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A few years ago, I talked to Minnesota musician Charlie Parr about life on the road. The Duluth folk icon, famous for his resonator guitar and footboard percussion, told me about a hand-bound book he used to sell at shows. The title? “Recipes Gauged for Long Drives to Montana: A Guide to Manifold Cooking.”
“You get hungry for a hot meal once in a while,” said Parr. “So, you get leftovers given to you and you wrap them in tin foil and put them on the manifold and drive away. If you get to the next town, and they’re still there, they’re warm and you can eat them.”
His first attempt at cooking under the hood of a car was a loaf of bread. I asked if it was any good.
“The bread? Oh, no.”
Manifold cooking has been around since motorists first discovered that the high heat of sputtering Model T engines could bake a potato. It is telling, however, that 100 years later, the face of manifold cooking is a rural musician.
Minnesota has long boasted a thriving music scene with clubs like First Avenue drawing A-list headliners while thrusting local talent toward stardom. But outside of bustling Twin Cities venues, hundreds of musicians travel long highways to bars, brewpubs and public libraries — really, any place willing to pay a few hundred bucks for a night of music. They’re out there tonight, playing shows that won’t be reviewed, recorded or streamed: trees falling in the woods of musical media. But contrary to assumptions, people hear them.