Evening Star Newspaper, February 16, 1930, Page 95

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, FEBRUARY 16, 1930. duife Is Al Fun to Graham “MIKE" MANNERS. FORMER PRESIDENT COOLIDGE, because of his quiet manner, has an ® effective John D. good radio announcer. Gene Tun delivery. is nervous in action. feller, jr., has no fear of the “mike” and would make a Radio streiched Morris Gest, the theatrical pioducer; flat on his back lflez his first aitem: ne mgbdrd —it kills my vibrations!” BY HARRY GOLDBERG. A RADIO announcer’s life is a happy one. He goes everywhere, meets everybody, sees everything. Life is nearly all fun to Graham Mc- Namee. ‘There’s hard work and hard luck, applesauce and raazberries, but he has a grandstand seat st nearly all the big shows that spot the pano- rama of American life, » “Yes, radio has been good %0 me,” says Graham. “I get a kick out of virtually every- thing I do. Perhaps the most exciting moment in all my broadcasting was during the final game of the world series in 1922, between the Giants and the Yankees. . “Th: Yanks had three men on base with Babe Ruth up, and the game and the series waiting to be won. I'm sure Babe felt the ten- sion of that moment and he wanted to hit that ball more than he ever wanted anything in his life. It was perfect drama and I was mad with excitement like everybody else in the ball park. “My throat almost went back on me as Babe teok three powerful swings at the ball and then walked to the bench, the most dejected man I ever saw. Bob Meusel came through with the winning poke a few seconds later, but the big moment had passed. “Speaking of sporting events, there is one subject that people don't seem to tire talking about. Everywhere I go I have the question thrown at me: ‘Mac, was it a long count?’ It was a long count, but the chap won who should have won. There is no doubt about it. “Tunney fell with his face toward me. His great dzep eyes reminded me of two windows in a vacant apartment. Suddenly the shades went up and Tunney was himself in the last four seconds. At the count of seven he was ready to get up. “That fight brought me a mountain of mail. You will remember that Tunney was knocked down by a sudden attack when Dempsey tore in with both hands, hammering Gene right and left. As the referee counted I folldved him, telling the listeners the count—6-7-8-9-—and then the row began. People declared that I had said ‘out.’ Some fellows switched off their sets and never did hear the end of the fight, Bets were paid and I was blamed, but what I said was ‘nine and up.’ “And right there I got one of the luckiest breaks of my life. A phonograph company had decided to record my broadcast of the fight. They had a recording apparatus in a room with a loud speaker, and when the fight was over they sent me one the discs they had made. I hurriedly unwrapped it and was greatly relieved to hear my own voice say quite clearly ‘and up,” which was a complete vindication.” MrcNamee's is probably the best known voice in the United States, and he has been heard in Cape Town, South Africa; in ths northern ~part of the Scandinavian Peninsula, on the “Pacific Ceast, all over the Atlantic, through the -South Seas and South America. - ~-+ McNamee cannot understand why his voice has brought him so far. trgfi to back out, saying “I can’t sing on this hecavy carpet *“I just happened into logical moment, I suppose, modestly ex- plained. “People seem to 1 my baritone, So many things make up the quality.of a voice on the air—original timbre, placement, diction, pronunciation, enunciation and, of course, style of delivery.” McNamee just drifted into the radio field by accident. His father was legal adviser to Judge Lamar, Secretary of the Interior in the Cleve- land cabinet. Later, on becoming attorney to the Hill railroad interests in St. Paul, he moyed West. Graham grew up in Minnesota. He was a curious combination. He liked music and Janguages and at the same time was a star athlete. His mother had a contralto voice of great range and sang in the churches of the Twin Cities. She wanted him to fulfill her musical ambitions and so at an early age he began to take piano lessons. He practiced with the usual reluctance of a small boy, but when he came to his teens he started to sing and loved it. At high school he earned .good marks in French, German, Spanish and Italian. Sup- plementing this, he became a “southpaw” pitch- er on a semi-pro club and he also played hockey, tried foot ball and went in for boxing. at the psycho- HIs mother still nursed her ambition of & vocal career for him. When $600 had been saved it was decided he should leave the West and try for success in New York. He sang.in churches, got a job in a Broadway production and was in a grand opera company that toured the East. While on jury duty in June, 1923, he walked into the office of Radio Station WEAF. He knew vaguely of broadcasting and radio and had heard that singers were sometimes en- gaged. Curiosity led him to investigate the broadcasting station. The officials answered his questions and, liking his pleasant personal- ity and his voice, asked him if he would take a “mike” test. ; He did and was engaged on the spot for $30 & week, hours from 7 to 10 pm. Broadcasting was then in its infancy and was not on an all- day schedule. The public’s desire to see and hear him in perscn is 50 great that he has filled more than 200 concert and lecture engagements during the last year. In two years he has flown 10,000 miles by plane, “My flying started with a party,” he ex- plained. “I was in St. Louis and due to be in Chicago the following night to cover the Demp- sey-Tunney fight. I had planned to take the night train from St. Louis, but a big dinner party had been staged, so I decided to go by the mail plane in the morning. The plane was delayed and I got into the stadium just on time, but with nothing to spare.” ONE aspect of his relations with the public is the pile of gifts that pour in upon him. A typical parcel post donation following one of his country-wide announcements may in- clude a basket of grapes, a hand-forged horse- shoe the size of a dime, a dozen eggs, a choco- late cake, a dictograph record of a talk he sent over the air, a handmade sweater and a beaded watch fob bearing his initials. * The room in his home where his own radio 11 s | L e | R McNamee o & McNamee has witnessed the most dramatic sport events of the last few years, including such thrilling moments as Babe Ruth’s strikeout in the final game of the 1922 world series, tense moments in foot ball and the “long count” of the second Tunney-Dempsey fight. set is installed is filled with engraved loving cups, autographed base balls, curios and objects . d'art—all tokens from members of his vast radio audience. “When jt comes to the radio, people are much the same,” he sald. “In the early days we used to have some trouble with people trying to get on the air with a message to wife or sweet- heart. I remember one fellow who was invited to the studio and who had promised his wife to speak to her before the evening was aver. “I saw him make a break for the microphone. So I shut it off at the button I had in my pocket. When he got home his wife refused to believe him and insisted he had been deceiv- ing her. It took a letter from the station to clear up that domestic storm. “When Dempsey knocked out Sharkey I asked him to say & few words to the crowd. He was tired and excited, but his mind was clear. ‘Can they hear me on the coast?” I sald, ‘Yes,’ and then he spoke: ‘Hello, Babe. I'm OK. and coming home right away.’ “When President Coolidge made his last speech in the political campaign, he closed by saying good night to all the folks, ‘including my father on the farm in Vermont, who is listening.’ “Because of his quiet manner and the fact that he does not move about, President Cool- idge has an effective microphone delivery. John D. Rockefeller, jr., has no fear of the ‘mike’ and would make a good radio an- nouncer. Gene Tunney: is nervous before the microphone, and the radio. stretched Morris Gest, the producer, on his back after his first attempt. ¢ “There is no trouble with artists in the studio. They know their own trade and assume that other people know theirs. But the near-artists usually make it difficult. I remember one woman who refused to sing. Conditions in the studio were not Tight: S out to get it, placed it under the lady's feet and she smiled graciously at me and the con cart began. : “SPORTB announcing is the most fun,” Mce Namee went on, “but it is the toughess kind of an assignment. I feel like a wreck by the time the thing is ready to start and even worse after it's over. Take foot ball, “Figure it out for yourself. for instance. The red team is up against fts own goalposts. The blue team has marched steadily down the fleld. Third down and two yards to go. The ball snaps back, a few be- wildering gestures to confuse the red players and then a plunging mass of tangled arms and legs. The ball is nowhere in sight. Is it a touchdown or did they just fail to make it? At the other end of my microphone millions of rabid fans are cursing me for the delay. I almost hear their thoughts screaming in my ears, ‘Come on, you big bum, what happened?’ “There’s lots of fun in the broadcasting game, too. Some of the letters I get are mas- terpieces of humor, but the biggest laugh of my life, I think, was Nick Altrock’s letter written after a 1925 world series game, You may re- member it rained in Pitisburgh on one of the scheduled days. I started to warm up the radio audience with 15 minutes of description before the game. It rained and rained, and Judge Landis could not make up his mind to . call the game until more than an hour past the regular starting time. I kept feeding the radio audience with human-interest stuff and was onl'y A.!Ne ‘to keep it up by relating the antics of Altfock. - i TN DadiiEnt, 1030.) N A MR OGS