History Culture Lawrence Welk
It was a Wunnerful Life: Heartland
Hero Lawrence Welk: 1903-1992
Gates, David. "It was a Wunnerful Life: Heartland Hero Lawrence Welk: 1903-1992." Newsweek, 1 June 1992, 76.
|Playing `what the people
wanted': The maestro
Once in 1978, Lawrence Welk stopped to eat in Macksville, Kans.
(population: 488); he was recognized, talked into visiting the
school and greeted with a roar that Kiss would have envied. "It
must be parents still watch TV with their children in the farm
belt and small towns," he mused. A cynic would have thought,
Guess they don't get a lot of celebrities in Macksville.
Welk, who died on May 18 at the age of 89, always thought his
heartland values could survive undistorted in electronic images
on millions of American TV screens. A survey once showed 85 percent
of viewers found him "believable." The rest tuned in
because they just couldn't believe him.
This foursquare defender of the family caused more than his
share of Saturday-night squabbles, as kids clamored for "Have
Gun, Will Travel"--or anything
but him and those all-too-exemplary Lennon Sisters. Welk, raised
in a sod farmhouse in North Dakota, got richer than any entertainer
of his day except Bob Hope; his show (1955-1982) was one of
the longest-lived in TV history. When ABC dropped him in 1971,
he carried on over an ad hoc network--with many more stations.
How? By playing "what the people understand." Welk's
perennial straw man was the jazz musician. "Suppose your
mother is celebrating her birthday," he hypothesized. "She
walks up and asks him to play `I Love You Truly' for her. He'll
sneer." Welk would've counted it right off--and waltzed
with her to boot.
Yet, as he "confided" to many interviewers, he himself
was "a rhythm man, a jazz man, a Dixieland man at heart,"
who kept hiring hot clarinetists like the goateed New Orleanian
Pete Fountain. Welk, the son of German immigrants--he didn't
speak English until he was 21--started out playing accordion
at weddings and barn dances. His TV band did idiomatic approximations
of anything from swing to C&W; accordionist Myron Floren
and a galumphing tuba gave polkas a beer-hall kick. But his
trademarks "champagne music" was a sedate blend of
woodwinds, strings and muted brass, tripping through familiar
melodies above ripples of accordion and Hammond organ. Welk
had several versions of how the label originated. "You
have to play good to hold a note," went one variant. "We
decided to play short notes so nobody would notice we weren't
that good. The audience wrote letters that our music was bubbly
like champagne." One problem with this story: Welk didn't
hire bad musicians.
In the late `50s, before young Stepford singers began infiltrating
his show, Welk's people had faces: the jowly, avuncular organist
Jerry Burke; the battered, crew-cut trumpeter Rocky Rockwell.
There were your next-door neighbors--assuming you lived in a
white neighborhood. Welk was the most inadvertently telegenic
of all: looking pained as he stiffly read cue cards in his Alsatian
accent. "Where I lived," he recalled, "on a farm
by a small town, poor, I always felt that other folks were--oh,
maybe a little better." His core audience, rural people
of modest means who weren't getting any younger, sure knew that
feeling. He was there to say, Don't you believe
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