Frank Evans had a voice made for the hi-fi

He was in our Costa Mesa living room early evenings, Mondays through Fridays.

He was as ubiquitous as the delicious aromas regularly wafting from my mom’s kitchen.

He shared dinners with us, except when mom would needle dad with, “Can we have some quiet tonight?”

He was literally a member of our family in the late 1950s and early ‘60s.

He was Frank Evans, and my dad loved the guy. I fell for him too, but for different reasons.

He resided in the speakers of dad’s expensive hi-fi. Stereo sound was yet to be introduced to the marketplace. So we listened to music cranked up on dad’s classy high-fidelity equipment. It was the most expensive piece of furniture in our house.

My dad was a huge jazz fan (he also loved classical music), and Evans hosted a daily show, cleverly titled “Frankly Jazz,” on KRHM-FM in Los Angeles. Every night around dinnertime dad would turn on our living room hi-fi. We’d listen to Shorty Rodgers and Dave Brubeck and Oscar Peterson and Miles Davis.

But, mostly, I’d listen to Frank Evans.

I loved him, not for the jazz, but for his rich pipes. He had the best voice in radio. The best! There wasn’t even a close second. Evans’ deep, mellifluous tones could order universes into existence. The rolling thunder from his larynx matched the canons along Cemetery Ridge, and the movement of tectonic plates.

He concluded every broadcast with the ultra-smooth, “Later.”

Evans’ sonorous tones would ooze from my dad’s speakers like thick molasses pouring onto a stack of warm buckwheat cakes. I envied him for his testosterone-bathed tonsils. He had the perfect sound for FM radio. Deep and rich!

I liked to lie in front of the speakers and feel his rapturous rumble. He was a human B-52 — announcing’s version of Ezio Pinza.

His voice was so resonant it set to vibrating mom’s antique plates in her curio. He made Vin Scully –- my favorite broadcaster of all time -– sound like a boy soprano.

I liked to be absolutely quiet and listen to Evans. On rare occasion I’d detect the slightest croak or swallow — he was human! — but not often. Never were there audible clearings of the throat or the coughing up of phlegm. His magnificent vocal instrument was worth way too much for that type of abuse!

Lloyds of London almost certainly insured it.

I imagined when Evans was not on the air that he must be at a Euro spa — Bad Vibe? — inhaling menthol-scented steam and observing long stretches of silence — like a melancholy Caruso — coddling his treasure. He no doubt gargled several times daily in a concoction of melted Chloraseptic Lozenges, Jack Daniels and lemon extract.

My goal at that time was to become a radio announcer. My folks bought me a tape recorder when I was 14. I practiced my best “Ted Baxter” impersonations for hours on end.

I attempted to develop Vin’s silken style, and Frank’s basso profundo.

The fact is my voice developed an ego. It grew overly self-conscious.

I had a decent voice, but I could never match Evans’ golden pitch. Had I been guaranteed such a register by screaming into the Grand Canyon for an entire weekend, I swear I would have done so.

But I’d probably have ended up sounding shrill and screechy.

I didn’t make it into radio. I let someone else’s magnificence intimidate me. Next to Evans, I felt I sounded like Arnold Stang. I decided on a different career path.

But, I never forgot Frank Evans, and I never completely abandoned my love for radio. I was an Orange Coast College administrator for 37 years. I volunteered my services as Coast’s football public address announcer for 21 seasons. I was basketball announcer for 15. I was no Frank Evans, but I was satisfactory

Evans died in 1973 at the age of 56. He’d been a heavy smoker, his obituary said.

Guess those pipes weren’t as pristine as I thought.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.