It's difficult to imagine Dudley Riggs without a wry smile parked above a bow-tie: Both have been part of his image in the Twin Cities for more than half a century, and were incorporated for decades into the signage at the Brave New Workshop he founded.

Standing out in a crowd is part of the comedy business, where he thrived in the backwaters of the republic and nurtured the careers of many humorous individuals.

Genetics may come into play: One ancestor was a British cavalryman during the Sepoy Rebellion in 1857 India who became an equestrian performer with the Great London Circus before moving to the New World. Other ancestors worked in English music halls before hitting the circus. Riggs' father taught at Ringling College and his brother James was a juggler and trapeze man with Ringling Brothers.

Dudley, born in Little Rock, Ark., grew up on the road and graduated to being a juggler, clown and aerialist at a time when the new-fangled television was killing off vaudeville and other vestiges of live entertainment. Stranded in New York in the 1950s, he opened a circus-derived act in a theater at 50th and Broadway.

What critics and the audience liked most was a trick Riggs developed when playing on the road with the circus: Finding out about local issues and gripes and spinning jokes off of them. Despite great reviews, it didn't last long. Cast members would depart when road engagements came along. There were venue problems: Bookers had a hard time pigeon-holing the improv-driven revue into an entertainment category.

He moved to Minneapolis to take classes at the University of Minnesota during the winter quarter, a slow season for the circus and in a town where he'd performed.

"I became a talk act and toured with college dates, about 450," he recalls.

He says he sifted what people what people in the Twin Cities were looking for, and "What people here really wanted was good bread, good coffee, and satire."

Live radio was still holding on in the area, largely due to the phenomenal popularity of WCCO's Cedric Adams. Still, Riggs says, Minneapolis/St. Paul wasn't a very funny place -- a couple of clubs booked what remained of the vaudeville and burlesque circuits, and that was about it.

"I figured I'd open a coffee shop temporarily, then go back to school."

He also served was what he now called "instant theater" -- comedy that riffed off the audience and the issues of the day. His Instant Theater Revue made several moves -- "We would locate in buildings in the path of urban renewal" -- and developed a format: a satire-driven opening; a second half that opened with an impromptu monologue based on articles in the hot-off-the-press edition of the Minneapolis Tribune. This morphed into the social/political satire revue called Brave New Workshop that came to dock in a storefront on Hennepin Avenue, just north of Lake Street. Though a ways from both downtown and the U of M campus, the mix of jokes, comic songs, followed by improv, took hold with college kids and expanded from there.

Dylan, Franken and others

Part of the allure was edginess, like the "Race Riots Revue" in the mid-1960s or the series of "Vietnam Follies" that ended only when Pol Pot's Cambodian genocide pushed that topic itself beyond good taste.

In the early coffee shop days, Riggs had to make sure BNW didn't attract the wrath of the morals squad, which might castigate the place as a beatnik haven. He had what he believes may be the first espresso machine in the Twin Cities, and tried to push a European/intellectual image by playing only Baroque music records.

One occasional problem was a scruffy, coffee-drinking kid with a guitar who would try to play folk songs when a record ended: "I'd have to say, 'Somebody tell Bobby to put that damn thing away or he'll have to go.' "

OK, so he didn't do much to further Bob Dylan's career. But by Riggs' count, 479 people did their first engagement on the BTW stage, "and most are still in show biz."

A longtime fan named Phoebe Franken came in one day and said she'd brought with her two of the funniest people she knew. The problem: Her son Al and his pal Tom Davis were 10th graders.

That summer, Riggs set up a Brave New World Under Sub-Committee to give them a shot. A few years later, the duo was doing a college tour and got spotted by NBC producer Lorne Michaels. He signed them for "Saturday Night Live."

Other BNW alum include Louie Anderson ("Life With Louie" creator; "Family Feud" host), writers Jeff Cesario ("Larry Saunders Show") and Pat Profit (the "Naked Gun" movies) and cartoonist/artist Dick Guindon. Guindon ran the espresso machine. And painted signs.

A kid from suburban Anoka, Gary Keillor, did some writing.

Riggs always pushed BNW as a writers' theater -- the sketches in the revues are written, then revised/updated as needed. With improv following the skits-plus-music, the yin-yang of writers vs. performers is always up for grabs.

Running the operation requires additional balancing acts. At one point, Riggs had two theaters and two road companies. For a while, BNW was also the featured satire troupe on NPR's "All Things Continued," doing five minutes a week.

Throughout, cast members came and went. There's a business side of everything. And Riggs says he just wasn't good about delegating.

Fast forward

He sold BNW in 1997, and says the new owners have done a creditable job of running it. He says he misses the deadlines and excitement but not the responsibilities.

This spring, he answered his front door wearing a bright blue bow tie.

Riggs' book-lined home is, fittingly, located between the University of Minnesota campus and the State Fair grounds, and upwind from the State Capitol.

His wife Pauline is a noted psychologist and writer who specializes in grief and family loss. They share a love of opera.

"We walk well together," he says.

"It wouldn't do to have two comics together. They wouldn't be laughing at each other; they'd be analyzing. It's a head thing. There'd be no belly laughs."