Why does Boris Johnson command stupid money for public speaking? In February he reported a £2.5m advance; that seems awfully steep for 20 minutes of “Caecilius est in Peppa Pig World”. It’s a fair, indeed pressing, question posed by the Financial Times recently. I would happily pay a significant sum – all the money I spend on takeaways in a year, say, with the attendant sacrifice that involves for a reluctant cook – never to see or hear him again.
The journalist Janan Ganesh concluded that it’s partly Johnson’s voice: “Beautiful … deep and textured, raspy without crossing into sibilance”. I forced myself to listen to a little of it, and, OK, it’s deeper than I remembered, but he sounds slightly congested to me, like he needs to lay off the Daylesford cheese. I understand the point, however. It’s a voice redolent both of a more lighthearted, Wodehousian time and, if you’re truly deluded, the Churchillian doggedness to which he aspires.
Ganesh calls this ability to capitalise on the lucky accidents of birth, upbringing and presumably vocal cord formation “voice privilege”. Certainly, we make snap decisions based on voices, and they tend to be classist, racist and sexist. The Sutton Trust research on accents published last year indicated that nearly half of adults consulted (46%) had been singled out or mocked socially for their accent. African-Caribbean and Indian accents, plus Mancunian, scouse and Brummie were considered the least “prestigious”. Women are rated higher socially if they have deeper voices, while younger, more feminine forms of speech, such as vocal fry (rasping, drawn out word endings) and upspeak (making non-questions sound like questions), are met with widespread disapproval.
I suspect these prejudices are hard to dislodge, because what appeals to us vocally is primal: voices speak to us at a frequency impervious to reason. When I asked around, the number of people who chose actor Roger Allam as their favourite voice was frankly disturbing, suggesting the entire nation has kind, posh, slightly tired-sounding daddy issues. Meanwhile, I’m convinced the generation who grew up with Miriam Margolyes as the Cadbury Bunny has been sexually shaped by that.
I have plenty of prejudices myself: I can’t listen to audiobooks because too many of the readers have turned me violently against books I should enjoy. I find listening to Dylan Thomas or Louis MacNeice reading their own poetry – which I love – unnerving: they are jarringly posh. Any older Glaswegian woman’s voice appeals more than the most mellifluous actor or radio pro, because I’m instantly a child again when I hear those sounds.
Which voices would you pay good money to hear? Well, have you heard Iggy Pop speak recently? His meandering, gravelly mutter is so deep that most things he says are only audible to pigeons (they hear the lowest frequencies – I Googled it). He sounds poised and meditative, but rouse yourself from the ASMR reverie into which his voice casts you, and he’s probably talking about some historical incident involving fire, nudity, crack and a stolen alligator. It is deeply pleasing.
Scottish actor Bill Paterson is my Roger Allam: a wearily loving-sounding father figure (he’s Glaswegian; I have a type). Former BBC Radio 4 newsreader Charlotte Green radiates deep calm: she’s soft but clear and not so patrician it puts my back up: she could tell me the seas are burning and trees are weeping blood and I would take it with serene composure. Maya Angelou’s beautiful voice gives me goosepimples: it’s deep and sonorous and, given she experienced selective mutism as a child, an anxiety disorder characterised by an inability to speak in certain situations, making her lovely voice heard was a choice and an affirmation of her right to do so.
And the worst voice? My own, by a mile. Listening to recordings of interviews I’ve done, I’m confronted with my weird vocal tics: the lisp, wildly migrating accent and the awful tongue click I make when I’m nervous, like an agitated dolphin. I’d pay big bucks never to have to hear it again.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
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