I finally have a name to attach to The Voice.
I hear The Voice on Monday nights as I’m driving home from work. He’s the announcer on Westwood One’s radio coverage of Monday Night Football. Not the play-by-play guy or the analyst. The announcer. As in, “Monday Night Football on Westwood One, brought to you by…”
The Voice is Barry White times two. The Voice won’t shatter glass, but it might cause foundations to crumble. The Voice won’t scare babies, but it might cause grown men to tremble.
There is a 35 year old case of jealousy working here. At my first full-time radio job at WAVZ-AM, New Haven (The Lucky 13!), an L.A.-based consultant had to approve my news shift change from overnights to mornings. I knew my voice wouldn’t pass muster. But disc jockey/techno-wizard Pete (Stone) Salant took one of my tapes, ran it through a magic machine (I never understood the technical stuff) which knocked the voice down a few octaves, and I was morning-drive bound. Pete now does this for a living.
My own voice has sufficed since then.
But there is no voice like The Voice.