“The Prairie-Not-In-My-Home Companion”

Every Sunday morning, while running, I used to enjoy listening to the “Prairie Home Companion,” Garrison Keillor’s show, on my Walkman. I enjoyed the clever skits, mostly created by Mr. Keillor, who is obviously a very intelligent and witty man, and the banter between the host and his guests, but unfortunately, my reaction to everything else on the show, which usually involves music and singing, ranges from gag reflex triggering revulsion to just turning off my Walkman.

Although he occasionally (alternate leap years) lands A-list singers and musicians, most of the “artists” are as obscure as—let me think of a good analogy—me! And it only takes a few seconds to figure out that, except for this brief interlude, this will be an obscurity of profound, but merciful permanence. Except for county fairs, weddings, or maybe The Loyal Order of The Norwegian Wharf Rat Annual Spring Rites Festival, I’m sure that Mr. Keillor’s show is these people’s only gig. He, in fact, seems to specialize in featuring them, and even has a yearly “talent” competition for performers from small towns. These individuals usually represent good old American folk music of various genres, or as Queen Elizabeth might phrase it, “Musica Americana Horribila.” And three groups, Blue Grass, country western, and zydeco, none of which I enjoy, seems to predominate. Zydeco, in particular, which is French and Caribbean influenced music that allows players of the accordion and washboard to show their stuff, produces the vilest “music” I’ve ever heard, and is just one more reason to hate the galling Galls, since it’s obviously those people and not the ones who gave us Harry Belafonte and the Marleys who screwed it up.

The performers, I will admit, are certainly unpretentious, unspoiled by fame and destined to remain in this pristine state. They have not been badgered by publicists and agents to change thir names to something more edgy. So you hear a lot of Molly Sue Johnsons, Lars Nordquists, Moon Pie Wilsons, and the Suggs Brothers Jug Bands instead of more au courant appellations such as Phlegm Bucket, Bootie Bumpers, Colostomy Baguettes, and the Wizard of Ooze. But unfortunately, while the names are pure Americana, the music is pure torture, so when that portion of the program begins to exuce these mind-numbing melodies, I immediately click off my radio for the more otic friendly sounds of the traffic.

Easily remedied, you say. True enough, but tragically, there is no simple sure, when Mr. Keillor, himself, decides to join in. Of all the voices I’ve ever heard, no, let’s make that of all the sounds imaginable, from Ethel Merman’s ear drum shattering scream to Nosferatue scraping his fingers across a blackboard, to my unconscious, prenatal recollections—while treading amniotic fluid—of first heard noises pursuant to my mother’s visit to an all-you-can-eat sauerkraut bar, what spews from Mr. Keillor’s oral crater is bar far the most irritating. It sounds as if he starts off his day with a brisk Clorox gargle, finished off with a few dollops of preheated kerosene sprinkled sand.

And it’s not as though Mr. Keillor occasionally accompanies his guests. He simply shoves his venomous voice box into every available musical crevice, ruining whatever miniscule chance these people ever had for success. He even achieves what had seemed to me the audibly impossible by making the Zydeco music sound even worse. I’m sure it’s a mixed blessing for these poor souls to make an appearance. They will have an opportunity to perform for a large radio audience, but once on stage, they know that this avenging voice of horror may at any second decide to sweep down and rip the throat out of their tenuous careers. And all the while, the oblivious Mr Keillor, who must have some sort of rare hearing impairment that enables him to hear every sound but his own, continues to wreak music havoc.

But the fiendish quality that differentiates Mr. Keillor’s voice from the show’s other horrendous noises is its endurance. Once you hear that terrifying tone, it stays with you for days, although, thank God, it does finally go away, which makes me think that the most devastating mental illness would be “Garrison’s Schizophrenia,” in which the victim would continuously hear Mr. Keillor singing.

However, even a few more seconds of this sound is more than I can bear, so since I can’t anticipate his spontaneous offerings, I just don’t listen at all anymore. Now, when I run, I listen to my new CD, “Fran Drescher and Rosie Perez Sing The Vagina Monologues.” If my taste seems a bit questionable, I guess I can blame listening to Mr. Keillor over the years has lowered my music appreciation threshold. So what, comparatively, it’s a huge step forward.