Keillor rules the ‘Prairie Home’ kingdom

updated 2:06 p.m. ET May 25, 2007

ST. PAUL, Minn. - During rehearsal, the boss meanders backstage, singing to himself. He doesn't so much wander as he circles like an approaching jet. When he descends from on high is anybody's guess. He's also the air traffic controller. And it's his airport.

The boss is Garrison Keillor, the omnipotent and sometimes oblivious creator of "A Prairie Home Companion," the public radio show adored by 4 million fans, broadcast live from Minnesota's mythical Lake Wobegon — home to Norwegian bachelor farmers, strong women, good-looking men and above-average children.

This is not the gentle narrator you hear on the air — that witty, sensitive observer of triviality and tribulations. This is a complicated and detached ringmaster, issuing orders that change faster than weather. His loyal, highly professional staff stays right in step.

Ditch the script? No problem. Get the mayor of International Falls, Minn., on the phone and patch her into the live broadcast? Alrighty, then. Fill five minutes of otherwise dead air because he's cut short his much-loved monologue ("Well, it's been a quiet week here in Lake Wobegon ...") in the middle of a live broadcast? You betcha, as they say in Minnesota.

He's written books, essays, columns and a screenplay, but he's most revered for what he does on Saturday nights: tender teller of tales from a town that does not exist; impresario of an exceptional house band and troupe of actors who deliver a dizzying series of skits, songs and sound effects.

His need for others on a show he's hosted for 31 years appears purely practical. It is impossible to sing every song, play every musical instrument and read each actor's lines — simultaneously, anyway. If he could, he might just would.

He started hiring writers not too long ago, but virtually the entire two-hour program still comes out of his head. Which is its beauty, or its conceit, depending on one's viewpoint.

But for now, take a moment to enjoy this view: stage right at the Fitzgerald Theater in downtown St. Paul. Dimmed house lights bask the old, refurbished auditorium in burnished gold. The 996 red-upholstered seats are empty. Onstage, the cast and crew are rehearsing.

Linger over images not seen in the mind's-eye of radio. This is the well-oiled and often magical machine that produces "A Prairie Home Companion."

Laden with love
There are two shows this weekend.

Friday's performance won't be broadcast — it's staged only for the program's worshipful hometown audience, and serves as a kind of dress rehearsal for Saturday's regular show, which will be broadcast coast-to-coast on more than 580 stations and later aired in Europe.

At 2 p.m. on Friday, tonight's musical lineup is laden with love.

"Devoted to You," the Everly Brothers classic; "Loving You," a 1957 hit by Elvis Presley; "I Can't Stop Loving You," made memorable by Ray Charles, and Freddy Fender's country promise, "Before the Next Teardrop Falls."

Keillor and band leader Rich Dworsky — a short, bubbling, balding man who can lovingly play most any song off the top of his head — are working out chord changes with the Guy's All-Star Shoe Band.

"I think I need an A, A, B, A," says Keillor, who arrives in jeans, a black T-shirt and his ever-present red sneakers. He loves to sing but the feeling isn't mutual. His voice is best suited to deep, rumbling bass lines. That doesn't stop him from charging up the scales, or dropping into harmony. Sometimes in key, just as often not.

He has not shaved. His hair stands on end. His body language says: "I Am Thinking. Approach At Your Own Peril."

Keillor, who is about to turn 65, has never cared much about his appearance.

His forehead is a cliff dropping into overgrown eyebrows that hang like swollen rain gutters. His 6-foot-4, gangly frame hangs at odd angles. His legs go on for miles.

"I have a face for radio," he says quite often.

Words are most important to him. Writing, he believes, is rewriting.

He does the latter during rehearsals, after rehearsals and during the broadcast. A song is in. It's out. Likewise for the comedy skits.

The performers learned long ago to roll with it. "This is his show," smiles bassist Gary Raynor, who's recorded with Janet Jackson and played with the Count Basie band. "We put this together very fast. There's not a moment to waste. Everyone just kind of gives him space. He always has a vision, and he knows what it is."

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