News man shows new spots

Being Frank, by Frank Ameduri

At what many people would consider an advanced age for such things, I may be off to a new career. Not long ago the Frontiersman and local radio station Q99.7 thought it would be nice to team up. After all, we're both local media outlets and we each strive to contribute something positive to our community. Why not work together for the betterment of all?

As part of that effort, I was to begin recording radio spots three times per week. For the uninitiated, a short recording to promote or advertise something is what we in the biz like to call a "spot." These spots were to inform Q99.7 listeners about what to look for in the next edition of the Frontiersman. It would be kind of like reading little news briefs, and I'd get to plug something else about the paper if I wanted, as well. If you're wondering, "plug" is what we in show biz call it when you entice listeners about a promotion or special or some such thing.

So, anyway, I recorded my first spot a little over a week ago, and I've recorded four or five of them in all. I've learned, in just a short time, that there's a whole, strange kind of notoriety that comes with regular radio appearances. It used to be that I'd occasionally bump into someone in the market who'd recognized my photo from this column. Usually they'd just look at me with that expression we get when we're sure we've met someone before, but we have no idea just where the heck that might have been. Most of the time they never figured it out, and they just snuck off down the next aisle to avoid an uncomfortable encounter. Once in a while they'd make the connection and throw something frozen or a piece of produce at me. Still, it was nice to be recognized.

The radio thing has added a whole new level to the phenomenon, though. Now I'll engage in idle chitchat with the checker, and she'll get that "Hey, I know that voice" look on her face. To try to help her out, I drop the ol' voice down an octave and add in a touch of bass to better replicate my radio voice. "And now coming off the conveyor belt," I'll say, "… Frank's pint of Chubby Hubby ice cream. After that, look for Frank's eight-pack of cheddarwurst."

"Oh, hey!" she'll say. "You're that weird news guy on the radio!"

"Yeah."

"You know, you've got a great face for radio."

Like I said, it's nice to be recognized.

Anyway, since I started doing this radio bit, lots of people have said that I not only have a great face for radio, but a pretty darned good voice for it, too. My mom said she always knew I'd get into show biz. My fianc/e is a bulwark of support. "Yes, Honey," she says all the time, "You really do sound like a real radio guy." Or, "No, Sweetie, I didn't hear the slight hesitation in the second headline. I'm sure your fans didn't hear it, either." It's good to hear things like that. I don't want to let my fans down. Though I've only been in the recording industry for a short time, my fans have come to expect a certain level of excellence in my performances.

I must confess, much of my success is due to the fine work of my studio producer, Dean Mitchell. Dean takes what my mom now calls "The Golden Voice" and makes it pure platinum. Actually … and please don't read the rest of this, Mom … he takes what amounts to a nervous, stuttering mess and makes it sound like Walter Kronkite in his prime. It's not just the sound levels, but he even moves words and groups of words around so I actually make sense while I'm sounding good. I sit there for about 60 seconds and stutter and squeak at the microphone, and 10 minutes later Dean has turned me into Enrico Caruso, operatic news reader extraordinaire.

With that said, I'll admit the checker experience happened a little differently than I described above. In fact, I was just trying to make small talk with her in my "radio voice" when she called security and had me removed from the store -- without my Chubby Hubby and cheddarwurst. I guess, though I had entered my radio experience with high hopes of a second career, I may have to settle for a couple of weird stories to share with my grandkids some day.

Frank Ameduri's mom still thinks he's a big star.