ناطر أمل جديد
22/04/2003, 12:12
THERE IS A BOX TO THE LEFT of Tavis Smiley in the broadcast studio, a box with knobs and dials and cords running in and out of it. There is a row of green lights on the box, flashing every time Smiley's voice rises above the level of normal conversation and enters the danger zone.
National Public Radio has built a reputation on smooth, professional broadcast voices, projecting authority, repose, and, let's face it, geographic anonymity--these voices come from anywhere and nowhere. They tend to be "white" timbres, usually without much of an accent or any other cultural identifier. That sensibility has kept NPR growing for three decades. But in the studio off Crenshaw Boulevard where Smiley assembles his weekday NPR show, something else is growing: the volume. Smiley's gruff voice is distinctly black and outside the beltway it's definitely loud, and you can tell it's in the house, 'cause all the lights are on.
Thirty-seven years old, Smiley has a round face and is sensitive about his weight, which goes up and down; right now he's a little on the stocky side. In the adjoining room an engineer, a producer, and a radio consultant huddle as the show begins. There are suggestions coming over a speaker from Washington, D.C., where more staff are based. In a baseball cap and shorts, Smiley looks defiantly casual, but he feels it the same as everybody else present at the god-awful hour of 4 a.m.: There's a lot riding on his show.
Some 640 public radio stations broadcast in the country, and at the moment 27 have picked up The Tavis Smiley Show, making it a fledgling success but far from a certified triumph. "The educated population of African Americans and Hispanic Americans has grown, but that growth hasn't been reflected on the air," says Bill Davis, president of Southern California Public Radio, which oversees Pasadena station KPCC. "If The Tavis Smiley Show works, I think you'll begin to see public radio extending service out to audiences we just haven't serviced very well in the past. If it doesn't work, it's back to the drawing board."
This morning Smiley is interviewing two educators about problems black students face in the classroom, when suddenly he barks at one of them who generically invokes racist teachers. "I respectfully disagree--some of these Nee-grows are bad," says Smiley It's hard to tell which is the biggest shock, that somebody said "Negro" on usually calm-cool public radio, that he pronounced it like he was sucking his teeth, or that the person who said it sounds a lot more like the rapper DMX than Morning Edition anchor Bob Edwards. This is a black voice talking black in a way that has unmistakable resonance for anybody tuning in.
The Tavis Smiley Show began airing in January and is heard locally on KPCC weeknights at 8 p.m. The hour-long program features a mix of debate pegged to news of the day and conversation with African American news makers and commentators. Nowhere else are you going to hear academic Cornel West, attorney Connie Rice, and conservative University of California regent Ward Connerly--all regulars--on a single show. Routinely radio and television drafts one spokesperson to stand in for all black people. But the Smiley show casually eviscerates the notion of a monolithic consensus and exposes differences of opinion, starting with a host who takes "Nee-grows" to task.
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National Public Radio has built a reputation on smooth, professional broadcast voices, projecting authority, repose, and, let's face it, geographic anonymity--these voices come from anywhere and nowhere. They tend to be "white" timbres, usually without much of an accent or any other cultural identifier. That sensibility has kept NPR growing for three decades. But in the studio off Crenshaw Boulevard where Smiley assembles his weekday NPR show, something else is growing: the volume. Smiley's gruff voice is distinctly black and outside the beltway it's definitely loud, and you can tell it's in the house, 'cause all the lights are on.
Thirty-seven years old, Smiley has a round face and is sensitive about his weight, which goes up and down; right now he's a little on the stocky side. In the adjoining room an engineer, a producer, and a radio consultant huddle as the show begins. There are suggestions coming over a speaker from Washington, D.C., where more staff are based. In a baseball cap and shorts, Smiley looks defiantly casual, but he feels it the same as everybody else present at the god-awful hour of 4 a.m.: There's a lot riding on his show.
Some 640 public radio stations broadcast in the country, and at the moment 27 have picked up The Tavis Smiley Show, making it a fledgling success but far from a certified triumph. "The educated population of African Americans and Hispanic Americans has grown, but that growth hasn't been reflected on the air," says Bill Davis, president of Southern California Public Radio, which oversees Pasadena station KPCC. "If The Tavis Smiley Show works, I think you'll begin to see public radio extending service out to audiences we just haven't serviced very well in the past. If it doesn't work, it's back to the drawing board."
This morning Smiley is interviewing two educators about problems black students face in the classroom, when suddenly he barks at one of them who generically invokes racist teachers. "I respectfully disagree--some of these Nee-grows are bad," says Smiley It's hard to tell which is the biggest shock, that somebody said "Negro" on usually calm-cool public radio, that he pronounced it like he was sucking his teeth, or that the person who said it sounds a lot more like the rapper DMX than Morning Edition anchor Bob Edwards. This is a black voice talking black in a way that has unmistakable resonance for anybody tuning in.
The Tavis Smiley Show began airing in January and is heard locally on KPCC weeknights at 8 p.m. The hour-long program features a mix of debate pegged to news of the day and conversation with African American news makers and commentators. Nowhere else are you going to hear academic Cornel West, attorney Connie Rice, and conservative University of California regent Ward Connerly--all regulars--on a single show. Routinely radio and television drafts one spokesperson to stand in for all black people. But the Smiley show casually eviscerates the notion of a monolithic consensus and exposes differences of opinion, starting with a host who takes "Nee-grows" to task.
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