a lot of people are wondering what happened to Roxette-“
And then the voice in my head started jabbering, Dude, who gives a crap what happened to Roxette?
“-well , ah, they’ve been quietly releasing albums-“
Why don’t you name some albums?
“-up until 2001-“
..Or don’t mention the albums, but definitely mention Marie’s brain tumor..
“...and it looks like after-“
Brain tumor, brain tumor, brain tumor.
“ –eight years they’re, ah, getting back together to go on tour.”
Hey! Heeeeeeeey!
“The first concert for the newly reformed-“
Call them “Roxy”.
“-Roxy- um, I mean Roxette, sorry -will be in Antwerp on the 23rd of this month.”
Do NOT say it will be an “interesting” show. Any other word but “interesting”, please.
“ Wow, won’t that be an interesting-“
Aaargh!
“-show to see after all these years.”
Disaster! Get out, get out now! Just don’t say “a lot more great music on the way”. For the love of Christ, don’t say it!
“Well, stick around, a lot more great music on the way,”
I hate you.
I’m dealing with a rather unique problem in that every single day someone calls in and asks me where Bobby Fields is. Bobby Fields was the former morning show host. The kind of morning show host that has a little bicycle horn which she honked frequently on air; a horn that she meekly offered to me which I subsequebtly threw in the trash.
I’m not what you’d call a “horn honker”.
Regardless it seemed people loved her which makes me- the new guy -a shady pretender to the morning show. In a normal office environment, when you’re the new guy, your critics have faces. Not so in radio. My critics exist somewhere in the listening ether. This puts me at a significant disadvantage when trying to defend myself against not fulfilling all the giggling rowdiness that Bobby perpetuated.
Last week one woman called and, without introduction, demanded, “Where’s Bobby?”
“She’s not here anymore. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Oh, that’s what’s wrong with the radio. I’ll be listening to Courtenay from now on.” Click, Bzzzzzzzzzz.
Notwithstanding the fact that by listening to Courtenay she’s actually listening to the parent radio station anyway, this threw me into a paroxysm of helpless rage. How do I defend against that? I wanted to ask her what needs improving, but this evil twat didn’t even give me that opportunity. She blasted me then hung-up.
The worse thing is that she knows who I am, but I don’t know who she is. It’s a small town we’re bound to run into each other.
To illustrate how small this town is, I’ll relate a story:
Last week someone called in to wish a little girl a happy birthday. As usual the guy was barely coherent as the words stumbled through his gapped and gnarled teeth. He said he was the girl’s step-father.
Moments later, jockeying for the chance to win a free birthday cake, a woman called in to wish the same girl a happy birthday. She said she was the girl’s mother. I told her that the girl’s step-father already called in. She said, “Oh, he’s not her step-father, he’s her uncle.”
I couldn’t help thinking, does he know that? Does the girl know that? Is this place so backwards and small that a little girl’s step-father can also be her uncle? And what’s his relation to you: cousin?
The little girl got her cake. I imagine the family will toss it in a blender and suck it up through a straw.
Sadly, my step-mom’s father died. Doug Baird. A man’s man and a real diamond. I loved that guy and I’ll miss him dearly. I went to Vancouver this weekend to celebrate- yes “celebrate”, he wanted it that way -his passing with about 80 of his friends and relations. Doug Baird flew bombers in World War II. Appropriately his favourite poem was this:
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron,
RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941
I was honoured by being asked to read it aloud by Leslie. I read the shit out of the thing with all the speaking prowess I could muster. I read it for Doug, I hope he heard me.
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