A decade ago, I saw Garrison Keillor record a live episode of his long-running radio show "A Prairie Home Companion." I had lawn seats at Ravinia, which did not afford a view of the stage. But Garrison delighted the crowd by marching across the lawn just prior to the show, singing to the audience in the cheap seats, before heading for the stage and beginning his show.
When I heard he was coming to Chicago's City Winery, I logged on as soon as the presale began, securing seats right next to the stage. I thought this location gave me the perfect vantage point. But Garrison fooled me. As at Ravinia, he began by walking to the middle of the theater, singing an original song about growing old. But he remained among the audience during the entire evening, never setting foot on the stage, never taking a seat on the stool in front of the microphone a few feet from where I sat. Instead, he walked through the audience with a wireless microphone, telling stories, reciting poetry, and leading the sold-out crowd in song.
"I'm 82 years old, and I'm going to do what in want," Keillor announced in the first five minutes of Thursday evening's show. "I used to host a radio show, but I cannot remember what it's called," he joked. That show - "A Prairie Home Companion" - ran for over forty years, from 1974 to 2016.
This evening's performance was not dissimilar to his "Prairie" shows. He told a long story about his childhood in the fictional town of Lake Wobegon, Minnesota. He interjected this story with a tale of returning to the small town for the funeral of a friend who had a rival for the affection of a pretty girl when they were all in high school together. The narration sometimes seemed disjointed and rambling, but all storylines converged by the time Mr. Keillor finished. The only thing missing was his famous closing line: "That's the news from Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average."
Keillor drew recitations from classic poets like Robert Frost, Robert Herrick, and William Shakespeare. But he also recited some of his original poetry, which skewed toward the quirky side. "I don't need to write like Robert Frost," he explained, "because Robert Frost already did that." Keillor's poems included an ode to urination, a tribute to human sperm, and a rant about his daughter's clothing that revealed her butt crack.
He also sang in the rich baritone that he still retains, which helped make him ideal for radio. He encouraged the audience to sing along to Handel's "Alleluia," "My Country 'Tis of Thee," "Summertime, "Michael Row the Boat Ashore," and other traditional tunes. Near the end, he moved into more recent music, singing songs by The Beatles, Prince, and Van Morrison .
Although my choice of seats was not as good as I hoped, the performance was delightful. Garrison Keillor projects charm and kindness that puts his audience at ease.