His first assignment is likely to be in Chester, England, June 11- 18, when he'll represent Minneapolis in the invitational town crier tournament. Dressed in the $1,000 town-crier outfit he had made for his yelling gigs, he'll be shouting to tourists about the charms of Minneapolis.

Fret not, taxpayers. Not a dime of government money is supporting his hobby. (Unless the city comes up with promotional souvenirs for him to hand out. Lutefisk on a stick, anyone? A vial of Mississippi River water? A mosquito collection? No, no, probably just Minneapolis stickers or pins.)

Now you may ask: Why would a grown man -- a guy who, by the way, supports his family by managing a stone-counter installation business -- want to dress up in an embellished, medieval-style costume and roar pronouncements?

"I love history, and I love theater. This is where they intersect," said Neitz, whose name is pronounced "nights." Or better for a medieval-times enthusiast: "knights."

For years, Neitz, 38, has had his head partly in the 16th century. From the mid-1980s until a few years ago, he worked at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, playing the part of a herald, an official who made proclamations for royalty and specialized in genealogy and coats of arms.

For nine weekends of several summers, Neitz drove six hours one way to work at the Bristol Renaissance Faire near Kenosha, Wis. He's into Revolutionary War reenactment, too, and French and Indian War stuff. He has a dozen historical costumes from various times and places.

Until now, he hadn't played a town crier, but as he says, "Some of the duties are the same as a herald's -- the yelling part."

When he was invited to compete in the Chester contest, he was told, "Oh, and by the way, you need to be an official town crier. You must represent a municipality."

So Neitz asked his City Council member, Scott Benson, for an endorsement. "Oh, that would be a hoot," Neitz remembers Benson saying, but Benson didn't want to just rubber-stamp the appointment. He invited Neitz to audition, just in regular street clothes, before council members.

Have we said Neitz's voice carries well? Imagine a voice trained to boom and yet enunciate nicely, with the added complications of a British accent and a period dialect. Then put him in front of a microphone.

Neitz realized after the first syllable that he had to back far away from the mike or his voice might have rattled the old granite walls of City Hall.

He was LOUD! CLEAR!! ASTOUNDING!!!

He got the job.

Benson said, "Somebody came down the hall from the mayor's office afterwards and asked what was going on."

Why would the city endorse a town crier? "Why not?" Benson said. "It doesn't cost anything, it promotes goodwill and I'm sure he'll do the city well." Besides, he added, maybe Neitz could be talked into volunteering to promote the city at big events here this summer.

Long, loud history

The job of town crier can be traced as far back as 1066, when news of Britain's invasion by King William of Normandy was passed from town to town. Proclamations, edicts, laws and news may well have been written on paper for the following hundreds of years, but they were passed on orally to the general public by the town crier.

London has kept the tradition alive for 25 years with an official town crier named Peter Moore, a member of the London Tourist Board. At Big Ben and other tourist attractions, visitors can locate him by his booming voice and accompanying ring of a handbell. He has said his proudest moment was repeatedly announcing the birth of Prince William outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.

Neitz and his wife, Christina, who is a records coordinator for a Minneapolis law firm, will pay their own way to England. The town- crier competition will pay the hotel bill. She'll be assisting as his official escort, wearing a long Elizabethan gown in green and black with a big hoop skirt, modeled after a 1570s gown.

Only one piece of the contest is the proclamation of hometown virtues. Another is making up an old-style advertisement to shout for a Chester business. The Neitzes' first child is due at the end of August, so they had hoped Neitz would be assigned a maternity or baby shop to shout about. No such luck; ad assignments are made at random.

David Mitchell is the Englishman in charge of the week-long festivities. Chester, in northwest England, was once a Roman fortress. Its center is bounded by a medieval city wall and breached by seven gates. Now it is a tourist town, admired for its half- timbered buildings, quaint streets and vast outdoor shopping mall.

Mitchell anticipates hundreds of extra tourists wanting to hear all the shouting. This will be only the second town crier contest; the first was in 2001, when representatives of just six countries competed. This year 43 participants will come from 11 nations: Australia, Belgium, Canada, England, France, Germany, the Netherlands, U.S.A., Scotland, South Africa and New Zealand. Besides the Hear ye, hear ye shtick, they'll introduce their material with the more authentic: "Oyez, oyez," roughly translated as "Listen up."

Before June, Neitz will be in training, with the same kind of voice and diaphragm exercises that singers use. His speaking and singing voice are a high tenor. For proclaiming, he needs it especially strong and somewhat lower. Competitors lose points for any voice strain. Judges are asked not to be impressed by sheer volume alone. Criers are urged to "integrate clear diction with varied and natural inflection to produce a cry that is interesting to listen to and be easy on the ear."

Because Chester depends heavily on tourists for employment and prosperity, the Lord Mayor has already thanked competitors for media attention: "You have done more for this city than brochures and leaflets could ever do."

Neitz said he and his wife would be happy to be in England just as tourists, "but to be part of something like this is an incredible opportunity. We love the pageantry."

Peg Meier is at pmeier@startribune.com