Mr. Champagne Music Maker -- Lawrence Welk, `Grandma's Favorite,' Dies

He wasn't highbrow. He wasn't exactly Toscanini's arch-rival.

But I'm going to miss Lawrence Welk, who died Sunday night at 89.

If ever there was an entertainer who reached out to middle America, who grasped the possibilities of that nascent medium of television for the presentation of music, it was Mr. Champagne Bubbles himself.

The source of endless jokes about his German accent ("Ve haff gotten zo many luffly carrrrttsss and lettterrrrrss from you vunderful volks out dere") and his inevitable "A-one and a-two and. . . ," Welk was easy to pillory and easy to love.

This was the guy your grandma (or your mom, depending on how old you are) adored. Mine certainly did. No matter what else held sway over the tube during Welk's show, it was sacrificed in favor of a-one and a-two. Every one of Welk's stellar performers, from the Lovely Little Champagne Lady Alice Lon (a woman who frankly looked as if she had never unbent enough to drink champagne in her life) to the twinkly eyed accordionist Myron Floren (who looked as if he had quite possibly imbibed some champagne during the show), was an old friend to our household.

While the younger generation developed futile crushes on Bobby, the former Mouseketeer turned dancer, and schemed to become just as adorable as the Lovely Little Lennon Sisters, the grandmas turned their attention to Der Meister himself.

During every show, Lawrence would step off the podium,

relinquish his baton, and dance with an array of hopeful, neatly permed ladies of the studio audience. Were all those grandmas at home hoping to be in the ladies' shoes? You bet they were.

It wasn't that Lawrence had (gasp) sex appeal. There was something both gracious and earnest about him, a mixture of the Kaiser and the kindly proprietor of a sausage shop. Like another early TV musician with whom he would loathe being compared - the late and immortal Liberace - Lawrence Welk was almost naively devoted to the prospect of entertaining us millions over the newly available airwaves.

Welk's "wunnerful, wunnerful" accent came from his parents, who were born in Alsace-Lorraine, a region of present-day France that was once part of Germany, and moved to Russia in 1878 to escape religious persecution. In 1892 they emigrated to America and settled on a farm near Strasburg, N.D. Lawrence was one of eight children born to Ludwig and Christina Welk.

At 21, Lawrence announced he was leaving the farm for life as a musician. "You'll be back," his father predicted. "You'll be back just as soon as you get hungry."

Welk began the tedious grind of playing one-night stands with pickup bands, then started his own "Biggest Little Band in America." Over the years he developed the style that would make him famous: bouncing, effervescent, with a steady beat that invited dancing. He found the name for it while broadcasting from the William Penn Hotel in Pittsburgh in 1938.

In his 1971 autobiography, "Wunnerful, Wunnerful," Welk recalled his radio announcer telling about the flood of fan mail: "They say that dancing to your music is like sipping champagne. Lawrence, you've got yourself some Champagne Music!"'

His show began as a local broadcast in Los Angeles in 1951, was picked up by ABC two years later, and ran until 1971, but continued in syndication into 1982 - and in reruns, is still seen today (locally, on KCTS on Sunday evenings).

Nowadays, the Welk show's production values look terribly quaint, and the music. . . well, it's probably best not even to think about the music. Bouncy, peppy, accordion-spiced music, it had a comforting sameness; the show was, well, restful.

Now Lawrence has gone to that big bandstand in the sky, and another American media icon has been laid to rest. There goes a big chunk of childhood for us aging baby-boomers.

Material from the Associated Press is included in this report.