'Prairie Home' goes Hawai'i

By Michael Tsai
Advertiser Staff Writer

"Garrison is writing."

Garrison Keillor, the voice of Lake Wobegon, introduced "A Prairie Home Companion" on Minnesota Public Radio in 1974; the show went national six years later. Jeff Widener • The Honolulu Advertiser

That the first of two Hawai'i broadcasts is less than 22 hours away and there is, as yet, no script disturbs absolutely no one — not Frechtman, the show's VIP for special events, not the five-piece Shoe Band rehearsing on-stage, not the people manning the bank of laptops, copiers and fax machines off-stage.

There's no need for concern.

Garrison is writing.

That would be Garrison Keillor, of course, creator of the wildly popular public radio show, chronicler of mythic Lake Wobegon and Saturday evening companion to some 3 million listeners worldwide.

"He'll write and revise right up to the show," says Tim Russell, one of the voices of "A Prairie Home Companion." "That's not a problem for us. We don't worry about it because his writing is so well done it falls off the page for you."

The scripts did indeed arrive in time for yesterday's two sold-out performances. The first show was broadcast live to National Public Radio stations nationwide and over the Internet via the show's Web site. The second aired live on Minnesota Public Radio, the show's home, and was taped for future use as a fund-raising special for other NPR stations.

	Rebroadcast on radio tonight
•	What: "A Prairie Home Companion" (rebroadcast of yesterday's first show)
•	Where: KIPO 89.3 FM, KIFO 1380 AM
•	When: Tonight, from 6 to 8

Keillor introduced "A Prairie Home Companion," which takes its name from a cemetery, on Minnesota Public Radio in 1974. In 1980, the show went national and quickly drew a loyal following with its mix of acoustic-based American music, wry comedy sketches, fake ads for the American Duct Tape Council and the Ketchup Advisory Board, and Keillor's signature monologue "News From Lake Wobegon."

Keillor retired briefly in 1987 after marrying his second wife (his last performances in Hawai'i 15 years ago were part of an extended farewell tour), but revived the show two years later.

Frechtman joined the show upon its return in 1989 and, in the dozen years since, has found himself in comfortable harmony with the show's seemingly nerve-racking rhythm.

"Garrison thinks about things during the week," Frechtman explains. "About Thursday or Friday he starts to write. We usually rehearse Friday night for Saturday's show."

But, on this particular Friday, Garrison is still writing and the Shoe Band finds itself with some extra time to work on the bank of songs that Keillor, music director Richard Dworsky and music assistant Kathryn Hauser have tabbed for possible use.

"King Kamehameha," growls singer Andy Stein into a microphone. "Long gone away-a ... "

The Shoes are an impressive assemblage of roots-music musicians. Dworsky, a pianist, has been a studio musician for nearly 30 years and has recorded on the Windham Hill label. Stein, who also plays violin and saxophone, was one of Commander Cody's Lost Airmen and has played with Asleep at the Wheel and Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks. Pat Donohue is a national finger-picking guitar champion and songwriter. Bassist Gary Raynor has performed with Sammy Davis Jr. and the Count Basie Band. Percussionist Arnie Kinsella has performed with Giordano and Leon Redbone.

"They all know how to read charts," laughs Ledward Kaapana, one of the Hawai'i shows' musical guests.

Kaapana can't read charts, but he's the only one on-stage who knows how to spell "Hano Hano Hanalei," one of the pieces on the song list.

Kaapana and the Shoes run through "Chloe," "My Little Grass Shack," and other songs likely to be included in the show. With "A Prairie Home Companion," it's never certain what will make it, what will be cut, and what the final shape of the show will be.

Dworsky continues playing through a short break, the skin of a nearby snare drum noisily transmitting the vibrations of his notes. There are pops and rumbles as engineers manipulate the complex systems of sound transmission. Disembodied voices fade in and out of monitors, speakers and walkie-talkies.

At the front of the stage are a dozen microphones, three cameras set up for Web transmission, and endless coils of electrical cord. To the left of all this high-tech chaos is the sound effects table, a decidedly low-tech collection of odds and ends that is responsible for much of the show's magic.

Here Frechtman, filling in for usual sound effects man Tom Keith, will create an aural setting for Keillor's skits using styrofoam plates, women's shoes, the door of a metal safe and a huge coffee tin filled with clickers, bells and other useful junk.

Keillor's monologue remains a mystery right up until it leaves his mouth live on the radio. Frechtman says Keillor usually composes the monologue on the day of the performance, committing it to his photographic, audiographic memory so he doesn't need to use notes.

"He must have a huge hard drive in that head," Frechtman says.

To outsiders, Keillor is sometimes seen as stand-offish, rude even, but the staff of the show is intensely loyal. Indeed, it's Keillor's dour disposition that allows him the space to draw together all of the elements of the show in his head and shape it into something that will work theatrically for his immediate audience and imaginatively for his more remote listeners.

Here then is Keillor center-stage inside the theater on a sunny Saturday, three hours before the show and counting. He's wearing a black jacket over a black T-shirt, black slacks and black shoes. His uncombed hair lies limp beneath a pair of heavy headphones. Broad and tall with a face composed of equal parts Steven King and Janet Reno, Keillor looks, at the moment, absolutely menacing.

The music starts and Keillor raises his head from his handful of marked-up scripts. Lips and brow scrunch toward the center of his face. And then, as Stein closes his opening violin line, Keillor relaxes his face and begins to sing.

There it is — the voice of Lake Wobegon, all graciousness and warmth and humor. The lyrics go by in a rush of precise, bouncing intonations. Keillor trades lines with actor Sue Scott, kicks his left leg out and back to the bouncing rhythm. Off-stage, staffers turn away from their computers, heads bobbing to beat.

By the time the band begins trading instrumental leads, Keillor already has his pen in hand. His leg stills. With arched eyebrow he goes to work on the scripts in his hand. Broad horizontal strokes across the page.

Outside the theater, people have already begun to line up and ushers have taken their positions near the lobby door.

Garrison is writing.