I checked out all the Lawrence Welk books they carry at the local library, and the lady gave me the suspicious eye over her bifocals.
“Research,” I said, seriously.
This of course was a fat lie. I wasn’t planning any research. Fact is I know most of what any sane person needs to know about Lawrence Welk. But, I needed to double-check my data. Get all sides of the story. Welk is, after all, an elusive study—even for us so-called experts.
Which brings me to the purpose of this column. In keeping with last week’s attempt to bring about change for South Dakotans (there are still no entries to replace that “Great Faces, Great Places” jingle) I’d like to stay on my muckraker beat and offer up this suggestion to the powers-that-be reading this column: it’s time we commission a Lawrence Welk tribute.
Whether a museum, festival, or at least some hokey statue—it’s long overdue that we give South Dakota its right place as the stomping ground for that man who would someday rule the world with a flick of his baton and consistent slurring of the word “wunnerful.”
Of course, all of this lollygagging means we’ve got competition. A couple decades ago, the Welk estate gifted his “library” to one of the universities up in North Dakota. This is just swell. Welk was, after all, a native of Strasburg—some church and bar municipality in the middle of a North Dakota hay field.
But, Welk left that dire country for the bounty of Aberdeen when he was just a gangly accordion-wheezing, German-stuttering nobody. It was here, in THIS state, Welk first whet his whistle on success—broadcast over the WNAX airwaves. His wife-to-be, Fern Renner, was a Mt. Marty’s nursing student, and I know on good family authority that Welk’s reign of barn-dance terror extended all across South Dakota (from the Corn Palace to the Ritzy in Beresford to the mean street of Dallas, where his band walked out on him).
Whether it was Welk’s Novelty Orchestra, the Honolulu Fruit Gum Orchestra, or the regrettable Hotsy Totsy Boys, Welk cornered the market on South Dakota pop music long before Kory and his Fireflies.
Now, I know this whole state vs. state ownership thing has a tender past between the Dakotas. Certainly, there is the disputed Sitting Bull “grave robbery,” and many Yanktonians are still sore about losing out on the territorial capital to Bismarck.
But, Welk’s legacy wasn’t defined when he was interminably moping around with a pitchfork on his dad’s hay farm. Welk cut his music and business chops—the very ones that would one day hold Dodge Motors executives at bay when they suggested dropping the Champagne Lady’s hemlines—on the open prairie barn dance circuit of the Jim River Valley.
Plus, even if it’s not technically accurate, we’re talking BIG tourist bucks. You could set up a billboard in Branson and the next morning probably have 1,300 RVs cramped along an Interstate 29 rest stop.
Again, Gov. Rounds, I will call upon you this budget cycle—and I know it’s tough, but don’t give me excuses because I’ve been to the Pierre VFW, and I know what kind of love there is for Welk in the Capital City—to set aside somewhere between $1.2 and $30 million dollars to get this project off the ground. According to my calculations, this will take care of the state of the art visitor’s center, the round-the-clock polka bands, and the 10-story, lit-up accordion that will be visible from Neptune.
This is just seed money, of course. We’ll charge admissions, auction off Myron Floren’s bow ties, and sell most of Fall River County to Wyoming to make up the rest. This will make whatever dog and pony show they’re running up in Strasburg look like a Lionel Train Set compared to our Welk Tribute.
The revolution will not be a tax-and-spend Welk fan.
“Research,” I said, seriously.
This of course was a fat lie. I wasn’t planning any research. Fact is I know most of what any sane person needs to know about Lawrence Welk. But, I needed to double-check my data. Get all sides of the story. Welk is, after all, an elusive study—even for us so-called experts.
Which brings me to the purpose of this column. In keeping with last week’s attempt to bring about change for South Dakotans (there are still no entries to replace that “Great Faces, Great Places” jingle) I’d like to stay on my muckraker beat and offer up this suggestion to the powers-that-be reading this column: it’s time we commission a Lawrence Welk tribute.
Whether a museum, festival, or at least some hokey statue—it’s long overdue that we give South Dakota its right place as the stomping ground for that man who would someday rule the world with a flick of his baton and consistent slurring of the word “wunnerful.”
Of course, all of this lollygagging means we’ve got competition. A couple decades ago, the Welk estate gifted his “library” to one of the universities up in North Dakota. This is just swell. Welk was, after all, a native of Strasburg—some church and bar municipality in the middle of a North Dakota hay field.
But, Welk left that dire country for the bounty of Aberdeen when he was just a gangly accordion-wheezing, German-stuttering nobody. It was here, in THIS state, Welk first whet his whistle on success—broadcast over the WNAX airwaves. His wife-to-be, Fern Renner, was a Mt. Marty’s nursing student, and I know on good family authority that Welk’s reign of barn-dance terror extended all across South Dakota (from the Corn Palace to the Ritzy in Beresford to the mean street of Dallas, where his band walked out on him).
Whether it was Welk’s Novelty Orchestra, the Honolulu Fruit Gum Orchestra, or the regrettable Hotsy Totsy Boys, Welk cornered the market on South Dakota pop music long before Kory and his Fireflies.
Now, I know this whole state vs. state ownership thing has a tender past between the Dakotas. Certainly, there is the disputed Sitting Bull “grave robbery,” and many Yanktonians are still sore about losing out on the territorial capital to Bismarck.
But, Welk’s legacy wasn’t defined when he was interminably moping around with a pitchfork on his dad’s hay farm. Welk cut his music and business chops—the very ones that would one day hold Dodge Motors executives at bay when they suggested dropping the Champagne Lady’s hemlines—on the open prairie barn dance circuit of the Jim River Valley.
Plus, even if it’s not technically accurate, we’re talking BIG tourist bucks. You could set up a billboard in Branson and the next morning probably have 1,300 RVs cramped along an Interstate 29 rest stop.
Again, Gov. Rounds, I will call upon you this budget cycle—and I know it’s tough, but don’t give me excuses because I’ve been to the Pierre VFW, and I know what kind of love there is for Welk in the Capital City—to set aside somewhere between $1.2 and $30 million dollars to get this project off the ground. According to my calculations, this will take care of the state of the art visitor’s center, the round-the-clock polka bands, and the 10-story, lit-up accordion that will be visible from Neptune.
This is just seed money, of course. We’ll charge admissions, auction off Myron Floren’s bow ties, and sell most of Fall River County to Wyoming to make up the rest. This will make whatever dog and pony show they’re running up in Strasburg look like a Lionel Train Set compared to our Welk Tribute.
The revolution will not be a tax-and-spend Welk fan.
