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Juana Summers
Each day on this podcast, we bring you the context behind the headlines, headlines about President Trump or foreign policy or what's playing out on America's streets. This story is smaller, more personal. It's about one person's search for a voice he thought he'd never hear again. But it moved us, so we wanted to share it. We'll bring it to you after the break. From npr, I'm Juana Summers.
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Juana Summers
It's Consider this from npr. This story starts with a movie, one that our film critic Bob Mondello just could not get out of his head. It sent him down a rabbit hole and we asked him to explain.
Bob Mondello
I suspect it's because I saw the period drama the History of Sound right around what would have been my dad's birthday that I clocked that it was partly set in 1919, the year of his birth. The movie's about two music students and Lionel, played by Josh o' Connor and Paul Meskal.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
What else do you want?
Bob Mondello
More than you, likely, who meet in a New England bar arguing over who knows the most obscure folk song.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
How about Silver Dagger?
Bob Mondello
No.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
That was such a pretty song. Oh, come on, let's hear it. I don't usually sing like this with everyone talking. Oh, excuse me. Quiet, please.
NPR Announcer
I'm sorry.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
I didn't mean that.
Bob Mondello
Now you have to sing so Lionel sings.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
Don't sing love songs. You wake my mother.
Bob Mondello
A spark is struck.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
She's sleeping here, right by my side.
Bob Mondello
They fall for each other, and after quite a bit of plot goes by, they head into the backwoods of Maine to record folk songs on what was state of the art recording equipment in 1919, wax cylinders, a metal cone and a diamond tipped stylus.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
Sound comes down this big horn here and shakes this needle, cuts a line in the wax. How does that catch the sound? Put your hand on your throat now, huh?
Bob Mondello
Let me take a quick history detour here because while we now take recordings for granted, the film's characters are astonished at the idea of preserving sound, which had only ever evaporated into the ether. And it's worth noting what a big deal it was. I thought Thomas Edison came up with the basics, but it was a Frenchman who first captured sound waves in the 1850s as lines scratched onto sheets of soot covered paper. He was studying sound the way scientists study earthquakes when they record vibrations on a seismograph. You don't use a seismograph to play the earthquake back, so he didn't either. We can do it now with digital technology. Turns out in 1860, he'd recorded someone singing Au Claire de la Luna, an 18th century French folk tune. It took almost two decades before Edison figured out how to record his voice on a strip of tinfoil so it could be played back. A discovery that would give eternal life to accents, inflections, the tiny specifics that make each voice unique. That was 1877. And while that first recording was destroyed when it was played later that same year, Edison re recorded what he'd said.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
I spoke in the original pornograph, a little piece of practical poetry.
Bob Mondello
Mary had a Little Lamb, it's fleet of Snow. Ever the visionary, Edison predicted his new invention would someday be used to reproduce music, preserve family memories and maybe combine with another then new invention, the telephone. By 1919, his company had graduated from recording on tinfoil to recording on wax cylinders. That was the year fictional movie characters Lionel and David took their song preserving trip to Maine and my dad was born. And as far as audio recordings, I thought that was where dad's story ended. Because although I have spent my entire adult life recording myself and other people, I never recorded him. I feel stupid about that now, but it wasn't really something people did before. Smartphones and the iPhone had only just been introduced when dad died in 2007. So the only audio I had of him was a message he'd left on my work phone. Turns out Edison was right about that. It was dad's 87 year old voice, diminished by Parkinson's, cracked, barely audible, just five words. Bobby, this is your father. Before I picked up and the system stopped recording. I used to play it back after he died so I could hear his voice again. Then NPR moved to a new building and changed phone systems and it was gone forever. So a scene in the History of Sound caught me up short. Hello, Lionel, and forgive me to fully explain why, I have to talk about the end of the film. So if you hate spoilers, maybe hum to yourself for the next minute or so. The movie's student researchers part unhappily at the end of their summer in Maine, and Lionel later learns that David has died. In his grief at losing the loved of his life, he tries to locate the wax cylinders they recorded, but he can't. For decades. And then when he's in his 80s, having spent his whole life as a musicologist chasing other people's voices, the wax cylinders turn up and he discovers that on one of them, 23 year old David recorded his own voice.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
I hope this finds its way to you.
Bob Mondello
It seems a gift.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
You've been very good to me, Lionel. Thank you for coming north. Sorry, I don't know what to say anymore.
Bob Mondello
So David sings to Lionel the song Lionel first sang to him.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
Don't sing love songs. You'll wake my mother.
Bob Mondello
As I was choking up, I couldn't help wishing that my dad's story had had a coda like that. Dad was a top government lawyer for much of his career, so for years I'd searched news archives, libraries, thinking there must be tape of him somewhere, but never found any. Recently I mentioned my search to a friend whose dad was also a lawyer, and she said, didn't you tell me he once presented a case at the Supreme Court? They started recording oral arguments back in the 1950s. A couple of hours later she'd found the recording beginning with the voice of.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
Chief Justice Earl Warren, number 65 Weyerhaeuser Steamship Co. Petitioner versus United States.
Bob Mondello
It was dated February 18, 1990, a few weeks before my 14th birthday. And suddenly memories from that morning came flooding back of dad getting dressed for court. He'd rented what he called a monkey suit, which usually means a tux, but this was formal morning dress required of government lawyers in the Supreme Court. Black cutaway coat with long rounded tail, dark gray striped trousers, gray vest, shirt with a high starched collar. I remember thinking he looked like he was going to the Ascot Races in My Fair Lady. Anyway, now I had a picture in my head, but I hadn't heard his voice in more than a decade. And that had been his 87 year old voice. This would be his 43 year old voice, the one he'd used to help me struggle through algebra homework and cheer me on at swim meets. I hadn't heard that in a full half century. The plaintiff's lawyer spoke first laying out the case for damages after a steamship collision and then 54 minutes in, Chief Justice Warren said, Mr. Mondello.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
May it please the court.
Bob Mondello
There was my dad.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
The issue in this case is whether the liability of the United States on the Federal Employees Compensation Act.
Bob Mondello
He didn't sound fragile or halting. He sounded young and assured with a touch of the Bronx I didn't remember from later. He has to have been nervous and he was clearly reading from notes. But he talked for 49 minutes, almost non stop, and then Justice Hugo Black paid him a compliment.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
Mondello I want to add to know that I think you made a good argument, although I've been trying to say that you have a number of difficulties in your way. It's, it's a difficult case.
Bob Mondello
This was a consolation prize. Dad was promoting a losing case. Two months later, the unanimous decision would go against the government, though I don't recall hearing about that at home. And if he knew he was losing at the time, I don't hear it in his voice.
Interviewer/Interlocutor
Never designed to interfere with the rights of third parties. You have literally said that.
Bob Mondello
In fairness, this was the voice he used when he could still answer, to my 13 year old satisfaction, at least any question put to him, why is the sky blue? How many angels fit on the head of a pin? I had missed that voice more than I knew, being able to hear him again, young him, a gift from Edison and that French guy and all the folks after them who perfected the recording process that's allowing me to talk to you right now.
Juana Summers
That was NPR film critic Bob Mondello. This episode was produced by Chloe Weiner and Connor Donovan with audio engineering by Damien Herring. It was edited by Claire Lombardo and Courtney Dorning. Our executive producer is Sammy Yenigun. Thanks to our CONSIDER THIS plus listeners who support the work of NPR journalists and help keep public radio strong. Supporters also hear every episode without messages from sponsors and unlock bonus episodes of Consider this. Learn more at plus.NPR.org. It's CONSIDER this from npr, I'm Juana Summers. This is Tonya Moseley, co host of Fresh air. You'll see your favorite actors, directors and comedians on late night TV shows or YouTube. But what you get with FRESH AIR is a deep dive. Spend some quality time with people like Billie Eilish Questlove, Ariana Grande, Stephen Colbert and so many more. We ask questions you won't hear asked anywhere else. Listen to the Fresh Air podcast from npr and whyy.
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Episode: The Sound of Dad
Air Date: February 6, 2026
Host: Juana Summers
Featured Contributor: Bob Mondello (NPR Film Critic)
This episode diverges from the usual major headlines to deliver a personal, reflective story. NPR’s film critic Bob Mondello embarks on a poignant journey to rediscover the voice of his late father—an exploration sparked by a period film about the power of recorded sound. Through the lens of technological history and a deeply personal quest, the episode meditates on memory, loss, and the persistent resonance of a loved one's voice.
[01:38 – 04:25]
"A discovery that would give eternal life to accents, inflections, the tiny specifics that make each voice unique."
— Bob Mondello [03:52]
[04:25 – 06:18]
"As I was choking up, I couldn't help wishing that my dad's story had had a coda like that."
— Bob Mondello [06:42]
[06:42 – 09:39]
"He didn't sound fragile or halting. He sounded young and assured with a touch of the Bronx I didn't remember from later."
— Bob Mondello [08:29]
"I had missed that voice more than I knew, being able to hear him again, young him, a gift from Edison and that French guy and all the folks after them who perfected the recording process that's allowing me to talk to you right now."
— Bob Mondello [09:11]
"So a scene in The History of Sound caught me up short…to fully explain why, I have to talk about the end of the film."
— Bob Mondello [06:04]
"It seems a gift."
— Interviewer (as David) [06:20]
"So David sings to Lionel the song Lionel first sang to him."
— Bob Mondello [06:32]
“There was my dad.”
— Bob Mondello [08:20]
“Mondello, I want to add to know that I think you made a good argument, although I've been trying to say that you have a number of difficulties in your way. It's, it's a difficult case.”
— Justice Black [08:44]
The episode’s tone is poignant, introspective, and quietly celebratory of both technological advancement and personal connection. Mondello’s narrative is conversational, sometimes self-deprecating (“I feel stupid about that now”), and imbued with gentle nostalgia and gratitude.
By weaving together the evolution of sound recording, a touching episode from his own life, and a moving scene from cinema, Bob Mondello’s story illustrates how the ability to preserve voices transcends mere technology. It becomes a vessel for memory, connection, and solace. The rediscovery of his father’s voice—in its youthful strength—serves as both a personal catharsis and a reminder of the priceless gifts made possible by those who first captured the sound of loved ones for posterity.