Read Online FM by Richard Neer - Free Book Online Page B

window in the entire subterranean room, and any daylight that might have filtered into the window well was blocked by a puny air conditioner. There were three doors off the main room: one to the air studio, another to the announcer’s booth, and the third to a private office occupied by Reiger. At least the owner’s office seemed better appointed than the rest of the shabby accommodations. The overall impression made WALI look like a penthouse suite on Park Avenue. I could only imagine that the penurious furnishings of the office were sacrifices made to grace the broadcast facility with the latest technology. That illusion would be shattered later.
    As Ted Webb emerged from the studio to greet us, I could tell that he had no clue as to whom he’d invited to audition. Since his hours consulting WALI were limited, I doubted that he had ever heard Jackson’s weekend show. He only knew that it was the sole classical program on the station and that WLIR needed an announcer well versed in the great masters. Since he was on the air at the time, Webb hurriedly ushered us into the announcer’s booth, a small dark room off the main studio. He handed Jackson a sheaf of papers consisting of a job application and some pages of music introduction for his audition.
    Robert began to practice reading the copy aloud. To say his approach was disastrous would be an understatement. Although he knew all the proper pronunciations, he embellished the dry script with his over-the-top improvisational flourishes, ones that worked to great effect (and our amusement) at WALI. He had style, but not the kind they were looking for. He turned to me for advice.
    “Well, Bob,” I said, “if you really want my opinion, I’d tone it down a little. This is FM, so they’re looking for a deep voice. Measured tones. Slow and formal. Like this.” I proceeded to read a paragraph.
    “But my man, that’s not me. They brought me in for my uniqueness. My flair.” He patted my shoulder and I knew what he meant. When he referred to men as “having the flair,” it signified that they were gay, whether they realized it or not.
    “Suit yourself, Bob. But I’m not sure that’s what they have in mind.” I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by insinuating that Webb hadn’t heard his show, but had merely invited the classical host in for an audition. So Robert proceeded to read it his way. Predictably, as Ted listened from the main studio, he was absolutely horrified by what he saw and heard. Intent upon his script, Robert never picked up on this.
    As gracefully as possible, Webb escorted us from the announcer’s booth toward the exit, thanking Jackson for reading and asking if he could speak to me privately. Uh-oh, I thought. Was I about to be chided for bringing in a man who had wasted their time? As I followed him into the studio I was already preparing the answer, that I was merely along for the ride. I’d met Ted on numerous occasions at WALI and respected him a great deal. He was the ultimate pro on the air: a great voice with a completely straight-ahead delivery. There was no quirkiness or sense of humor in his presentation and certainly no
flair.
I selfishly hoped this little embarrassment wouldn’t hurt me at WALI.
    “Neer, I heard you reading with your friend in there. You sounded very good. Do you want to tape an audition?”
    “Well, thanks, Ted. But I don’t really know much about classical music. I couldn’t pronounce all those names.”
    “First of all, the shift we’re talking about isn’t all classical. It’s Broadway show tunes, Sinatra, even some chicken rock. There’s only an hour of classical and I’ll help you with the names.” He then pronounced “Rachmaninoff” and “Prokofiev” for me. I recognized Tchaikovsky, but Eugene Joachim (OY-gum YO-kim) was beyond me. The copy wasn’t difficult otherwise, and I sailed through it.
    Webb was beaming. “That was terrific. I’ve got to run this by the owner, but frankly, I