All it takes is Taste, Panache, and a Sweetwater Budget
Scruffy. No Style At All.
General Zod mentioned those four words as a hostile intruder in the Man of Steel’s home-slash-giant-deformed-igloo. “Scruffy. How morbid! A sentimental replica of a planet long-since vanished.” That’s what he said, and it was somewhat deserved, because Supe-Baby had earlier trashed his control panel after he was superjonesing to sleep with his reporter lady-friend in an ahem, Fortress of Solitude. But have we not all wrecked our own control panels whilst pursuing reporter lady-friends? No? Just me then.
Up until The Last Son of Krypton went nutso berserk with hormones, his icy palace was, well…palatial. It was spacious, opulent, sprawling….the envy of any scarf-sporting real estate investor. Sure, it could have used a little spackling and some napalm to warm up the ambience a bit, but you generally cannot put ice and fire together and have unity. It is the same as tying two cats together by their tail: you can have union, but you will most certainly not have unity. I do not speak from experience and have not tried this. Please stop dialing the SPCA.
I promise there is a point here somewhere.
Ah yes! I have it. The point is that his palace was his. It was beautiful; it was decorated; he found his solace, his function, his identity in it. It was his sanctum.
It is the same with us as voice talent. Just without the ice. And a bit warmer. And with cables. And usually with no sexy reporter lady friends in there with us. Unless we need to keep warm. Like if our studio is also made of ice. And we are particularly lonely. And perhaps we are feeling super randy to boot.
I will see myself out.
Finding Our Happy Place
You can find a million images on the Interwebs where voiceover artists pin up things or make bird noises. On any given day, any single scroll on Facebook or other social media will return hordes of pictures of fellow artists in their studios, with lights, displays, acoustic treatment, and large cylindrical objects pointed threateningly at them. But the photos are rife with smiles from voice talent who have no fear. They are, after all, in their place of solace. Their place of identity. Their place of function. Their sanctum.
We do not have much fear of the outside world when we are in our studio. In a way, it is like being in vitro again. All we hear are muffled noises outside, we are nurtured, and we get to be naked. Admit it. You've recorded in the nude. Look for a blog on this later, written while naked.
I am going to employ a bit of contrast here, mostly because this is my blog and not yours. Stay with me. Think of a place that you have visited, that you would never want to go to again. For me, that is prison. KIDDING! The proctologist. ALSO KIDDING! A cemetery at night. I am not kidding. It was a silly stunt pulled by my friend Brandon and I when we were growing up in Riverbend, Washington. We were playing Truth or Dare, and some foolish idiot (him) dared another hapless dimwit (me, but also him too) to ride our bikes through the local graveyard at 1:30am. Just looking at the pictures in this link make me want to curl up into a fetal position and ask someone to help me find a happy place.
Allow me to take a moment to ask my young readers "Why are you so young?" Following this query, I would posit, "Why would you ever want to do such a thing?" Scary fireside ghost stories cannot do these experiences justice. Even the bravest prepubescent emerges on the other side of the cemetery needing new underwear. I do not know if the cemetery caretakers were feeling particularly mischievous that night, but there was dry-ice looking fog slowly creeping down the hillside. There was moonlight. There were strange noises coming up from the ground. There were strange noises coming from strange animals in strange trees. There were strange noises coming from me. Pretty sure I saw a Nazgul. I promise I am not making this up, and no, this blog was not ideally timed for strategic release in proximity to Halloween. We were literally riding through the Thriller video and pedaling for our lives.
Brandon will not willingly speak about that night because:
- We both needed new shorts, and
- Pretty sure Brandon is dead now. Unrelated to this incident. I think.
It is a memory that will forever lurk in my memory as a lurking memory.
In contrast to a cemetery, our recording studios are our special places where we are safe. Where we go to record and make money. Where I shut myself in and hope to God that the small creatures that my wife seems to call "our children" will leave me alone and go have fruit snacks or something.
Every picture of every voice talent in every studio that we see on the internet is different! We are all pursuing our passions and love what we do, whether we are sporting a:
- LA Vocal Booth
- VocalBooth To Go
- Pipe-and-drape PVC structure endorsed by Booth Junkie
- Walk-in closet
We give our all, whether we are projecting our pipes into a:
The lists go on! Most of us by now have stock in Sweetwater. But wherever you are recording from, and whatever is pointed at you, this is our pleasure and our passion, and we are all situated behind the mic bringing words to life and lifting them off the page, breathing humanity into them. We all share it! It is a rich privilege that no other career can touch.
Well, except for maybe a fiendish cemetery caretaker scaring the bejesus out of a frightened preteen boy who may or may not have squealed like a girl. Brandon did.
For you, enjoy your little home inside of your home. May you prosper in there. Enjoy it, wherever you are...make like Phil Collins and experience great passion in your stu-stu-studio. Take that, General Zod. I'm not scruffy; YOU'RE scruffy.
Now if you will excuse me, I must go work on my naked blog.
Used by permission from Craig_Steffan via Pixabay
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Seattle Voice Actor & Voiceover Artist for hire