CHARLIE PARR

By Max Kulicke

It took me about three months to arrange my interview with Charlie Parr. Between snowstorms, Australian tours and the two-hour drive between the Twin Cities and Duluth, it just never seemed to be able to work out. So when I finally got an email from Charlie inviting me to his mother’s place in Austin, I cleared my schedule and told him I’d be there. I knew very little about Charlie besides his music, but on his website, they mentioned something about Charlie drinking Blatz beer, and so I figured I’d bring him a thank you gift in beverage form. Armed with a Summit six-pack, a computer, microphone and video camera, I hopped on 35 South and I realized that I felt completely unprepared. Not to mention I was running an hour late.

I had prepared a list of questions to ask Charlie during our interview. Of course I had forgotten it, and spent much of the car ride trying to remember what was on it. I knew that I wanted to ask him about his guitar playing technique, his songwriting and his success as a folk artist. But the closer I got to Austin, the more my mental faculties seemed to be deserting me, and I could hardly gather my thoughts. Already resigned to the fact that this would most likely be the most amateur interview Charlie ever had the misfortune to sit through, I pulled up to his house and prepared myself for the worst.

His mother greeted me at the door, and welcomed me into her living room, and Charlie walked out of the kitchen to greet me. I offered him my hand, and the six-pack. The former he accepted, the latter he declined. “I don’t drink any more.” Disaster! Trying not to be discouraged by the failure of my thank you gift, I followed him as he led me to the basement. For the next hour and a half, despite myself, I had one of the more remarkable and enjoyable conversations I’ve ever had. Between geeking out on guitars, debating the relative merits of old blues players, talking about dogs, and the fine state of Minnesota, we covered just about everything I could think of to ask him. Not to mention, I got to sit right in front of him as he played me two old folk tunes. All the worries I had had disappeared quickly. Charlie proved to be kind, approachable, very knowledgeable and full of stories, and above all, simply happy to be able to do what he does, and all that entails, including getting peppered with questions by some kid in his mother’s basement.

As I left his mom’s house, with my unwanted six pack riding shotgun, I reflected on the fact that, despite being no closer to knowing what exactly I was going to do for my project, there was no way I could think of the experience I had just had as anything other than a complete success. I had just gotten the chance to pick the brain of one of Minnesota’s most respected homegrown musicians for an hour and half, had been the sole audience member for two fine performances, and had recorded the whole thing. I thought about the conversation the entire drive back, and a small nugget of an idea began to take hold in my brain as my project topic, but regardless of the success of my presentation, I had spent the afternoon talking with Charlie Parr, and that was more than enough.