I just got done listening to Garrison Keillor’s final episode of his iconic public radio program A Prairie Home Companion … one of those End-Of-An-Era occasions that I expected to be a wrenching experience.
It turns out that it wasn’t. Not really. At least not for me. Or at least not wrenching in the way that I thought it would be.
Let me first take you back to 1987, when PHC was the most popular radio program in the universe. At that point, I had worked at WGTD for just fifteen months, but that meant that I had been through one 0f WGTD’s fall fundraisers …. and during Prairie Home Companion our phones rang off the wall with pledges from listeners. (We had three phones in our studio throughout the week of the fundraiser, but PHC was one of the only programs where we had to have all three phones manned by volunteers – and during the PHC pledge breaks, all three volunteers were busy the entire time. It was incredible- It felt like the whole world was listening to that program, and that its listeners were tripping over each other in a desperate bid to pledge their financial support for it. It was extraordinary.)
With the show at the peak of its popularity, it was a shocking and frightening surprise the following year (1987) when Garrison Keillor announced that he was quitting the show in order to devote himself to writing and to spending time with his family. (It was about that time that Mr. Keillor was married.) It was as shocking to public radio listeners as a sudden and unexpected retirement announcement from Aaron Rogers would be for fans of the Green Bay Packers; a loss of someone with whom you felt a powerful and personal connection…. and the kind of loss where the ground beneath your feet, once solid and secure, suddenly turned to quicksand.
Back in those days, I worked Saturday afternoons 12 noon to 5, but that particular day I stayed at the station until 7:00 just so I could make for myself a cassette tape of that historically significant broadcast… since at that time there was still no internet for us to access nor the kind of vast online archives that allow nearly every moment of every single program (seemingly) to be accessed again and again. In the Stone Age of 1987, that little cassette tape seemed like the only way to preserve this never-to-be-repeated moment of radio history. And I have still have that cassette tape somewhere down in our basement, amidst a mountain of more than a thousand other tapes that I would love to organize but which I fear are destined for the dumpster.
At any rate, that 1987 Garrison farewell was a masterpiece in every way, with just the right balance of heart and humor that its listeners had come to cherish. I especially remember his first remarks after that particular episode’s introduction (back then, the theme song was “Hello, Love”) when he told the audience that he didn’t particularly want them to be brave. “I want there to be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. I want you to rush the stage and beg me to stay!” (Or words to that effect.) It was vintage Garrison- and from that humorous beginning to one of his most masterful Lake Wobegone stories to a poignant close, it felt just right ….. even if the reality of his departure felt so very wrong.
Some of you may remember what replaced it: a brand new show called Good Evening that was hosted by Noah Adams, a long-time fixture on NPR’s All Things Considered. It was a noble effort but it was a little too much like PHC to be the complete break that was needed- and yet it didn’t have any of the same homespun charm nor the delicious if understated humor of its predecessor. In short, it was an unhappy flop- and by 1989, Mr. Keillor had been wooed back to the airwaves to host yet another new program titled The American Radio Company of the Air that bore more than a little resemblance to PHC …. and by 1993 the program had reverted completely to A Prairie Home Companion in format, title, and broadcast locale (from New York City back to the Twin Cities.)
The next dozen years or so were what I regard as the golden age of the program when it felt like they simply could do no wrong. I remember feeling like Keillor and his whole company had their finger on the pulse of middle America …. middle in the sense of Midwesterners (so often ignored or insulted by mainstream entertainment) and the Middle Class. He spoke to us so powerfully – and spoke for us so eloquently – while also being so brilliantly creative. And perhaps what was most impressive of all was that the show was so comfortable …. so familiar …. and yet there was something daring and innovative about it as well. There was nothing like it anywhere else in radio- or on television for that matter. It was an utterly unique voice, yet one that so many of us knew almost as well as our own. I’m not sure anything in the show was as irreplaceable as that moment at the start of the second hour when Keillor would read the written greetings from audience members to their family and friends. (“Happy anniversary to Chuck and Mary from your four loving kids ….. and sorry again for the food poisoning.”) That moment was unlike anything else on radio or television- a disarmingly simple idea that never failed to create the most beautiful sense of warmth and fellowship – and somehow confirmed that the world is still full of good and loving people who also know how to laugh.
I think it was roughly ten years ago- right around the time that odd PHC feature film was released- that the show began to show the first signs of (slight) artistic decline. The quality of the writing (most of which, I believe, was done by Keillor himself) became spottier. I especially heard it in the humorous parody songs that once upon a time were unfailingly brilliant, but that began to sound more like rough drafts in need of significant tweaking. Of course, Keillor was still surrounded by a stellar group of musicians, plus an acting company- Tim Russell, Fred Newman, and the exceptionally brilliant Sue Scott – that was exemplary, but what they were given to do began to feel a bit stale and inconsistent. There were still plenty of moments of brilliance, but the show – by this point more than thirty years old – couldn’t help but begin to show its age- and neither could Garrison Keillor himself.
At any rate, this exit was a longer time coming than the earlier one, with hints of retirement floated and withdrawn over the course of several years before a final and firm announcement was made last year. (Keillor’s successor, Chris Thile, takes the helm in October.) What was most shocking to me was how NOT shocking the announcement was, compared to 1987. Instead of “what?!?” and “No!!!” my reaction (and I suspect the reaction of many other listeners) this time around was more like “it’s time” and “this is a wise move.” And honestly, today’s final episode did not dissuade me from that sentiment. Unlike the farewell back in ’87, there was something uneasy about this farewell- with Keillor keeping himself (and thus the audience) at arm’s distance, either unwilling or unable to fully embrace the emotions of the moment. Musically, it was a frustrating show because Keillor shared the spotlight with five guest singers – all sopranos, who were all but indistinguishable from one another (at least to me) – and the duets that each of them sang with Keillor were a pretty clear showcase of just how limited the host’s musical skills actually are. I’ve read reviews of the show (which was actually recorded yesterday for broadcast today) that mention a heartfelt encore (a sing along medley) that may have been the most heartfelt moment of the entire show, but it wasn’t part of today’s broadcast. And even the thing that gave the show it’s biggest Wow Factor- a brief phone conversation between Keillor and President Obama, pre-recorded earlier on Friday- felt a bit stilted, with Keillor spending more time saying farewell to the president than the other way around. One more instance of misfiring of would-be magic.
When that 1987 farewell show finished up, I felt this aching void. It was as though my very favorite restaurant had just closed its doors forever and I knew I would never eat another meal there. It was as though the beautiful lake home where my family had vacationed every summer for the last 20 years was suddenly closing for good. It was as though my best friend in the whole world was about to move 1000 miles away. It felt like that kind of loss- truly. Maybe it’s impossible to feel that same sort of acute loss in 2016, in a world where just about every program ever made can stream into our homes at the touch of a button- and where nothing goes away the way it once did. All I know is that I’m not sad. It’s time.
And come to think of it, I’m sad about that. I’m sad that it’s time.
P.S.- This was the second big radio farewell within the last week. This past Saturday was the final Wisconsin Public Radio broadcast of Whad’ya Know with Michael Feldman after more than 30 years on the air. This show certainly has plenty of fans who have succumbed to its peculiar charms, but I have never really warmed up to it or to its host, Michael Feldman. But I have to say that his finale was a much more moving and impressive program than I was expecting. It began in truly heartrending fashion with what amounted to a tribute to his longtime co-host Jim Packard, who died several years ago – and it ended with a long series of heartfelt thank you’s in which we finally sensed some true sincerity from the host. Sadly, Feldman began reading those final thank you’s a little too late and he was cut short before he was finished. It was one more reminder that even the biggest radio stars are still subject to the tyranny of the clock ….. a clock that is always ticking. (Fortunately for Feldman fans, there are plans underway for his show to be resurrected this fall as a podcast.)
