Charlie Louvin

Charlie Louvin is haunted by a voice inside his head, the high-tenor harmony voice of his brother Ira, dead now 41 years.

Even today, Charlie acknowledges, he unconsciously takes a step backward from the microphone stand at those points in the song where Ira would lean forward and chime in with his part. Charlie hears that sweet Alabama tenor, maybe a third or a fifth above his own, even if no one else in the auditorium can.

“Anytime and every time I sing a song,” he confesses, “I can hear his part, even though he’s not there. I ain’t never found nobody who can duplicate Ira’s part. A lot of people imitate him, but no one can sing a harmony like he could. I hope someday the Japanese invent something that I can wear on my head, and whatever I hear in my head will come out. That would be great.”

Until the Japanese invent the Ghost Voice Amplification Helmet, the rest of us can only guess at the sounds inside Charlie’s head. The best guesses are informed by the recordings The Louvin Brothers made for Capitol between 1952 and 1963. Top 10 country singles such as “When I Stop Dreaming,” “I Don’t Believe You’ve Met My Baby,” “You’re Running Wild” and “Cash On The Barrel Head” created the eerie impression that two people had blended their voices so closely that they almost became one person. That “almost” was crucial, however, for that combination is the ultimate aim of every relationship—whether the two people are siblings, lovers, bandmates, or just pals.

That string of classic singles inspired such close-harmony duos as Don & Phil Everly, Gram Parsons & Emmylou Harris, Wynonna & Naomi Judd, Alison Krauss & Dan Tyminski, and Roger McGuinn & Chris Hillman. Through The Everly Brothers, that influence extended to John Lennon & Paul McCartney and Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel. The list of singers who signed up for the 2003 tribute album, Livin’, Lovin’, Losin’: Songs of the Louvin Brothers, includes Harris, Krauss, Dolly Parton, James Taylor, Linda Ronstadt, Rodney Crowell, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Glen Campbell, Patty Loveless, Vince Gill and Dierks Bentley.

On his new solo album, Charlie Louvin, the singer is joined by such younger admirers as Elvis Costello, Jeff Tweedy, George Jones, Tift Merritt, Tom T. Hall, Marty Stuart and Will Oldham. None of them, though, can replace the ghostly voice of Ira. In fact, the most riveting moment on the album comes not on the celebrity-guest remakes of the old songs but on “Ira,” a new song Charlie sings by himself.

Elvis Presley’s old guitarist, Chip Young, and Earl Scruggs’ grandson, Chris Scruggs, open the song with gentle, midtempo picking. Then Charlie—in the frail, wavering voice of a 79-year-old man—croons to his late brother, “You were the king of Sand Mountain.” It’s a reference to the plateau in northeastern Alabama where Ira and Charlie Loudermilk grew up on a 40-acre farm, helping their father raise cotton, corn, cane, peanuts and potatoes. Their bond was forged during the long summer days, when they would work from can’t-see-in-the-morning till can’t-see-at-night. After a day like that, there was a tremendous release in listening to the family’s hillbilly 78s and imitating them on their own instruments—Ira’s mandolin and Charlie’s guitar. In 1947, after they’d already been singing professionally for five years, the 23-year-old Ira and the 20-year-old Charlie changed their stage name to The Louvin Brothers. It would be another eight years before they achieved their ultimate goal of performing on the Grand Ole Opry radio program.

“Alabama to the Opry was the second hardest road,” Charlie sings on the new song; “the worst was me losing you and singing all alone.” In 1963, after 11 years as one of the biggest acts in country music, Charlie had had enough of Ira’s drinking, womanizing and temper, and the younger brother walked out on the act, launching his solo career with Top five single “I Don’t Love You Anymore” as Ira struggled to get his life on track. He was finally making some headway—he’d been sober awhile, he’d recorded several singles and his fourth marriage seemed to be taking hold—when he was killed in a car crash in Williamsburg, Mo., on June 20, 1965. The irony was rich enough for a country song; it wasn’t Ira who was driving drunk that day, it was the other driver.

When Charlie warbles that the hardest thing he ever faced was losing his brother and singing all alone, the stab of despair in his voice is all the sharper for it being difficult to admit. It was never easy being the younger brother of Ira Louvin, a man of immense pride and little generosity. It was worth it, though, to create that harmony, that sound of two siblings blending so closely that they nearly—but not quite—became one voice.

The sound still resonates in Charlie’s head, and he addresses his big brother’s ghost on the new song’s chorus: “Ira, I still hear you, off in the distance, your sweet harmony. Ira, I still miss you. There’ll never be another, ’cause you can’t beat family.” The chorus begins with hopeful expectation, as if Charlie believes the voice in his head might respond, but it ends in weary fatalism, as he realizes it never will.

“Do I miss him?” Charlie asks sharply. “Of course, I miss him. How would you like to do without your brother, your wife or one of your children? If something happened to them, you’d miss them.” As he sits in his rural home near Manchester, Tenn., halfway between Nashville and Chattanooga, Charlie clearly aches from the empty spot left by Ira’s absence. At the same time, he refuses to minimize what an aggravating pain in the ass Ira could be.

“I wrote that song ‘Ira,’” he explains, “about a year-and-a-half ago with the Laclaire Twins, a couple of good entertainers from around here who sound a lot like The Louvin Brothers and The Everly Brothers. They came over to my house one day and asked me, ‘Why haven’t you ever written a song about your brother in heaven?’ I told them, ‘Because I never associated Ira with heaven.’”

“When he was straight, he was golden,” Charlie allows, “as nice a person as you could ever meet, and probably as good a songwriter as ever lived. But he couldn’t stay straight for long. If we were out for 10 days, after the second day, he’d be drinking and ready to go home. It got to the point where I’d say, ‘You’re not getting a red cent till the tour is over and you go home with me.’ I never did learn how to handle a drunk. You can knock them down—and there was some of that, too—but that doesn’t solve it.”