"This is where we came in."

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For no particular reason I remembered that phrase this morning. "This is where we came in." It is, in its way, an interesting comment on the instinct to narrative. When I was a kid I went to the movies with my parents. It was always double bills (this is back in the 50s), plus your full complement of selected shorts. The thing is, my parents never thought to consult a schedule to find out when a movie was starting. We simply arrived at the theater whenever we arrived, sat down, and started watching whatever film was already in progress. About three or four hours laters (remember, double bills), one of my parents would say, "This is where we came in," and we'd pick up our stuff and leave. This meant, of course, that we saw one film from start to finish, but that we saw another film first from the middle to the end, and then, a couple of hours later, from the beginning to the middle. I also remember the occasional questioning, "Was this where we came in?" when something seemed familiar but not too familiar. I think you had to get into the groove all over again before you realized that, yes, this was where you came in. Something like watching a rerun on television, where it takes you a while to recognize that, yes, you've seen this one before. Not to put too fine a point on it, but movie-going isn't the same, nowadays.

Another thing that isn't the same is radio. When I was a kid, and now we're talking earliest memories, my mother would listen to dramas on the radio. There were soap operas, variety shows, plus other things like "Gunsmoke," not much different from radio's Golden Age. It took a few years for newfangled television sets to replace the oldfangled radio receiver. I can't remember what it was, but once my parents even took me to a live radio broadcast. I do remember it was music; I'll ask my mother. Maybe she'll remember.

Radio quickly devolved into all news and music after TV came in during the 50s. You only listened when you had to, which was mostly when you were in the car. FM radio, which came along in the late 60s or so, was a great improvement ("no static at all" as Steely Dan says) because we were all freed from top-ten playlists. FM now is like AM in the 60s: ripe for improvement. Probably satellite radio will do the trick. If I can pay for music to satisfy my eclectic tastes, I'll probably do it.

There are few holdouts from the Golden Age of live radio. Garrison Keillor's Prairie Home Companion is one of those holdouts: "The only live music and variety show aired nationwide today," says their press site. The show goes back to the early 70s, and, as they say, consists of various live musical performances and talk and comedy. Most every year Keillor pulls into Manhattan for a month or so, and we went and saw him Saturday night. The other time we saw him was probably when Kate was in high school; the experience was the same. It's fun and occasionally disorienting watching a radio show. Obviously the live aspect of the performance is enhanced by the live audience, but the goal of the show is the broadcast and not the auditorium. The house band warms you up for about ten minutes, then Keillor comes out and tells you who's on the show for two minutes, and then, bang, you're on the air. The show kicked off with Keillor doing what amounts to a challenge round with his sound effects man, telling a story with all sorts of weird actions that require weird sounds, while the effects guy bangs this and rubs that and, mostly, makes noises with his mouth. There was a duo, Phil Cunningham and Aly Bain, a couple of Scots, one on (electric) accordion, one on violin, that played traditional Scottish stuff that so sounded like the old-timey Appalachian hillbiilly music that we know derived from the Scot tradition. Renee Fleming did a slumming soprano take on a couple of popular songs, but I prefer my divas to work in the main area of their divature. There were the usual bits, Lives of the Cowboys, Guy Noir (with Fleming as opera diva Renata Flambe), and Lake Wobegon. Throughout it all, people are coming and going, moving stools, handing out music, doing whatever is necessary to broadcast over the air. The audience is amazingly enthusiastic, and one of the homier groups you'll find in a NYC venue. More flannel per capita than Vermont and Maine put together. I think we all listen to the show regularly, maybe never exactly from start to finish but in pieces caught, well, while you're driving in the car, and the sense of it imprints on your brain. You don't see it actually geting in there because of the nature of the medium, but once it's there, it's a part of you. As a result, seeing the show is filling in this image gap, completing the narration, if you will. You can't help but love it.

If you're not listening to the show, you're probably not plugged into NPR. In NY, it's 93.9. Listen to Keillor Saturdays from 6-8. While you're at it, listen to Car Talk, All Things Considered, Jonathan Schwartz. Open the old brain a little. Can't hurt.