Education by Radio (1932)

mercantile instincts, and thanks to them Station XXX is a thriving concern. But I do not find it in the Gospels that a busi¬ ness man is necessarily a compendium of all taste and knowledge. Next to the Maiers in authority comes the gallery of our production staff and announcers — men who have been courte¬ ous and generous to me, for whose sake my station and I must remain anony¬ mous in this article. We have had various backgrounds: one of us was formerly a real estate agent and longshoreman, an¬ other was in the Coast Guard, another a professional baseball player, another an engineer, and so on. That none of them has had a formal education is irrelevant. But that they have not acquired knowl¬ edge informally, that they have never undergone the severe testing which de¬ velops a sure taste, that they have no reading, no musical appreciation, that they lack the equipment which should fig¬ ure most importantly in our profession — this is strictly relevant and a little tragic. These men, whether they will it or not, are powerful agents in formulating the taste, speech, and habits of mind among a million people. Mr. Cross wrote that “announcers must be ever alert about their diction, enunciation, inflection of syllables, and may we say, voice humor.” He even added that “there are scholars among us.” Therefore I thought it fair to expect an inoffensive use of English and a wellgroomed manner, if nothing else, from my fellow barkers. I rarely heard it. On the other hand, I frequently did hear Uncle Tim, whose type is common in the radio world. Like so many of us announcers, he was once an actor, having spent fifteen years elaborating minor roles in a Tom-show. The results are astonishing, tho not unique. There is a great deal of the zoo in Uncle Tim, a trait which is shared by almost all radio “uncles” and “captains.” Before his mi¬ crophone he is full of a soft, childish laughter, and of charming conceits and fantasies; he plays a great deal, so to speak, with his verbal tail, cracks nuts, eats straw, chatters excitedly, and so on. The tempo of his speaking is afflicted with an extraordinary rubato, which may be represented thus in musical terms: sforzando accelerando — sostenuto — accele¬ rando subito — largo largo. “Down . . . in the . . . well there was . . . [ very quickly ] the cutest little mou-ou-ou . . . [pause, then a gasp ] . . . sie and when he was at . . . home he . . . was . . . in-a-we-e-ell.” To a layman this may not immediately suggest the human voice, but Uncle Tim’s manner is popular and leads many merchants to Mr. A.’s office. The rest of us do not hesitate to imitate him, since we too must sell. We are radio’s highpressure salesmen, and must poke the rabbits down the gullet of that reluctant anaconda, our public. The trouble is that radio’s only staple product is amuse¬ ment, which is not the result of violence. Radio authors — Last of all I came to those masters of the lean and racy or the fat and colorful prose — the writers of continuity. By the terms under which I drew my very respectable salary I was also of their number. Continuity, I learned, falls into two divisions — “com¬ mercial” and “sustaining.” The former is high-pressure ad-writing, and the lat¬ ter is that vivid matter which introduces and interrupts all programs, whose func¬ tion is gracefully to cushion the radio mind against too abrupt an impact with music, ideas, and oral sounds. I learned what everyone these days is aware of, that the advertising announce¬ ments are viciously long and in conse¬ quence are a contributing cause of radio's ill health. For a number of our half-hour sponsored programs I have written scripts eight or ten minutes in length. A certain featured “entertainment” at our studio regularly alternates two minutes of paid speech with two minutes of music. I further learned that “air-ading” has to be written, not untruthfully of course, but . . . well, forcefully. I can honestly say that in Station XXX I have not in¬ vented a single concrete textual lie, hav¬ ing found such technic to be childishly inefficient. In place of the lie we put mis¬ representation; with due regard to the penal code we state a low-grade truth, a safe generality. So far, so good. There is something too lamblike, however, in a simple truth. And the dominant flavor of advertising is wolf rather than lamb. So by heaping up illogical inferences, implications, slippery suggestions, and repetition we raise the low-grade truth to a proper selling plane — as necessarily we must if we are to inflate our patrons’ desires up to and beyond the size of their pocketbooks before delivering them over to our clients. But unfortunately for me, I have the sort of mind that is unable to see the difference between a trap set for a creature’s leg and a trap set for his subconscious self. Sustaining continuity is another thing again, quite removed from the market place. Here the litterateur, the gifted Englisher of thoughts, the maker of dreams and creator of atmosphere — here the verbal genius of the radio hits his stride. And here, I thought, is a line which Messrs, the talented business men will not overstep. They didn't. But another force did, a special tradition of taste which rules in all broadcasting studios and which in my opinion is on a level with the idealism of the tabloids. Under its tutelage I am forced daily to write English prose that is indescribable. The trick is easy, and I hereby place the secret at the disposal of any continuity writer who may wish to win the backslaps of his manager and the hearty approval of his “radio family.” Overstate all emotion, violate all laws of restraint, use the tritest phrases, the most extravagant similes, the most drenching sentimentality. Strain for cheap verbal effects, employ commonplaces once the property of Chautauqua lecturers and politicians. Walk heavily and use a big stick. In short, write as wretchedly as you can. I quote an example: When you look into the heart of a great diamond, unearthly glory flickers up into your eyes. But when you read its story, you can see the broad ribbons of blood that flow thru its lovely current. When you pronounce the names of the great stones, the air throbs with har¬ mony, and you seem to hear the waves of poetry breaking with a crystal sound over the far shores of romance. But, reading of their ad¬ venturous lives, you shudder as you hear the laughter of the demons that watch over these blazing beauties. One important use of continuity is to interrupt. Never allow your announcer to say: “Next you shall hear . . .” or, “The song that follows now is called . . .” Exaggerate! Force! Be puerile! Give the script a horse-drench of virile showman¬ ship. Like this: “The baton of our chejd’orchestre [pronounced in various ways] presents now for your musical considera¬ tion . . .” or, “With bows for brushes and notes for pigment our instrumental¬ ists paint a picture for you of that old sweetheart of yours, Somewhere in Old Wyoming.” My proud stomach does not revolt too fiercely when as announcer I salt down the jazz programs with excrescences such as these for the words and music are mated to each other and to the audience. But I am sickened when I am obliged to bally¬ hoo Schubert and cheer him on as if he were a famous quarterback do¬ ing a broken-field run. I should rather like to hear honest music honestly presented, listen to the play of honest minds, away from this sticky, hypocritical fug of emotion, fellowship, and uplift, barren intel¬ lects, and conceited ignorance. I should enjoy telling the people [47]