"Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" Hemant began, straining every nerve and sinew, packing in as much emotion as he could muster. It was after all, the finals of the High School Elocution Competition. He bristled with enthusiasm. "Lend me your...." and just at that opportune moment, the microphone gave way. The speakers fell silent. Hemant looked confused and glanced hither and thither on stage, unable to decide whether to continue or stop his spiel. The audience broke into chatter.
The organisers got their act together, quickly adjusted the microphone and Hemant was given the go-ahead.
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" Hemant's voice boomed once more, "lend me your ears, I come to bury...." and the microphone stopped. The speakers were not silent this time- that was the only improvement. They let out a continuous, dull, monotonous drone. This time, Hemant was clearly unnerved. He twitched and fidgeted on stage.
The microphone was given a tug, the wires were pulled and the speakers moved till the acoustics sprang to life. "Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" Hemant began tentatively. Gone was the earlier ring in his voice- he fumbled over the words as a convict would at the gallows! It was as if he expected trouble at the next bend...and sure enough he invited it. Before someone could lend him a ear, the acoustics fell apart. The boys simply loved it- they broke into laughter and jeered at the speaker with their palms around their mouths..each one doing imitation cat-calls of "Friends, Romans, Countrymen" in uniquely original ways!!
Sure enough, Hemant's future was sealed. He would do other things, but would never be a speaker again.
The only incident which would upstage the above episode was the Dance Competition at Roorkee. The bharatanaatyam dancer gracefully pirouetted on stage to the tunes of the pushpaanjali- "thath-tho-dakataam"...and just when she stuck the most statuesque pose, the microphone fell silent. The dancer froze, maintaining the posture.. for 5 seconds..for 10, for 30 seconds...for a painful minute...waiting..waiting for the music to resume. It just wouldn't! The audience sprang to life and was in splits! Eventually, the dancer gave up, resigned herself to her fate and slunk away from the stage... only for the music to suddenly resume and throw her off completely!! Microphones can make or mar your life!
"Microphone" is too scientific a word. We know it simply as "mike". Mikes are like your four-year old. Normally, they behave in predictable ways, but off and on, just when the guests are at home, they lie down on the floor, kick their hands and legs and throw a sudden tantrum. You have no choice. You have to humour them.
As we wait with bated breath for the start of a program, there is always that officious gentleman who has the onerous task of testing all the mikes. He walks over to the dais, looking all important- "hello! check"... "check"..."mike check", "mike check 1-2-3"..."check"..."check" his voice echoes across the auditorium, mixed with the sound of heavy breathing that the audio system also picks up. He signals to someone on the other side to raise the treble or lower the bass... and continues... "check"..."check".."check".
Sometimes, it looks as if the job of a mike tester is given to someone who is incapable of speaking any other word. His vocabulary is limited to "check" and "1-2-3". The repetition mildly irritates the elderly person sitting behind me, "Instead of saying 'check', 'check' all the time and boring us... can't he at least chant the Lord's name...'Krishna-Rama-Govinda'!? He will earn some punya that way. He would have got moksha by now.. I say!!"
To contest this accusation of a limited vocabulary, the mike tester sometimes picks someone on the last row and questions, "Sir...do you hear me over there? Do you hear me?" Invariably, the gentleman on the last row responds with a "yes" in a voice loud enough for the person next to him to question... "what did you say?". It confuses the mike tester and he wants the volume cranked up some more. "Sir, do you hear him now...?" he questions..with the entire hall reverberating. This exercise has always been a futile one- each one depending on the other to be heard. It is a problem of mutual dependence... anyonya aashraya....which can never be solved, unless they distribute mikes to everyone on the last row in advance!
Sir Patel, our drill teacher at Bosco had an effective technique. "Sridhar, you monkey! Sit down! David... donkey! Neeche baith!" he shouted from the dais as he tested the mikes out. If Sridhar sat down, Sir Patel knew that the mikes worked. As simple as that.
Musicians and mikes share a love-hate relationship. The vocalist is forever dissatisfied with the acoustics- either there is a feedback from the audio system and he doesn't like to hear his own voice, or there is no feedback and hence he does not know what he is singing!!
Violinists nurse a secret grudge that the vocalist keeps his own audio levels high and thereby drowns the sounds of the violin. They hate to be short-changed this way and are animated through out the concert- with hand signals that they want the audio level of the violin raised. No amount of volume pleases the violinist. The acoustics operator is clearly irked. The audience doesn't like it either. We wish we could educate the violinist- "Dude, if you increase the volume anymore, you will need to distribute ear-plugs and headache tablets at the start of the concert!!"
To prove his point, the operator suddenly raises the volume to the maximum... so that the audio system groans and shrieks and squeals... and brings the recital to an abrupt halt. Sanity returns.. and audio levels are restored to the original levels. The audio operator has the last laugh!
Mikes have to be adjusted to the correct height. Stage fright often strangles the upstart so that he begins his speech or song immediately without checking this vital point. It is only after the first line that he suddenly realises that the mike is too low. Evidently, the participant before him was a kid and he is a six-footer. He is distracted now and looks silly- having to bend at his knees and stick his neck out just to align his face to the mouth piece!
Or the mike is too high... and he spends the entire duration on stage on tip toes! The most complicated situation is the one where the mike has not been clamped tightly...and even as the participant is singing.. it slides down slowly... making the participant also do a similar jig.
These days, there are some select auditoriums which pride themselves as "no acoustic equipment zones". We are made to believe that music or theatre is best enjoyed this way. We are not entirely sure how effective these experiments are. The sounds are too mild for our liking. Someone in the audience always wants to cough or sneeze or clear his throat and those sounds compete with the artiste's. Also, we come out of these performances with an added complex- that perhaps, with increasing years, we are not hearing as well... or may be, we need to visit the ENT specialist to drain some ear-wax out!! We prefer our concerts with mikes.
"In those days, there were no mikes. We didn't need them", my father began his favourite topic. I knew the next few sentences which would follow verbatim. "You look at the naadaswaram. Does it need a mike? You can hear it 10 furlongs away! You should have heard SG Kittappa. What a stentorian full-throated voice he had! He could span 4 octaves and beyond- the keertana "evarani" was his favourite. Look at the singers these days...they look so puny and have no voice-power. No wonder, they need a mike... and so close to their mouths. One of these days, somebody is going to accidentally swallow it.. I say!!!" he trails away.
The organisers got their act together, quickly adjusted the microphone and Hemant was given the go-ahead.
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" Hemant's voice boomed once more, "lend me your ears, I come to bury...." and the microphone stopped. The speakers were not silent this time- that was the only improvement. They let out a continuous, dull, monotonous drone. This time, Hemant was clearly unnerved. He twitched and fidgeted on stage.
The microphone was given a tug, the wires were pulled and the speakers moved till the acoustics sprang to life. "Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" Hemant began tentatively. Gone was the earlier ring in his voice- he fumbled over the words as a convict would at the gallows! It was as if he expected trouble at the next bend...and sure enough he invited it. Before someone could lend him a ear, the acoustics fell apart. The boys simply loved it- they broke into laughter and jeered at the speaker with their palms around their mouths..each one doing imitation cat-calls of "Friends, Romans, Countrymen" in uniquely original ways!!
Sure enough, Hemant's future was sealed. He would do other things, but would never be a speaker again.
The only incident which would upstage the above episode was the Dance Competition at Roorkee. The bharatanaatyam dancer gracefully pirouetted on stage to the tunes of the pushpaanjali- "thath-tho-dakataam"...and just when she stuck the most statuesque pose, the microphone fell silent. The dancer froze, maintaining the posture.. for 5 seconds..for 10, for 30 seconds...for a painful minute...waiting..waiting for the music to resume. It just wouldn't! The audience sprang to life and was in splits! Eventually, the dancer gave up, resigned herself to her fate and slunk away from the stage... only for the music to suddenly resume and throw her off completely!! Microphones can make or mar your life!
"Microphone" is too scientific a word. We know it simply as "mike". Mikes are like your four-year old. Normally, they behave in predictable ways, but off and on, just when the guests are at home, they lie down on the floor, kick their hands and legs and throw a sudden tantrum. You have no choice. You have to humour them.
As we wait with bated breath for the start of a program, there is always that officious gentleman who has the onerous task of testing all the mikes. He walks over to the dais, looking all important- "hello! check"... "check"..."mike check", "mike check 1-2-3"..."check"..."check" his voice echoes across the auditorium, mixed with the sound of heavy breathing that the audio system also picks up. He signals to someone on the other side to raise the treble or lower the bass... and continues... "check"..."check".."check".
Sometimes, it looks as if the job of a mike tester is given to someone who is incapable of speaking any other word. His vocabulary is limited to "check" and "1-2-3". The repetition mildly irritates the elderly person sitting behind me, "Instead of saying 'check', 'check' all the time and boring us... can't he at least chant the Lord's name...'Krishna-Rama-Govinda'!? He will earn some punya that way. He would have got moksha by now.. I say!!"
To contest this accusation of a limited vocabulary, the mike tester sometimes picks someone on the last row and questions, "Sir...do you hear me over there? Do you hear me?" Invariably, the gentleman on the last row responds with a "yes" in a voice loud enough for the person next to him to question... "what did you say?". It confuses the mike tester and he wants the volume cranked up some more. "Sir, do you hear him now...?" he questions..with the entire hall reverberating. This exercise has always been a futile one- each one depending on the other to be heard. It is a problem of mutual dependence... anyonya aashraya....which can never be solved, unless they distribute mikes to everyone on the last row in advance!
Sir Patel, our drill teacher at Bosco had an effective technique. "Sridhar, you monkey! Sit down! David... donkey! Neeche baith!" he shouted from the dais as he tested the mikes out. If Sridhar sat down, Sir Patel knew that the mikes worked. As simple as that.
Musicians and mikes share a love-hate relationship. The vocalist is forever dissatisfied with the acoustics- either there is a feedback from the audio system and he doesn't like to hear his own voice, or there is no feedback and hence he does not know what he is singing!!
Violinists nurse a secret grudge that the vocalist keeps his own audio levels high and thereby drowns the sounds of the violin. They hate to be short-changed this way and are animated through out the concert- with hand signals that they want the audio level of the violin raised. No amount of volume pleases the violinist. The acoustics operator is clearly irked. The audience doesn't like it either. We wish we could educate the violinist- "Dude, if you increase the volume anymore, you will need to distribute ear-plugs and headache tablets at the start of the concert!!"
To prove his point, the operator suddenly raises the volume to the maximum... so that the audio system groans and shrieks and squeals... and brings the recital to an abrupt halt. Sanity returns.. and audio levels are restored to the original levels. The audio operator has the last laugh!
Mikes have to be adjusted to the correct height. Stage fright often strangles the upstart so that he begins his speech or song immediately without checking this vital point. It is only after the first line that he suddenly realises that the mike is too low. Evidently, the participant before him was a kid and he is a six-footer. He is distracted now and looks silly- having to bend at his knees and stick his neck out just to align his face to the mouth piece!
Or the mike is too high... and he spends the entire duration on stage on tip toes! The most complicated situation is the one where the mike has not been clamped tightly...and even as the participant is singing.. it slides down slowly... making the participant also do a similar jig.
These days, there are some select auditoriums which pride themselves as "no acoustic equipment zones". We are made to believe that music or theatre is best enjoyed this way. We are not entirely sure how effective these experiments are. The sounds are too mild for our liking. Someone in the audience always wants to cough or sneeze or clear his throat and those sounds compete with the artiste's. Also, we come out of these performances with an added complex- that perhaps, with increasing years, we are not hearing as well... or may be, we need to visit the ENT specialist to drain some ear-wax out!! We prefer our concerts with mikes.
"In those days, there were no mikes. We didn't need them", my father began his favourite topic. I knew the next few sentences which would follow verbatim. "You look at the naadaswaram. Does it need a mike? You can hear it 10 furlongs away! You should have heard SG Kittappa. What a stentorian full-throated voice he had! He could span 4 octaves and beyond- the keertana "evarani" was his favourite. Look at the singers these days...they look so puny and have no voice-power. No wonder, they need a mike... and so close to their mouths. One of these days, somebody is going to accidentally swallow it.. I say!!!" he trails away.
