Announcers

    Like most folks, we found ourselves glued to the TV during the inauguration of Barack Obama. But one thing struck us as out-of-the-ordinary, as just not quite in sink with the occasion -- that was the delivery of the announcer. Every time someone new was introduced to the VIP podium, the announcer intoned, what sounded like:  "Laaaadieees and Gennntlemen, now playing left field and batting fifth -- Baraaaack H. Obamaaaa."

     OK, I exaggerate but not by much. Americans always do conduct their ceremonies in sometimes clumsy and sometimes inexplicable ways. For most observers, this was exemplified in the muffed oath of office, fumbled not only the the Chief Justice of the U. S. but by the new president as well (for a brief moment, it had the quality of the "Vicar of Dibley" episode in which Alice marries Hugo and takes over the vicar's lines leaving them both in confusion as they briefly reverse roles). If you had the fortitude, or enough snacks to last through the inauguration, you might have also seen the lawn mower contingent that marched (uh, pushed and "mowed"?) their way through the official parade (what was that about???). But for us, the announcer was the high-light. He would not have been out of place announcing "The Cavalcade of Sports Friday Night Fights." "In this corner, weighing 185

pounds wearing red trunks, the disgraced former president of the United States -- Geooorge Dubayaaa -- Bush." As it turns out, the actual announcer was one Charlie Brotman, who has been the auguration announcer ever since Ike's second inaugural in 1956. (I think June and I missed him before because, to be frank about it, we probably haven't listened to or watched an inaugural since 1952). June thought his announcements in this year's inauguration sounded more like those of a Circus announcer:  "Laaadieees and Gennntlemen, cast your eyes to the center ring where Dr. Stranglove, disgraced former Vice-President of the United States, will perform a sharp-shooting exhibition from his wheelchair."

     All of this makes me think about announcers in my lifetime, and how critical their voices are in situating ourselves in time and place. In the U. S., sports announcers probably have had the most recognizable voices. What male, of my generation, would not immediately remember

the voice of Mel Allen, who almost seemed to make the N. Y. Yankees into a virtuous organization (almost -- my two favorite teams were, and remain, the Detroit Tigers and any team playing the Yankees). Even fewer persons, men and women alike, would not recognize the voice 

(and image) of Howard Cosell -- a Jew born in North Carolina who famously and publicly defended Muhammed Ali for refusing the draft during the Vietnam War, and who much later was fired from announcing pro-football for describing an African-American running back in seemingly racist terms (Cosell was many things, but not a racist). Other great sports announcers come to mind too; Curt Gowdy (from Wyoming), the long time announcer for the Red Sox and then for national sports, whose mellifluous voice was enhanced by his addiction to cigarettes.

     So, sports announcers really did define American culture. But they have been only half of the equation; the other half have been news announcers. Before the pretty men and pretty women, who now smile through the broadcast of whatever latest tragedy has captured the attention of the media, there were stentorian announcers, those men (all men -- sorry, this is a very politically incorrect paragraph -- as was the last one, actually) whose listeners and viewers made them a part of the family routine. The earliest I remember were H. V. Kaltenborn

and Lowell Thomas, the latter presenting himself as the soothing voice of journalistic reason and much-traveled worldly expertise (I wonder how many people were encouraged to

travel because of him). Then there was Walther Cronkite -- everyone's father figure, everyone's "trusted" American -- whose contemporaries challenged him for presenting the news in the most excellent fashion possible. Chet Huntley (from Montana and a man who chain-smoked while delivering the news) and his intellectual side-kick, David Brinkley. And, after this generation, there was Dan Rather, and more importantly perhaps, Tom Brokaw (who was from South Dakota, and always sounded faintly intoxicated, which, if he were wise, he should have been on some news-casting occasions), and Peter Jennings (a Canadian who also smoked heavily, and died of lung cancer at the age of 67). What is it about famous American announcers coming from the wide-open spaces and adopting the pose of the Marlboro man.

     I had my own brief encounter with announcing as the "voice of the University of Lethbridge," almost three decades ago. A friend of mine was university "publicist," and he chose me, I am certain, not because I came from an remote town in the mid-west (which I did), or because I was a heavy smoker (although I may have been a smoker at the time), but because my voice sound "unremarkable" and neutral. I had to do take after take of the shortest, simplest lines. One recording of me was an introduction to the University that was put on a looped recording in a kiosk in the main foyer of the University. My voice spoke over a slide show whenever a passerby pushed the start button. The whole thing ran too many years (well, anything over a day would have been too much for everyone). I used to jog to get past the kiosk. The only thing worse than hearing your own voice say the same thing over and over, is to look at the profile of your own face in a mirror (yikes!!). My other odd experience as an announcer was a video presentation I made for the University, in which I was filmed (in summer, in a steamingly hot business suit, with sun glasses) stolling along the very steep side of a coulee slope, as I intoned about the University (seen in the background behind me). In those days, video was new, and I had to lug a huge set of wrapped cables that were run up my pant leg to a mic on my lapel. I dragged the whole apparatus along as if I were "Chester" in "Gunsmoke." Now, if you can remember Dennis Weaver as "Chester," you are old enough to need a nap. I don't care what time it is. Go to bed!