The frying of a nation:

Why we’re all starting to sound the same - and seem to be mistaking it for sophistication

“You sound like a broken accordion choking on a Kardashian.”

Loudermilk, Season 2, Episode 1 🎥 Watch the scene here

The older I get, the grumpier, and, I’ll admit, the more irritated I’ve become by people’s behaviours.

Enter Old Man Chal:

Old Man Chal - a nickname a buddy coined for me after one too many rants about the state of modern conversation. A nickname that’s stuck. And honestly? I’ve decided to go with it.

Because there are things that genuinely both irritate and amuse me in equal measure. I can’t decide whether to roll my eyes or laugh out loud. I am talking about people so hilarious that I can’t take them seriously.

One of my latest irritations is the way so many people now talk. Or, more precisely, how they talk - as if their vocal cords have become the latest designer accessory.

The great Australian fry-up

You’ve all heard it. That drawn-out, creaky, low-end tone that crawls out of the throat like an old esky lid being opened too slowly.

It’s called vocal fry, and it’s spreading faster than a limited-edition Stanley cup at a Bondi Beach influencer lunch.

You can hear it at rooftop bars, in podcast intros, in café queues at Paramount House, and halfway through influencer collaborations that nobody asked for.

It’s the new social accent - part influencer, part entrepreneur, part “I-only-drink-natural-wine.”

It’s the sound of people trying to talk themselves into being interesting, or worse -  important.

The accent of aspiration

Somewhere between brunches in Surry Hills and Balenciaga knock-offs, “sounding sophisticated” in Australia got tangled up with “sounding strained.”

What started as rebellion - a soft rejection of the perky, over-enunciated “customer service voice” - has morphed into something just as fake.

The fry has become the new uptalk, the audio version of an Aperol Spritz: everywhere, photogenic, but kind of empty once you think about it.

And it’s not just the sound - it’s the energy. That low, dragging drawl that says “I’m not trying too hard,” while clearly trying very, very hard indeed.

We’ve confused artifice for elegance.

The fry is no longer a fluke - it’s a status symbol, a way to say “I’m above the chatter” whilst still being front and centre in the noise.

A nation of posh pretenders

Only in Australia could class performance become a national sport.

We love to think we’re egalitarian - that everyone’s on the same level - yet we obsess over the subtlest signals of status: the car, the postcode, the oat milk, the pronunciation of “schedule.”

Now add to that list - the voice.

The vocal fry is the aural equivalent of a Loewe bag: sounds exclusive, looks effortless, but is mass-produced. A sound that says, “I’ve been to Europe,” even if the only stamp or visa in your passport is from Bali.

It’s the tone of brunch-table philosophers, brand strategists, “conscious creatives,” and softly spoken podcast hosts who whisper that their next guest is “changing the game.”

Loudermilk wasn’t wrong

In Loudermilk, the title character - a professional grump with frighteningly good instincts - listens to someone speaking in full fry and cracks:

“You sound like a broken accordion choking on a Kardashian.”

It’s funny because it’s true.

That over-curated rasp has become the background hum of a culture that’s lost its natural pitch.

It’s the sound of people trying to seem like they’ve arrived - without ever really going anywhere.

We’ve turned our voices into outfits.

Pose, not presence darlings.

The death of the natural voice

The problem isn’t the sound itself - it’s what it represents.

A world where aesthetics outrun authenticity. Where it’s less about what you say and more about how photogenic it sounds.

We’ve mistaken detachment for depth.

We’ve started performing calm instead of feeling conviction.

And somewhere along the way, passion went quiet.

So, where to from here?

Maybe it’s time to let the rasp rest.

To stop confusing tiredness with taste.

To remember that energy - not apathy - is magnetic.

Because the most compelling voice in the room isn’t the one that sounds expensive;

it’s the one that actually means something.

Speak from the heart.

Speak with spark.

Speak like you’re alive.

Or, as Old Man Chal might put it:

“If you’ve got something to say, say it like you mean it - not like you’re apologising for taking up space.”