The moon was out, the sky was clear, and a little over a thousand people were crowded into the street outside the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul. Meatloaf, potatoes, and Summit EPA abounded, and everywhere you turned people who bolstered the "Minnesota Nice" platitude were spread out on blankets or camp chairs.
This backdrop of the annual Prairie Home Companion Street Dance, although unassuming, would soon play host to the dream of a twenty-something Minnesota-loving young woman: to sing a love duet with a 67 year-old man in front of her family and friends.
Let's not be mistaken, this wasn't just any 67 year-old man. This was the
man in the red shoes, the voice of Norwegian Lutherans, the host and creator of A Prairie Home Companion: Garrison Keillor.
Little did I know when I decided to start this little "all things Twin Cities" blog that I would have my own personal Twin Cities fairytale to begin with. I'm fairly certain that I'm an odd bird, and this is further confirmed by the fact that there is no sound in nature more soothing to me than Garrison Keillor's voice. You may call me a freak, but having been a displaced Minnesotan for much of my life, that droll, melodic voice was a constant connection back to the North Country and, I believe, one of the reasons I returned. Consequently, it was also how I ended up at the family-fun Street Dance last Saturday night.
At the beginning of the evening, as my parents and I and our family friends sat and ate our mashed potatoes, an announcement was made that there would be contests taking place throughout the night, many of which were goofy: "Best Loon Call and " "Best Bank RobberVoice," and some that were more traditional: "Best Kid Singer," and "Best Swing Dancers." While all these seemed fun (I convinced my boyfriend to do his Heath Ledger-esque Joker voice for the bank robber bit), nothing was really up my alley. Having not heard anything that appealed to me, I sat back, excited to spend my night watching
others humiliate themselves in front of thousands. Just then, another contest was announced: "Duets" which, the audience soon learned, would consist of women coming up and singing a love song with Garrison. My mother, tactful as she is, looked at me, wide-eyed, and yelled "Oh my GOD K, you should do it!!!"
Somewhere in a past life I was a singer, and I'm not saying that the thought hadn't crossed my mind when "Duets" was announced, but it had been a long time since the term "singer" had applied to anything outside of my shower, much less in front of a couple thousand people. So, despite my mother's insistence, I refused, figuring I wouldn't even get a chance to try and that I wouldn't know the song anyways...
A few Summit EPAs and much parental cajoling later, I was standing in a line with seven other people, waiting my turn to get up on stage and sing Elvis' "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You" with Mr. Keillor himself. However, thanks to those yummy, courage-inducing Summits, there was a wrench in the works: I really, really had to pee.
Having scoped out the port-o-potty situation earlier, I realized that for the thousands of people present, there were five toliets, and from where I was standing on the opposite side of the stage, I could see the lines stretching for ages. It was then that I made a choice: I left my place in line, pushed through the crowd, sprinted towards the side of an adjacent Presbyterian church, found a grassy spot behind a low wall, and dropped trou. Being a wilderness-guide during the summer, I'm used to "creating a bathroom everywhere," but at the moment, the idea of an arrest warrant including anything about "public urination in proximity to thousands of NPR-listening Minnesotans on the side of a downtown church" was horrifying. Needless to say, I peed quickly.
A few minutes later, I was on stage, the third contestant to have a turn. After introductions, Garrison asked if there was anything other than "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You" I'd like to sing, and I was a bit shocked. I don't improv well, and my only solace in the whole thing was that I knew the song, and had been mentally preparing myself for it while I waited to go on - I wasn't sure what to do. It was here that things just got nuts, I still can't remember exactly how it all happened, but what follows is a rough rundown of how our on-stage conversation went:
GK: "This song again? How about something new? What do you know by heart?"
Me: "Guuuhhhhh..... this song?"
GK: "Really? You know
this one by heart?" (a look of bordeom on his face)
Me: "Yeah, (and here is the moment where my brain stopped working in a logical way) but do you know the Reggae version of it?"
The Audience: "Woooooooooooooo!!!!!" **clap clap clap**
The Band: **Reggae intro to UB40 version of the song**
My Brain: $&;%#!!!
The rest is history. After all was said and done, the shellshock passed, and I became the twenty-something white girl who danced with Garrison Keillor, sang the Reggae version of "Can't Help Falling in Love With You" in front of thousands of middle-aged NPR listeners and lost all self-respect, but who walked away with the first-place prize and a stupid grin on her face. Strange?
Hell yes.
Pre-Reggae banter with GK.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Minnesota.
The First of Many from the Shiver Cities,
K
