I arrived at the recording of "A Jury of Her Peers" in May of 1995 as a newcomer to radio drama. Like most readers and writers of prose, I'd trained myself to conjure a world from words on a page. Now that I was beginning work with the Public Media Foundation, I needed to familiarize myself with the world of sound.

The Public Media Foundation records most of its plays at the audio studios of the Monitor Radio building in the heart of Boston. There, in the studio of our sound engineer, we assemble actors, director, playwright, producer, editor, and, of course, the production assistants whose job it is to help avert the many difficulties to which productions are prone.

To a newcomer, the most striking element of the radio studio is the control room. At the sound-board--a vast field of switches and dials reminiscent of something off a Star Trek set--the engineer works his magic. From our seats behind this rather intimidating display, the producer, editor, director, and writer look through a window into the studio, where actors assemble around microphones and production assistants prepare any necessary sound effects.

The glass separating control room from studio is soundproof; communication between the two rooms takes place via intercom and cue-lights (in order to avoid unnecessary voices on the tape, the director signals actors to begin a scene by flashing a light in the studio). When we are recording, lights go on in the hall to warn away anyone who might enter the studio and accidentally disturb recording. And when necessary, the director either gives instructions to actors and production assistants through an intercom, or else goes into the studio to work with them directly.

In the studio, which was twice the size of the cramped control room, several different microphones were set up. Each microphone, I was told, had its specific attributes prized by our sound engineer. A piano stood on one side of the room, and in the back of the studio was a small booth that the engineer and his assistants had constructed. This booth, known as the "dead-room," is vital for the recording of scenes that take place in the outdoors. (Indoors, our voices reverberate off walls. The peculiarly flat sound of the outdoors is simulated in a "dead room" by the heavy padding on the walls. When an actor stands in the enclosed space, her or his voice is absorbed by the padding and we hear the echo-less tones of a person speaking outdoors. Add the chirping of birds or some other pre-recorded sound effect, and the illusion is complete.)

The final piece of furnishing in the studio was The Door: a free-standing portal which could be hauled to any point in the studio and used for everything from the furious slam to the covert click. A closer look at The Door revealed that it was generously graffitied. I learned that it was signed by every actor and technician at the conclusion of each Public Media Foundation recording.

In came the actors. Perhaps most startling to me was their dress. Clad in anything from skirts to suits to sweatpants, they prepared to record a turn-of-the-century drama. American actors have few chances to perform radio-drama, and so there was an air of excitement to the production. Audio work offers unique opportunities; actors have the chance to play roles they might otherwise be denied due to age or physical type. The medium also poses unusual challenges. Actors accustomed to stage work must learn to think with their ears--they must remember to leave enough time between footsteps and the closing of a door, between the striking of a match and the exhaling of smoke from an imaginary cigarette. It sometimes takes the efforts of everyone assembled in the control room to catch problems that we don't notice when we are able to see the actors, but which would become apparent on audiotape. Our directors have been known to conduct recording sessions with their eyes covered. (continue)

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Photo L to R: Mark Wilson, Kristin Wold, Jim Nutter, Sound Engineer Jane Pipik