The Promo and the Tag

There is a great similarity between a promo actor, and a commercial actor. In both cases truth casting applies.

In the so-called old days, “promo guys” were all cut from the same cloth. Either the Ernie Anderson basso, or the Casey Kasem sweet, sweet, “California Crackle.” Both of these men, for many years, led the way. Combined, they arguably earned more money than any other two actors in the business, during the same time period.

What Casey and Ernie had in common was conviction. They both believed that they were the best salesmen in the world; one with sweetness, the other with outright arrogance.

Amazingly enough, both sweetness and arrogance translated into sincerity. Why? Because it was their truth.

In that era, from the late forties to the late sixties, there were literally only three major playgrounds for the commercial promo actor: ABC, NBC, and CBS. Of course, most cities had their own local channels, but those were not the fertile big money domains enjoyed by a network promo announcer.

Today, the promo producers use a wide variety of types. Men, women, kids, adults, younger, older, upbeat, sarcastic, sincere, loving, and scary. Well, you name it, and they’ll use it on air. The old days are obviously gone. For the actor… they weren’t the “Good Old Days.” It was nothing more than a limiting time for the vast majority, and a prosperous time for the very few that fell within the limited guidelines of what was then acceptable.

While we exist within a subjective art form, we must never the less strive for certainty whenever possible.

What do we know about the promo? What stands out, besides the great sums of money an actor might make for seemingly very little work?

The very nature of the promo demands that the actor selected must be an exceptionally good reader.

If it’s written in English, our actor should be able to read it with ease.

The actor must be able to handle last minute, and constant script changes.

This isn’t the place for a prima donna.

This is the place for the professional who by nature is confident, and comfortable with and within themselves.

The actor must be able to perform multiple attitude transitions under tight time constraints.

It pleases me to offer that many successful promo people are graduates of Kalmenson & Kalmenson.

Proponents of our method have praised the "lead-in" as their tool for quick study, when they find themselves in the throes of being handed a stack of twenty or thirty promos to deliver. As I said earlier: "This isn’t the place for an actor who keeps dropping words."

Like any program where the rewards are great, the work it takes to get there is in concurrence. For any outsider looking in, the determination of how simple it looks and sounds to be a promo actor announcer is a classic underestimate of the talent and perseverance required.

Having had many of today’s premier promo actors as both students and colleagues allows me to make an in-depth appraisal of what these guys who are making the big bucks have in common (well, maybe not so in-depth).

It almost always boils down to a few of the same human determinations actors must make for themselves. Of course, first and foremost for every active competitor is the question: “How badly do you want it?” In other words… are you willing to sacrifice your time, energy, money, while sharing the experience of frustration almost everyone before you living a similar adventure has had to live with?

There is a bright light, however. In the days of the earliest of promo actors, there were far less outlets for their work. Ernie Anderson and Casey Kasem had the basic three to ply their talents. With the advent of cable, and other networks as well, today’s marketplace for the promo actor has increased substantially.

◊ The closest thing to an actor is his or her website. Showcase your talent on your own website. Tell people what you do and give them a sample of your work.

◊ Multiple representations around the country, especially if you have your own home studio, are now commonplace.

◊ Today, an actor can electronically have many agents; New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago are absolute musts for the serious voice over promo talent.

◊ Web content companies, production companies, independent movie trailer companies, and of course every recording studio where the human voice is being recorded can serve as an outlet for your talent. Many actors are booked in as last minute replacements due to a variety of extenuating circumstances.

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The Tag

They called it a tag.

There were only a few words on the page.

And to add insult to injury, none of it made sense to me. I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was during my short-lived (seven year) career as a commercial talent agent.

The head of our voice over department had informed me in his raspy tones that today I was to direct some tags. Trust me... I had no idea of what a tag was. Guess what. My boss, the guy who had given me the assignment, really didn’t know what the technical definition of a tag was.

Simply stated, a tag is a word or line, that usually appears at the end of a commercial script, and that, that particular line does not change the meaning of a previous script that also contained, or was void of a tag. In other words when an actor does a tag they receive payment of the then established tag rate. An actor may be hired expressly for the sole and singular purpose of doing the tags on a series of commercials. The sponsor may tag as many commercials as he chooses to without having to pay for an additional session providing the tag does not change the meaning of any individual commercial. If the meaning is changed, they, the sponsor must pay you for an additional commercial. Now if none of this makes any sense to you it doesn’t really matter. Your agent is the one who is required to know about all this crap.

“It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature!”

“With a name like Smuckers, it’s has to be good!”

“Miller light. Everything you’ve always wanted in a beer and less!”

"Chevy. Like a rock!”

"Ford. No boundaries!”

And of course, the question: “Do you... Yahoo?”

Those are just six of the many tags that I could have mentioned. Each of them accomplished exactly what the sponsor’s ad agency was attempting to do. That is, become a household saying. Each of these tags comes from a different time period, yet all of them are remembered.

The average actor might say how lucky these people were to get a tag like that to perform. Certainly I would have to agree that a great deal of luck was involved.

In many cases, we may audition hundreds of actors for one single tag. We at Kalmenson might not be the only casting people in the country that are conducting a search for just that one individual who happens to be letter perfect. That one voice who could be the “Bud”, the “Wise”, or the “Err” that came out of the three most famous frogs in the world. As an aside and as a point of interest, we were the ones who found the Budweiser Frogs. But during the course of the last twenty-five years, we’ve been able to find many different voices and sounds that have become easily identified in households all over the country.

While we did mention luck on the part of the winning actors, there is nevertheless a great deal of skill and confidence that was also part of their winning formula.

Okay... here’s the basis for their magic: Entitlement. Da harv has had numerous professional experiences with the actors who were the chosen ones for all of the previously mentioned tags. They all have that belonging thing in common. They are all comfortable with themselves as people. They have all settled in. We can’t teach that. All I can do is point it out to all of you. These actors all believe that their individual truth gives them the right to influence our lives. That’s their breakthrough as actors.

They are able to look the other guy right in the eye and tell him the truth.

The Things my Mother Never Did, or Served Us

Can you imagine growing up without the benefit of having tasted peanut butter?

I was one of those guys who fell in love with the great American spread when I entered the United States Army at age nineteen.

It was one morning at breakfast when I first discovered the delight of the sticky, life-perserving substance.

There in the mess hall, in a huge "number ten can" (as they called it), was this marvelous substance, which became a life support system. Wherever I happened to be in the world, if there was a can or jar of peanut butter, I knew da harv was safe from possible starvation.

But aside from the great ability peanut butter had to provide the sustenance for life needed to make it in a combat area, there was also the trading value on the black market, which for a time was beyond belief. I can remember seeing those number ten cans being used as containers after they were empty. A tin or aluminum can was a valuable tool to a homemaker when there weren’t any “Crate & Barrels” or “Williams-Sonoma” stores in the neighborhood.

Some of the less reputable cooks in the service were making sizeable sums of money trading anything extra they had in their mess halls at the end of the day. As an example, a number ten can of peanut butter often brought in as much as fifty dollars on the black market.

Amongst the United Nation troops, the Americans, The Filipinos, and the Brits were the most familiar with peanut butter as a staple in their weekly diet.

Since peanut butter was originally patented circa 1890-1903, immigrants coming to the United States in that era from the European Eastern Bloc countries had no idea of what it was. Maybe that would explain why as a young kid I had never tasted it. With a dad from Russia, and a mom from Romania, one might understand why my mother never served it.

And then there was the artichoke. My mother not only never served one up, I doubt if she had ever even seen one as she was growing up. Well, this one I can’t blame on my mother being an immigrant. It turns out only four out of every seven people over the age of thirteen has ever eaten an artichoke. All seven know it is green in color, it should be eaten preferably warm or hot, and at a reasonably slow pace. Since it’s not a particularly filling course, it falls into one of the more expensive food sources. Artichokes are preferred more by women than men. Children would much rather have a hotdog or a peanut butter sandwich.

(The preceding information was gathered from my own office staff of seven, and should not be considered as an exact science, unless you’re soft in the head.)

There were many more things my mom refused to include in her culinary repertoire. My mom never gave in to looking at a recipe. If she couldn’t memorize the ingredients, or if the meal required too many ingredients, then you had better forget about it. Measuring cups were not things she believed in. It was always a handful of this or a pinch of that; and I guess that would have to be the main reason she was in the “Guinness World Book Of Records”, holding the title of "The World’s Most Inconsistent Cook" (The Guinness part is a fabrication, in order to make my story more endearing).

The inconsistency drove the family to tears, caused by the laughter from behind-her-back-remarks about her cooking.

On one occasion, the family was celebrating the return from service of a young uncle of mine, from my father's side of the family. They were the Russians with the heavy duty say-or-do-whatever-you-like sense of humor. On that night, my mother was making my favorite: Spaghetti and meatballs. My uncle Nat, the returnee, was seated near the head of the table next to my dad. Everything was very festive. The place looked and smelled good. About thirty family members gathered around the table as my mother, assisted by three or four of my young cousins, began bringing in the large platters of salads, meatballs and spaghetti, and all kinds of Italian rolls.

Note: I was eight years of age at the time.

Of further note was the fact no one from my mother's side of the family was in attendance. I can’t ever remember them socializing at any event other than a wedding or a Bah Mitzvah. Oil and water would be a good description.

All was going well as the salad began to disappear. Then I wondered why the room began to get quite as the plates of meatballs and spaghetti were started on. Around the room, the relatives began looking at each other in disbelief. It was then my mother came in from the kitchen to see how everyone was doing. The aunts and uncles tried not to show any radical expressions, up until a couple of them began to giggle. In no time at all it turned into raucous laughter. My mother, displaying one of her ominous getting-ready-to-explode look, shouted out, “Okay, somebody want to tell me what’s so funny?” My uncle Nat, trying to head off the problem, decided on his own form of humor. He picked up a couple of meatballs, one in each hand and proceeded to tell the group: “These things are like rubber balls. I bet they can bounce.” With that, he attempted to bounce one on the dinning room floor. While they were kind of tough, they were still unable to bounce. And then he tossed the other meatball to my dad at the head of the table. My dad reached up and with a display of perfect timing caught the meatball and placed it neatly back on the original serving platter. It was quite a spectacle. Everyone at the table began replacing their uneaten meatballs. My uncle Nat stood up, wine glass in hand, and proposed a toast to my mom. “Here’s to Lill,” he said. "She made the best spaghetti I’ve ever had in my life.” Without exception, all stood and congratulated her. I have no idea what happened to the meatballs. I can’t recall my mother ever serving them to a group again.

Today, let it be known, I still list spaghetti and meatballs at the top of my favorites list, even if the balls are made from turkey. I go for what I call the old-fashioned spaghetti. I don’t like the crazy, disguised girly kind. And meat sauce should look like how meat sauce should look; tomato color is the only acceptable color.

Artichokes have also become a disturbingly appealing form of da harv's sustenance. In the beginning, I was gripped with a most painful forbearance at the very sight of this green misshapen vegetable form. How or why anyone would order an artichoke was beyond me. The name itself makes me think of a person struggling to breathe.

Then one day, because I wasn’t asked what I felt like eating for dinner, there before me, a very large junior form of palm tree was placed proudly on our dinner table for all to see. Lo and behold, I was the recipient of my very own man-sized artichoke. This gentleman was trapped. I hesitated for a moment as I watched our two guests and my wife dive in with reckless abandon. I immediately discovered that artichoke enthusiasts have a great deal in common. Most eat as if they were raised by a barbarian cult, following the edict of eating as fast as you can because some enemy may take your food away from you.

The other obvious characteristic is their lack of feeling in their fingertips. While I had trouble peeling off the leaves from the main body of the choke (as I affectionately called it) these people, my wife included, without any thoughts of burning palates and no longer having discernable fingerprints, proceed to tear into these butter drenched, malformed, distorted, asymmetrical, and obviously selectively addictive gourmandizing delight of the above-the-crust normalcy, allowable to a privileged few.

And all of what I’ve said, now having been said, I would like to say… I have grown to love my wife’s artichokes. I admit without any real consequence or peril of misunderstanding… hers are the best artichokes known to man (actually, to this man).

Kaplan, Solovey, O’Shea, and of course the Pulchritudinous Mrs. Glassberg

Not a sports team; they influenced my life, although I can’t attest to whether or not they did so on purpose. They could be anybody, but today they belong to me. They were my teachers at Public School 233, from the second through the fifth grade. In retrospect, I don’t think they cared for me. (Actually, I’m positive they didn’t like me.)

I remember many more, but these are the ones I choose to share with you, because these are the teachers who, each in their own way, managed to carve their permanence into my life.

All of them are deceased, so I have no qualms about what I will or won’t say. All I guarantee is I won’t embellish on the truth. I don’t have to.

It was Brooklyn, New York, and the Second World War was ablaze. The only men around in those days were a little too young or old for the draft, and those who were classified as 4F (physically unfit).

At the time there was a very popular song, which lamented the fact, "They're Either Too Young or Too Old.” A gal who had no one to date usually sang it. It simply meant: Guys too young or too old for the army were left out of the military service.

Mrs. Kaplan’s pet class was called “Choral Reading.” She had a severe affection for herself. “Lady Kaplan," as I labeled her, stood all of four foot eleven inches tall, but never the less to us little kids she came across as an imposing figure of a woman. “Mirror, Mirror on the wall who’s the most beautiful teacher of them all,” was perfect for her. Mrs. Kaplan never passed a mirror she judged unsuitable to admire herself in. Mrs. Kaplan seemed to be in a constant pose. Her class consisted of having us (third grade) kids memorize the same poem. She, of course, picked the material. Our input wasn’t remotely an option. This didn’t go down well for little da harv. When I submitted an original piece for the class to read, I got a flat turn down without her even giving me the courtesy of reading it. We would then rehearse it as if we were a concert orchestra, and present a performance to the student body. Of course, Mrs. Kaplan was our conductor. After we were all assembled on stage, she would be introduced by the school principle, to a very organized student body response. She was indeed a Brooklyn diva. I do believe I still have a couple of her mannerisms as I direct today’s actors.

One day before class began, I decided to try out my skills on the class before Mrs. Kaplan made her entry. I didn’t realize she was there behind me. As I called the class to attention while emulating the Kaplan baton technique, it suddenly became deathly still. I turned to see Lady Kaplan standing there in a complete over-reactionary mode. She dabbed at a supposed tear as she informed me of how deeply hurt and embarrassed I made her feel. I relay this information about Mrs. Kaplan because it was my first exposure to a serious actress. She had me going. I knew this was going to be my final fling as a school humorist; instead it was a first-hand experience with a real honest-to-goodness actress. It was also my first exposure to a woman who couldn’t turn off. Mrs. Kaplan was always in a portrayal of someone or other. Lucky for me, our school principal had long since become aware of the Kaplan over-reaction-to-everything approach.

During the same year, I went from Kaplan, to O’Shea; from drama queen, to the schoolmistress of music.

O’Shea had her own sadistic little sense of humor. She got off on making the parents upset with her. It wasn’t the era of the broad-minded parent.

At first my mother and father were pleased to hear about how accomplished our school music teacher was and how we were all going to learn harmony.

I doubt seriously if Miss O’Shea cared for any of the parents. I think she resented having to deal with any of them, especially at the Parent Teachers Association meetings. What O’Shea did was pretend to listen to the parents and then do her own thing. Her favorite songs were hymns, of any kind, and "Negro Spirituals." The first time my dad questioned what we had learned that day, he immediately thought my answer was very funny. My mother, on the other hand, didn’t care for her little Harvey learning “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny," "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," "Abide With Me," and "Onward Christian Soldiers,” as our earliest musical assignments. To this day, I still remember most of the words. I have to hand it to O’Shea -- I mean, P.S. 233 was ninety percent Jewish kids. She must have been laughing her ass off every time an eastern European Jewish immigrant parent was subjected to "Onward Christian Soldiers." I still smile every time I think about it. As a matter of fact, I’m smiling right now as I recall those marvelous images from my past.

Not all of my recollections provide a tickle. Mr. Solovey was a returned war hero. He was a decorated veteran who had two ships sunk under him. He definitely displayed shakiness attributable to combat exposure.

We learned discipline from him, and how to conduct ourselves as professionals. Solovey was a basic mathematics teacher. When he gave a student a work assignment, he expected it to be done. We all learned right away, there would be no forgiveness. If a kid didn’t do what was asked of him, Solovey gave them a fail for the assignment. He’d say, “If any one of you doesn’t do their part, the whole team suffers. Ships are lost when a single sailor doesn’t do his required assignment.” I remembered he would get this gray look on his face whenever he spoke of a sailor not doing his duty correctly. Rumor had it he never could forget his loss of comrades.

It was during my third grade that I had as a teacher the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. When Mrs. Glassberg spoke, I listened. I was married to her every move. She didn’t look like my mother, or any other of my relatives. Mrs. Glassberg was a movie star. How she walked and talked made a lasting impression on every kid in the class. The girls would emulate how she walked and talked and the boys seemingly overnight developed unbelievably good manners.

Kaplan, Solovey, O’Shea, and Glassberg, without knowing it, cast a lasting influence on a third grader's future. Kaplans’ drama, O’Sheas whimsy, Soloveys’ professionalism, and Mrs.Glassberg putting on display what a woman should be. Some might say it was my first class in “Woman Appreciation.” Yes. Some might say that.