I have an eclectic and rather fantastic group of friends, with whom I've spent a lot of my summer completely inebriated and severely hungover with. In and amongst these friends is a downright awful and frankly talentless (severe irony) singer named Delyth McLean (shameless plug, but look her up. Actually scary how fantastic her voice is), who, due to her attempt at a music career, saw herself on BBC Radio Wales a few days ago.
In true Rock'n'Roll style, we followed her down as her small entourage and attempted to support the poor girl on her third radio outing. Usually, this involves mouthing incorrect lyrics at her, prolonged bouts of eye contact, and generally making rude and suggestive gestures at her while she tries to do her thing, but we were on strict orders to behave.
Grand little building, the BBC studios in Llandaff. Neither old nor new, it sits in a stasis of attempting to rejuvenate its already rejuvenated decor and so seems almost completely ageless. Being poetic, it may be possible to suggest this is good metaphor for the BBC itself, but I'd rather say that it reminded of someone who forgot to take off their makeup before reapplying it. Apologies, I digress.
After tea and coffee had been served by the very welcoming lady at the BBC, we sat about and generally tried to make Del feel as nervous as possible. Valley's humour is a cruel beast, but its ways shan't ever be altered. Soon, we were ushered into the control room for a quick, direct pre-bollocking. No grabbing the mic's, applause the nanosecond the song finished, and be good. Easy enough.
Our little group was then placed in the actual room that the broadcast was being made from. Inside, and without naming any names, sat a rather minuscule woman behind a large microphone. She was the epitome of 'Cool Mum': Converse trainers kept perfectly in their sterile white, jeans rolled with millimetric precision to just below the ankle, a face adorned so flawlessly with the correct products that even I became conscious of my own skin, despite being twenty years her junior. Her appearance was oddly perfect, lacking any battle scars or tales to tell, but it matched her voice so well that I struggled to part her appearance from her tone. It was flawless, almost eery to hear. When listening from the other side of the microphone, when sat in a car or an office, her voice would be accepted as completely normal. But stood within a few feet, it was almost ethereal. Chiselled seems too harsh an adjective, buttery too soft. Small, over-tongued inflections rooted her accent as firmly Welsh, but the harshness had been strained out and the consonants supported the vowels like pillars to a suspension bridge. It amazed me, in truth.
Delyth sang and was nothing less that fantastic. I cannot express, even in a room designed to absorb all sonic impact and kill the slightest ounce of reverberation, how incredibly well her voice caressed the ears. After her performances, Delyth was then asked a few questions by our radio presenter, and this is where my amazement peaked. Despite the questions being scripted, our host took liberties and went ad lib, even going as far as to include the names of Delyth's songs in her links between questions, never once breaking character. It was then I realised what she was doing; she was acting. Even though she couldn't be seen, our host was firmly in character as a radio host. I doubt that she carries the same perfectly balanced noise home with her, or swears in quite the same tone when she sees the dog concertinaed in concentration as it shits in the neighbours garden, but it was perfect for the job of radio presenting.
This was my 'first' conscious encounter with what I shall dub 'The Radio Voice.' Despite this term, I think its fair to expand it to other professions. Call centre workers develop the ability perfectly and succinctly, sounding like they know exactly what they are doing and that you are their only concern in the world. Still, Virgin Media like to scare me every now and then by asking me for money, despite me telling them that I had cancelled the contract they had with my soul. Another conversation with another person who sounded suitably interested soon solved the matter, but I could swear that the ordeal was solved in my previous conversation. That is the power of assertion and conveying the correct emotion in the voice; you can convince people anything if it's packaged up well enough.
Today, as the whole NATO crew descend upon Cardiff, I was able to witness another occasion in which 'The Radio Voice' phenomena came into play. As many would already have seen, Cardiff Castle is currently just below Hogwarts in terms of Muggle protection. Fencing and concrete blocks protect us from the world leaders, and to ensure that no leader make an attempt on any poor civilian life whilst shopping in Cardiff, marksmen line the edges of the streets. Due to my nosey disposition, I took an extended detour around the Castle to see what the fuss was about. On my travels, I noticed many a shopper stopping and talking to the policemen that patrolled the city. Police forces from all around the UK had been drafted in to help at keeping the jumped up politicians firmly behind bars. Friendly Welsh 'ooooooh's' and 'aaaaaahhh's' cooed from the shoppers in response to the policeman's firm words. Never once were the policemen short with the shoppers; just assertive, carrying the same quality that suggests that they were there to serve a difficult and selfless service. He played the part of responsible guardian and policeman most brilliantly.
Other policemen, whilst not engaging with the public, where chatting quietly amongst themselves, and even partaking in everyday activities, such as drinking tea, or perhaps buying crisps. They were normal human beings in bulletproof vests and carrying bits of metal that project smaller bits of metal with the intent of stopping your biological processes if need be. But despite this normality, the tone they addressed the public in projected them far and above our own heads. They weren't mere mortals, they were protectors, the patrons of the law. If they has used anything less than a direct adjure when dealing with the public, however, I'm not sure the old biddies who asked them about the fencing would be walking away with quite the same zest, secure in the knowledge that they'll be kept safe from Obama and his gang.
So, in all, I'm reminded of a song from Grand Theft Auto: Vice City: 'Act Like You Know' by Fat Larry's Band. Even if you haven't got the foggiest of ideas, like the Virgin Media people of old, by acting like you know what you're talking about, you will be accepted as position of authority and people will soothed by the very vibrations of your throat. If you're really, really good at it, you may even be able to act yourself into a position within the walls of Cardiff Castle, say, as a head of state, or president perhaps. If I had my way, I'd have that radio presenter as a figure of authority in our political system. She could stand outside Downing Street and declare to me that she wants to abandon democracy, and that Fascism was misunderstood and should be given another chance, and I would sit there and happily agree, lost in the soothing jelly-like juxtaposition that is her voice.
