Back in the days when
radio announcers were stars, and I wasn’t yet even in my salad days, I used to
sit in front of an old Philco for hours at a time listening to—and trying to
emulate—such idols as Harlow Wilcox, Don Wilson, Bill Goodwin, Harry Von Zell,
Ken Carpenter, Franklyn McCormack, Fred Foy, Wendell Niles, Ken Nordine, Dwight
Weist, Glenn Riggs, Jimmy Wallington, André Baruch, and many others.
Any fluff in delivery, especially an error in pronunciation, struck terror into the heart of the poor soul who committed it. The networks had pronunciation tests that were administered to aspiring young announcers. The one at NBC began: “Penelope Cholmondely raised her azure eyes from the crabbed scenario and meandered in the congeries of her memoirs. There was Algernon, a choleric artificer of icons and triptychs, who wanted to write a trilogy…”
At New York’s radio station WQXR, the test opened with: “The old man with the flaccid face and dour expression grimaced when asked if he were conversant with zoology, mineralogy, and the culinary arts.”
Not to be outdone, I have devised my own test for aspiring announcers—not that there is much demand for professionals of that sort these days.But if you can wrap your tongue around this narrative, you qualify as the next mellifluous voice to announce: “NBC presents The Hour of Charm, with Phil Spitalny and his All-Girl Orchestra, featuring Evelyn and Her Magic Violin!”
In the halcyon days of internecine tergiversation, a
Any fluff in delivery, especially an error in pronunciation, struck terror into the heart of the poor soul who committed it. The networks had pronunciation tests that were administered to aspiring young announcers. The one at NBC began: “Penelope Cholmondely raised her azure eyes from the crabbed scenario and meandered in the congeries of her memoirs. There was Algernon, a choleric artificer of icons and triptychs, who wanted to write a trilogy…”
At New York’s radio station WQXR, the test opened with: “The old man with the flaccid face and dour expression grimaced when asked if he were conversant with zoology, mineralogy, and the culinary arts.”
Not to be outdone, I have devised my own test for aspiring announcers—not that there is much demand for professionals of that sort these days.But if you can wrap your tongue around this narrative, you qualify as the next mellifluous voice to announce: “NBC presents The Hour of Charm, with Phil Spitalny and his All-Girl Orchestra, featuring Evelyn and Her Magic Violin!”
In the halcyon days of internecine tergiversation, a
concupiscent chargé
d’affaires at the Tanzanian consulate
had the onerous assignment of
arranging assignations
amongst Zbigniew Brzezinski, Valery Giscard d’Estaing,
Deng Xiao Peng, Angela Merkel, and Dmitri Medvedev.
“What a concatenation of blackguards,” expatiated this
“What a concatenation of blackguards,” expatiated this
amanuensis, who was a bona fide dilettante. “It’s a
veritable farrago of
inextricable idiosyncrasies. They
will
discuss laissez-faire,
hypotenuses, synapses, kamikazes,
Clio, Melpomene, Mnemosyne, and other such
viragoes,
before arriving, apocalyptically, at the dénouement. A
priori, it is de rigueur that I
not err, though embarrassed
and harassed vituperatively by such vagaries.”
Grasping his shillelagh ribaldly, as though he were a
Grasping his shillelagh ribaldly, as though he were a
mischievous member of Sinn Fein, he peregrinated,
redolent with desuetude, to the environs of the soigné
maitre d’.
“I speak not in synecdoche, hyperbole, hendiadys, litotes,
“I speak not in synecdoche, hyperbole, hendiadys, litotes,
or even metonymy,” he descanted,
“when I say the menu is
to be table
d’hôte—prix fixe. We’ll start with a mélange of
exquisite
hors-d’oeuvres such as paté de foie gras, abalone,
escargots,
prosciutto, salmon mousse, macadamia and
pistachio nuts, followed by tournedos
in béchamel sauce
with kohlrabi,
broccoli rabe, and rapini; followed a mere
soupçon
of Calvados, Cointreau or Chartreuse.”
“Are you desirous of proffering homage to Escoffier,” asked
“Are you desirous of proffering homage to Escoffier,” asked
the supercilious garçon, “or merely of producing a satiety?”
In this hiatus, the diplomatist, a quite pliant affiant, became
In this hiatus, the diplomatist, a quite pliant affiant, became
exquisitely quiescent and riant, in
order to assuage the
boniface’s irascibility.
“The artistes who will furnish vaudevillian divertissement,”
“The artistes who will furnish vaudevillian divertissement,”
he specified, “will include a miscellany
of eidolons of lauded
divas, primi
ballerini assoluti, danseurs nobles,
ingenues,
tragedians, and other virtuosi, of the magnitude of Amelita
Galli-Curci, Eleanora Duse, Ignacy Jan Paderewski, Eugène
Ysaÿe, Josef Szigeti,
Jussi Björling, Eugène Goossens (fils),
Beniamino Gigli, Feodor Ivanovitch Chaliapin, Frances
Yeend, Olga
Preobrajenska, Maya Pliesetskaya,
and Olga
Spessivtzeva.
“For the locale,” he continued in his inimitable fashion,
“For the locale,” he continued in his inimitable fashion,
clandestinely flicking a gnat from a piece
of gnocchi on his
grosgrain habiliment, “I am contemplating a granary in
Aberystwyth or Abergavenny or maybe Clywd (should we
wish to be in Cymru), or
perhaps Cannes or Caen, or Ixtapa
or Oaxaca, or possibly even Mexia or
Refugio.”
“How about Gruene?”
“No, too fin-de-siècle,” grimaced the porcine legate with
“How about Gruene?”
“No, too fin-de-siècle,” grimaced the porcine legate with
authoritative panache, concluding the desultory tête-à-tête.
The Bard of Buffalo Bayou can’t pronounce diddly-squat. Oh, well, who needs to say “diddly squat”?
That announcer will drive me to mayhem,
When he talks I feel I must slay him,
He says “lay,” but means “lie,”
And that’s good reason to die,
And depart from both FM and AM.
The Bard of Buffalo Bayou can’t pronounce diddly-squat. Oh, well, who needs to say “diddly squat”?
That announcer will drive me to mayhem,
When he talks I feel I must slay him,
He says “lay,” but means “lie,”
And that’s good reason to die,
And depart from both FM and AM.
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