Pokrewne

Start
Craig Saunders [Rythe 03] Rythe Falls (epub)
Craig Smith [Kate Kenyon 01] The Painted Messiah (epub)
Barclay Tessa Saga Rodu Craig Ziarno wsrod kamieni
Craig Halloran [Impact 02] Zombie Rehab (epub)
Craig Hurren [Beach & Riley The Killing Chase (epub)
Craig Halloran [The Chronicle Clutch of the Cleric (epub)
Craig Schaefer Daniel Faust The Living End
Craig Jones [The Zombie Apoca Outbreak (epub)
Chandler Raymond Wysokie okno
Broken English An Amish Country P. L. Gaus

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Normally such stations were unmanned, but along with the physical assets, the station had inherited a small staff, and since no one was ever fired from Mother Corp—not then and rarely now—the tiny enterprise became a full-fledged station in the CBC kingdom with all the attendant accoutrements.Its mission was to educate and enlighten citizens in the backwoods of Canada by exposing them to a larger culture—that is, the culture of Toronto, where 90 percent of CFPR’s programming originated.Most of the ten or so employees held titles that were grandiose and inflated: executive producer, technical supervisor, station manager, and assistant manager.The rest were secretaries.But there was not a great deal to do.Between programming that came direct from Toronto via transmission cables, staff were permitted only a few slots in the off-hours for local content.The result was that seemingly endless string quartets jostled on air with hometown introductions to hits by Johnny Cash and Hank Williams.The walls of the studio building were so thin that taping had to stop when a heavy truck passed by.The control room also housed the transmitter—all 250 watts’ worth and about as powerful as three lightbulbs.I presented myself for the audition with genuine excitement and not the slightest mike fright, thanks to prior experience with the high school PA system and as a fill-in dispatcher at Mom’s taxi company.To get the job I had to pass the CBC’s standard announcer’s test: a competent reading of an old classical music program script, complete with correct pronunciation of all proper names.“Good evening from Massey Hall,” I intoned, not knowing what or where Massey Hall might be.There followed introductions to works by eighteenth- and nineteenth-century masters, some of whose unfamiliar names I had practised with a friend.Although the senior producer judged my presentation below par, he liked my “modulation,” and I was hired as a summer relief announcer.No one else had applied and the station was seriously short-staffed thanks to the absence of a veteran announcer who had gone off on a binge.The fellow phoned in daily, promising to return, but he never did.At eighteen, I was the youngest CBC staff announcer in the country, but management seemed reluctant to give an inexperienced youngster full professional acknowledgment.While the other announcers added a folksy “Uncle” to their names, the better to foster a warm connection with the audience, I was to call myself “Cousin Craig.” But I did not complain.I was intrigued by radio as a listener and enthralled by it as a broadcaster.In those early days before unions, the announcer’s job included news gathering and reporting.This perfectly suited my inherent curiosity about other people’s business; finally, a legitimate reason to ask otherwise rude questions of important people.The element of public performance was also irresistible to someone who had enjoyed high school dramatics and public speaking.I was about to become a local celebrity and felt utterly in my element.My tenure was to begin on July 1, a national holiday celebrated in those days as Dominion Day.Naturally, I stayed home.The station manager called with my first lesson about the radio business: News does not take a holiday, nor do news announcers.If I did not accept that, then I had better try a different line of work.Yet my first assignment had nothing to do with news.I was put on a shift as a disk jockey, after which promotion came fast.With but a single day’s training, I was thrust into the chair of the morning host, Uncle Fred, who had arrived too drunk to perform.The morning wake-up program enjoyed the station’s biggest audience.For the first and only time in my life, I was hit with debilitating jitters.This was not tape, this was live radio, and that realization left me so rattled, I could barely read the control room clock.The two-line switchboard almost overheated with complaints about my incorrect time checks.Buses were missed, kids were late for school, appointments were hopelessly confused.On the quieter afternoon shift the next day, I was given a copy of the CBC program schedule and told to deliver on-air promotions for upcoming shows.Many spots were designated “TBA,” an acronym foreign to me, but judging by the schedule a program so frequently aired that I concluded it must be immensely popular.I exhorted listeners not to miss it.Unlike other CBC stations, CFPR carried advertising spots.Within a week, sponsors were demanding my head, especially the upscale beauty salon whose establishment I repeatedly called a “saloon.” Nor was the Chevy dealer amused when I kept referring to his car as the Chev-roo-lay instead of the more refined Chev-vra-lay.One morning on the 6 a.m.sign-on shift, I found that a fellow announcer had hidden the officially approved CBC recording of “God Save the Queen” as a prank.In desperation, I sang it in full voice.This was an insult to the sovereign and a firing offence in the mind of the program director, but the encyclopedic handbook of CBC regulations saved me.While it decreed that every programming day must begin with the national anthem and the tribute to Her Majesty, it did not rule out alternative renderings, as long as they were respectful.I argued necessity and ingenuity.Still, I received the first of many written reprimands.The program director described my transgression as the worst he had witnessed in his entire broadcasting career.Not long after, his career was cut short when he fell in love with a local nurse and followed her east.My career continued.I was an old pro in the eyes of the new program director, a man who had recently left a full-time position as an RCMP corporal.For a while, all available local airtime was filled with music by the RCMP band.And, for a brief period, the noble redcoat did double duty, hanging his uniform in the station closet and donning civvies for radio work.One day I was fooling with the revolver he’d left hanging there when, to my astonishment, it went off, missing an individual in the toilet next door by inches.Since the program boss had broken all the rules by leaving his weapon loaded and unlocked, the incident was quickly covered up and the sound of a reported gunshot dismissed as an automobile backfire.Another time I was lucky to avoid dismissal for an escapade that clearly violated CBC regulations.One Saturday night, after signing off at midnight as expected, I joined some friends at a late-night party.Few other radio signals managed to pierce the mountains that ringed Rupert, and we couldn’t find any music we liked.I returned to the station and put CFPR back on the air at 3 a.m.For three hours, we enjoyed our own private broadcast, with musical selections on demand and tender messages from me to my girlfriend at the time.On Monday morning, Will Hankinson, the station manager, remarked that he had awoken in the night and thought he had heard my voice sending personal greetings to all my pals.Must have been a dream, he concluded [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]