A Friend Named Angell

Can I tell you what a blessing it is to have a friend like Dave Angell? And before you think I’m being cute about his last name—no, it’s not a radio gimmick.

It’s the real deal. Angell.

The first time I heard Dave’s voice float out of a speaker, it was sometime around 1970 or ’71 on KPOD in Crescent City. He had just come home from serving in South Korea, fresh out of the Army, and slid right behind a microphone as if he had been born there. He had that smoothness that made you believe in radio again, the kind of sound that could convince you a foggy morning was something to look forward to.

Fast forward half a century. These days, Dave lives in Washington state, which is already proof that the man is living right. The other evening, I asked him if he had any of his old “airchecks”—those scoped tape recordings radio folks used to make to prove they weren’t just babbling into the void. He said he’d have to dig around and see.

The next day, I got a message from him. Not with a dusty old tape, but with an offer, “Hey, how about I cut you a few one-line promos for your show?”

Now, let me tell you—after nearly fifty years in this racket, I’ve never had anyone do that for me. Never.

Not one personalized intro, not a single “Ladies and gentlemen, here’s Tom Darby!” Nothing.

Just me, a microphone, and the faint hope that someone was listening between their toast and coffee. So when Dave offered, I said yes faster than a hungry kid grabbing the last donut hole.

The following day, eleven—count ’em, eleven—fresh, professional promos from Dave Angel land in my lap. And friends, he didn’t just do them.

He delivered. They are sharp, funny, smooth, and just the right mix of polish and warmth.

Now, I don’t mind telling you: the elder statesman that I am, I suddenly felt like a little boy on Christmas morning. There I was, sitting at my desk, grinning like a fool, playing them over and over again.

“This is Tom Darby, and you’re listening to…” click, rewind, play again. Each time, it was like hearing my name sung by a brass band with just a touch of swing.

Silly? Sure. But you know what? Joy doesn’t need a permission slip. Sometimes it sneaks up on you, carried in the voice of an old friend.

It got me thinking about how rare it is to find people who not only remember you but also go out of their way to add a little shine to your day. Dave didn’t have to do that.

He could’ve sat outside looking up at the trees, watching the the clouds, sipping something cold. Instead, he gave me a gift I didn’t even know I’d been missing all these years: the feeling that what I do matters enough to deserve an introduction.

And maybe that’s the whole point. We spend so much of our lives trying to sound important, trying to prove our worth, when sometimes all it takes is a friend with the right words at the right time to remind us we already are.

So yes, it’s a blessing to have a friend named Dave Angell. Not because of the last name, though it’s fitting. But because he’s proof that kindness never goes out of style, that generosity is louder than ego, and that sometimes the simplest gesture—like saying your name with care—can make you feel ten feet tall.

If you’ve got a friend like that, hang on tight, and if you don’t, keep your ears open. You never know when an Angell might be on the air.