I could tell from the sales rep’s tone of voice that she was unhappy. “What on Earth did you say to Joan this afternoon?” Joan was a local realtor who had been in the office to record a commercial for her agency. It had taken about 15 minutes, and it was like every other client session I had done.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She was really upset with the way you treated her.”
I could not imagine what I might have done. “What did I do?”
“You made her read the spot over and over.”
That was true, I said to the rep. “We had to do it a few times before it sounded good.”
“Well, she wasn’t happy. Nobody ever asked her to do that before.”
Many clients want to voice their own ads. If the client is the best possible messenger for his own business, I don’t have a problem with it, although it’s not the case very often. Some clients insist on voicing their own ads, even though they aren’t the best possible messenger. If you want their ad buy, you’re stuck with them. It’s extremely difficult for a rep to say, “You doing the ad is a bad idea, and I’d rather not take your money.” Sometimes stations offer the client the opportunity to voice his own ad as an ego-stroke, or a way to close the deal. Consultant Dan O’Day considers the latter unethical. I wouldn’t use the same word. Unprofessional, maybe. If the rep can’t close the sale with all the other tools at her disposal, she probably ain’t all that good at the job.
Today, the sales rep might use the recording function on a phone, tablet, or laptop to record the spot right in the client’s office. In days of yore, the client had to come to the station and work with one of the jocks.
Joan had been a regular advertiser for a while. I’d never handled one of her sessions before, so I did what I’d always done. She fluffed a word, so I had her start over. One take ran long, so I had her start over. Then she came up short, so I asked her to do it a little bit slower. “You’re paying for 60 seconds,” I said with a smile. I could tell she was getting a little frustrated, but I said, “We want this to be as good as it can be.” I gave her some advice on how to emphasize particular phrases—to sell the message she was reading—and made her do it again.
After 15 minutes, we had a good one. I got it ready to air the next time it was scheduled. Joan went back to her office, called her sales rep, and blasted me over the phone.
I explained to the rep why I had done what I had done. I even offered to call Joan and apologize—although I wasn’t sorry.
If I’d been assigned to voice a spot for Joan and it came out less than perfect, I’d redo it until it was right. Why should Joan, or any client, settle for less when their own voice is on it? She’s paying for professional expertise—mine and the station’s—and to put a spot on the air that doesn’t sound at least halfway good is professional malpractice. If words are slurred or swallowed, pacing is wrong, and/or the client’s intonations are those of somebody who’s obviously reading, as opposed to speaking, that makes for a poor ad. A poor ad is usually an ineffective one, and the station does the client no favors by selling them something that doesn’t work they way they promised it would. In addition, poor ads reflect on the station just as much as they reflect on the client, if not more. A listener who hates a particular ad is more likely to call the station and complain than they are to call the advertiser and complain.
When a client insists on voicing his own ads, you can ameliorate some of the most common problems if you take the time. You can apply the expertise you possess to minimize his amateurishness to whatever extent is possible. If that requires coaching or multiple takes, so be it. The client shouldn’t be offended. He or she should welcome your effort to make it perfect.
(Pictured: a courtroom photo from the final episode of Seinfeld. It is the official position of this blog that the finale is the single worst episode of the series, but that’s a subject we’re not getting into today. Neither are we getting into the subject I thought we’d get into when I started writing, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.)
Twenty years ago tonight, the final episode of Seinfeld aired on NBC.
Seinfeld didn’t make an impact on me until it had been on for two or three years. But like millions of other people, I got hooked on it, and I’d still rank it as an all-time favorite, even though I don’t watch it regularly anymore. My sense of it is that it’s not particularly dated, except for the baseball references that few outside of New York are going to get (Paul O’Neill, Danny Tartabull), and the way it depicts a world where landline telephones still rule. There’s a 1991 episode in which Jerry is shown with a car phone, but cellphones are not part of the Seinfeld universe, and the show aired at practically the last moment when such a thing looked normal.
When I started writing this post, I intended to segue here to a reboot of something I wrote for WNEW.com about the music of Seinfeld, but then I decided I could just link to the damn thing (which I have already reposted here once) and spend the balance of my time today on other items, TV-related and otherwise.
Last month, somebody asked about the process of preparing a radio show. Every jock who cares enough to do it has his or her own method, but here’s mine.
I often joke that my entire life is show prep, but it really is. As I routinely travel the Internet, watch TV, or listen to the radio, I keep an eye out for stuff that might be interesting to talk about the next time I’m on the air. In addition, about an hour before I go on the air, I cruise through a short list of websites I have found to be useful sources.
For any jock on any station, what’s “interesting” is determined by who your listener is. I am interested in craft beer and college hockey, for example, but not necessarily to the degree that my listeners are. The stations I’m on are targeted to adult women, so I’m always thinking about what someone with an office job, a spouse, and/or a couple of kids is likely to find interesting. This is not to say that I’m never going to talk about craft beer or college hockey, but it will have to be filtered through the prism of the 40-ish woman I imagine on the other end of the transmission.
The stuff I prepare has to qualify under one of two basic rules: A) it’s got to be stuff my listeners need or would want to know about and/or B) stuff they’re already thinking about. There’s lots of overlap. Weather can fall into both; if people know there’s a winter storm coming, I’ll talk about it in more detail than I will if the forecast is for sunny and 75. Stuff they need or want to know includes serious things: a traffic tie-up due to road construction, for example, but it can also include fairs or festivals or places to take the kids on the weekend. Which are also things they might already be thinking about. Rule A or Rule B bits generally run about 30 seconds, and I like to have one for every hour I’m on the air.
My goal is to be as topical as possible. What do listeners care about right now, today? It’s why I don’t like to voice-track a show more than a few hours in advance, or 24 hours before at most. Any farther out and you risk missing that “right now” connection. An even-greater risk is that you’ll miss some transcendent event. Imagine tracking your classic-rock Sunday show on Friday afternoon and then a Mick Jagger or a Paul McCartney dies on Saturday.
I’ve written before about my guiding question: “What can I do on the air today that nobody else can do?” It’s why I’m prejudiced in favor of local material, and against the celebrity news/junk so many jocks rely on. That’s not to say I will never do a celebrity story or something from halfway across the country. If it’s a viral story, it may be something listeners are already thinking about (see Rule B above). But I have to come up with an original take, a local angle, or at least a punchline that’s entirely my own.
Some jocks like to know in advance the songs scheduled in their show to help them prepare, but I don’t care. I have lots of music-related bits floating around in my head, so that kind of thing is easy to come by if I need it. Also, the new album by so-and-so can be pretty far down the list of things that meet Rule A or Rule B. Not always, but in most cases.
Not everything is a “bit.” If I have 11 seconds over the intro of a song, there’s often not time for anything more than title and artist. But even those short segments will be better given advance thought. I recently mentioned that I’ve become a big believer in scripting. As I prepare, I write my 30-second bits as I will deliver them on the air. When I get into the studio, I start scripting the rest of the show. Since where I talk is specified to me by the format clock, I can script ahead, sometimes as much as an hour, although some days I barely manage to stay one break ahead.
To keep this post from getting any longer, I’m going to stop here. If you have questions about any of this, please ask in the comments. And if you’re a jock with a method that works for you, or advice for other jocks, please include that, too.
(Since putting the finishing touches on this post early this morning and scheduling it to post, I have been reading MLK50 posts almost exclusively, and I’m conscious now of how lame mine is. Your time will almost certainly be better spent here, here, or here. If you have time for nothing else today, click the link about news bulletins below. The bulk of it is CBS News coverage from April 4 and 5, and some of it is riveting.)
I have written many times how my parents were serious radio listeners. Dad had a radio in the barn that was always on while he milked the cows. Mother’s radio sat in the kitchen on a counter near the sink, under a low-hanging cupboard in a space so small it wasn’t good for much else. Although she had several over the years, one that I remember best was a light-colored AM/FM unit with a dial that lit up brightly when it was turned on.
Although Mother and Dad listened to our local station in the morning and evening, she would sometimes tune over to WGN from Chicago during the middle of the day. On the evening of April 4, 1968, Mother hadn’t tuned back to our local station, but she had turned the radio on. A baseball game was on, likely the Cubs and certainly an exhibition game, as the regular season didn’t start until the next week. She was not a baseball fan, so I don’t know why she would have been listening. Maybe she turned her radio on and got sidetracked before she could tune elsewhere, as a young mother with boys aged 8, 5, and 1 would frequently be.
I was playing on the floor of the nearby dining room. Maybe my brother was playing with me and maybe he wasn’t; I can’t recall. I would not have been paying close attention to the baseball game, since I wasn’t a sports fan yet. That would come in another year. But at some point during the game, perhaps between 6:30 and 7:00, a news bulletin came on that Martin Luther King had been shot in Memphis.
I remember hearing it. Or at least I think I do. I can see myself on the green tile floor of the dining room, the brightly lit radio playing over my shoulder, and the news coming on.
I had a precocious interest in current events for a second-grader. Because I absorbed a lot by osmosis from my parents’ radios, from the TV news they watched, and from the newspapers I saw them reading, I might have recognized King’s name. I might have heard about his Poor Peoples’ Campaign and his solidarity with striking sanitation workers in Memphis.
Now it’s just as likely that I knew nothing of Martin Luther King on that night 50 years ago. It’s possible that my hearing about the King murder may not have happened in any way remotely close to the way I recall it. Maybe I didn’t hear about it at all that night. Our memories are notoriously faulty, even regarding stuff we believe we remember vividly. And memories from childhood get more faulty as time passes, don’t they? I have had for years a memory from the weekend of the JFK assassination, a single image of a coffin on a bier, but I was three years old. I can’t honestly say whether I really saw it on TV or I saw the picture later and created the memory. I also remember telling my parents at some point in ’68 that I wanted Eugene McCarthy to be president—based on what, I have no idea, but it seems like the kind of thing I would have said. If I actually said it.
So I can’t claim to be certain about what I remember hearing 50 years ago tonight, although a future radio guy learning of the King murder on the radio before he knew anything about his future makes a fine little prophetical anecdote. It’s one of those things that should be true, which might be why I remember it that way.
If you’re old enough to remember 50 years ago tonight, how did you learn about it? If you’re not, what’s the first historic news event you remember hearing about?
A few years ago a radio talent coach told me, “You sound like you have a purpose in mind every time you open the microphone,” which is one of the higher compliments I have ever received.
A lot of radio jocks talk because they have 11 seconds over the introduction of a song or because they’re supposed to read a promo before the commercial break, and not because they have something in particular that they want to accomplish. And there is a difference. You hear it up and down the dial: jock cracks the microphone, gives the call letters, and starts talking, but you hear the gears grinding as he gropes for the next thought, unsure of precisely where he’s going, hopeful that he’ll find his way to a logical end-point. Sometimes he does, and sometimes he doesn’t, and as a listener, you get the same sick feeling you might get from watching a wobbly high-wire walker. Is he gonna make it? I don’t think he’s gonna make it!
(This isn’t just a small-market phenomenon. You hear it in the majors, too.)
If you’re gonna speak to people on the radio, it’s absolutely vital to know where you’re going, always, and how to make sure you get there—every time you speak.
When I started working for our company’s country station in 2010, it was programmed by John Sebastian. Before he left it all behind for a career in voice work, John was one of the radio industry’s great program directors, at legendary stations in major markets across the country, the kind of guy emulated by young programmers such as I used to be. Before I joined his station, all I heard from my colleagues in the building was how tough John was on his jocks. He told them to turn off the autopilot, which most radio stations use to play music and commercials even when a live jock is on the air, and pay attention to segues and transitions. He insisted they script every break and rehearse it before they did it on the air. He coached them on how to pronounce the call letters—something most jocks unthinkingly spit out at the start of a break. And he wasn’t shy about coming into the studio and talking to them about what they’d just done, or hadn’t done.
But I wanted to work for him anyway. Among the things I learned was that nobody cares about the craft of being a radio jock quite as much as John, and it scratched an itch I didn’t know I had.
(I have since become a big believer in scripting. It does more than just ensure you say the words right; it ensures that you say the right words.)
I surf the radio dial while I travel, and there’s a lot of poor craftsmanship out there. Jocks with no purpose other than to fill time, often with crutches, clichés, or meaningless bits. (Trust me: nobody cares about the weekend box office or whatever the Kardashians are up to.) Breaks that exist to massage egos—of jocks, of stations, of sponsors—without offering anything to the listener. People with beautiful voices who have nothing to say.
(Implicit in the rise of voicetracking was the promise that small-market stations could sound like they had major-market talent. What a lot of them end up with is the same meaningless blather they got from their hometown talent, delivered by better pipes.)
I am conscious of the fact that I, an insignificant part-time jock in a medium-sized city, can do very little to counteract these trends. Except to make sure that I continue to have a purpose in mind every time I turn on the microphone.
Plausibly Related: Even when a station runs jockless, it can still suffer from poor craftsmanship, or a hazy sense of purpose. Traveling in northern Minnesota, I listened to a station that positioned itself as “Adult Standards 930.” Right away there’s a problem: adult standards is a phrase that has a clear meaning to radio people but not to the audience. Then, the very first song I heard was “Those Shoes” by the Eagles, an album cut from The Long Run. Order was seemingly restored after that with songs by Bread, Tom Jones, and other identifiably “adult” acts and “standard” songs, going as far back as the pre-rock 50s with “Cross Over the Bridge” by Patti Page.
But that Eagles song stayed with me. What were they thinking? Also heard in the hour I listened: “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” by Andy Williams. On an afternoon in March.
Craftsmanship. Attention to detail. They matter. People notice.
“You might not ever get rich / But lemme tell ya it’s better than diggin’ a ditch”
The position of part-time radio jock is not a prestigious one. You work weekend shifts and holidays that are by definition not as important as the weekdays, and you usually do it for very little money.
I got my first part-time radio job when I was 19. Training then was a lot like training now: you watch another, more experienced jock while they explain what they’re doing, and you ask questions. After a few sessions, the roles change: you do the job while the more experienced person watches. After a few sessions of this, you’re left on your own. This kind of training is almost never enough, though. Sooner or later, something will happen that you will have to figure out on the fly. This happened to me on my first job and on my current one. It’s nobody’s fault. A veteran jock figures it out; a green young dipshit figures it out after a little longer.
How part-time jocks are treated depends on the culture of the company. We’re treated very well at the place I work now, but that hasn’t always been my experience. At a different company, when the Christmas party invitation was posted on the bulletin board, it explicitly invited “all staffers working more than 15 hours per week.” (I think it was probably my idea to post an announcement for an alternate Christmas party from which those working more than 15 hours a week were explicitly excluded.) After somebody dumped a cup of coffee into a control board, jocks were forbidden to bring beverages into the studio. I dutifully complied with this regulation until I discovered that my station’s morning guys were exempt from it. I decided that I wasn’t going to be treated any differently than they were, and it wasn’t long before the rule was rescinded.
That’s me, the Rosa Parks of part-time jocks.
When I was a program director and had part-time jocks to hire and train, I tried to remember what it had been like to be in their shoes. I thought about what they needed to know, but also what they would want to know. My goal was that they be well-prepared to handle the inevitable weirdness that goes with the job. My record was hit-and-miss, which is mostly on me as a manager, although in a business where a degree of natural talent is necessary above and beyond the skills training can nurture, the successes and/or failures of these people weren’t entirely on me.
Some of my part-timers aspired to full-time careers in radio; some of them simply thought working in radio would be more fun than clerking in a hardware store or making pizzas. The ones that stick in my memory tend to be the ones who fked up in some spectacular way (the guy we fired after we discovered he was selling station CDs to the local used record store, and whose resume, we later learned, was largely fictitious; the college student/automation-tender who kept all the monitors turned down because the music interfered with the studying he wanted to do), but I had some good ones, too: people I could stick into any shift and get a reasonably decent performance; people I could depend on to understand their jobs on a relatively deep level so they could diagnose and handle the inevitable weirdness on their own; people who were simply fun to be around and always willing to pitch in and do more: Allison, Kurt, Dave, I salute you, wherever you are, all these years later.
I got back into full-time radio for a while a few years ago, but being a part-timer better suits the geezer I have become. What it lacks in prestige (and occasionally in appreciation, and every so rarely in respect, and usually in money, because this is radio we’re talking about) is made up for by the fact that I get to do it because I want to, and not because I have to.