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TIME: Almanac 1995
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TIME Almanac 1995.iso
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1994-03-25
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<text id=91TT2632>
<title>
Nov. 25, 1991: The Ghosts of Studio B
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1991
Nov. 25, 1991 10 Ways to Cure The Health Care Mess
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 99
The Ghosts of Studio B
</hdr><body>
<p>By John Skow
</p>
<qt>
<l>WLT: A RADIO ROMANCE</l>
<l>By Garrison Keillor</l>
<l>Viking; 401 pages; $21.95</l>
</qt>
<p> When Garrison Keillor reinvented the radio variety show
some years ago with his Prairie Home Companion program Saturday
evenings on public radio, the driving emotional force was a
shameless, moony nostalgia for the never-was. But misty
reminiscence taken straight out of the bottle is saccharine.
What gives Keillor's wamblings about Midwestern small-timers
their cutting edge (they continue on his new American Radio
Company show) is a rare mix of exile's longing and eye-rolling
exasperation. Were we really that awful, and was it really that
grand?
</p>
<p> These are the elements, more or less, of this loopy,
endearing novel (the author's first, it is surprising to
realize) about the early days of radio. The time is the
mid-'30s, the place is Studio B of Station WLT, Minneapolis.
There is a jinx on Studio B, "the snakebite studio at WLT, the
tomb of the radio mummy...Dad Benson gasped for breath
during Friendly Neighbor and two huge flies dove into his throat
and almost choked him...Reed Seymour once got the hiccups
in there so bad his partial plate came off and he had to gum the
news. And a week later, three of the Shepherd Boys, a gospel
quartet, slipped in and quietly de-pantsed him during a long
account of a tragic house fire leaving 6 Persons Dead in St.
Paul. He kept talking but he yipped twice when they pulled off
his shorts."
</p>
<p> The rubes out in radioland believed everything they heard,
and some of the performers did too. Dad Benson ladled out
cow-chip philosophy on or off mike, effortlessly spooning out
such nifties as "East or west, home is best. There's no summer
without winter...Hunger makes the beans taste better." But
Marjery Moore, who played sweet, 10-year-old Little Becky on
Dad's show until she was a raunchy 29, was a Camel-smoking
delinquent who learned "within days of coming on Friendly
Neighbor that she could get a big rise out of the radio folks
by saying things in her Little Becky voice, such as `Hi, mister,
want to see my panties?'"
</p>
<p> Even after WLT is making big money, owner Ray Soderberg is
worried about radio's insubstantiality, which seems to him "like
running a hotel with no rooms, just a lobby." He broods about
the false bonhomie of fathead announcers, the fake warmth of
radio stars laying on the charm to sell you hair tonic. But the
big money keeps getting bigger.
</p>
<p> That was then. Glory days, but as the years and the story's
somewhat invertebrate plot progress--Keillor's authentically
rural narrative method is infinite digression--the pickings
thin out. Like the rest of WLT's hayseeds and gallus snappers,
the Shepherd Boys begin to lose listeners. In their prime,
Keillor relates, they "could kill a quart like it was lemonade
and and then they would jump in the sack with anything in high
heels, hop out and sing `The Old Rugged Cross,' and feel so good,
they'd jump right back in." Maybe they still could, given the
chance, but unemployment looms. With Frank White, the author's
bright-eyed hero, they are exiled to the sticks, sent on the
road "in an old schoolbus, rattling from one end of the five-
state area to the other playing $15 dates at high school
assemblies and insane asylums and sleeping in your clothes on
couches and eating slabs of grease and enduring the shame and the
squalor until one day your mind snapped and they found you in
your underwear crawling down a corn row in Kandiyohi County with
an empty in your hand."
</p>
<p> This is ranting excess of the finest quality, and a case
could be made that its author is the most gifted and prodigious
humorist the U.S. has heard from since the old steamboat pilot
ran aground. Prophetic stuff too. One doubter, foreseeing the
twilight of radio, broods that "they will invent something.
It'll have the same effect as bourbon but it won't give you
headaches or upset the stomach, so it'll be used even by the
kiddos. It'll earn gazillions. And boys, they are not going to
deal us in on that hand." What Keillor has sketched is the West
in Spenglerian decline, with cable and pay-per-view just beyond
the horizon.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>