Mr. Charles Christian deserved so much more from us.

[Greco]

If the following is accurate, it is beyond extremely sad that Mr. Charles Christian had to wait more than 50 years to be provided with a decent headstone for his grave.

This is a lengthy read...just to prepare you.

I also had to edit it to be within the size limits for a post.

by Kevin Centlivre


Being a guitarist myself, I will never forget the first time I heard some of Charlie Christian's recordings. "Solo Flight" was the most impressive. With the advantage of technology, Charlie's amplified guitar found an equal position amongst the pounding volume of Swing Era brass. And swing it did; Charlie's precise execution of eighth note phrases and the lyrical articulation of the human voice left no doubt that he was telling his story, an intense, passionate ode in a bold, yet accepting manner. I felt like there was wind coming out of the speakers. I had been humbled by a musician that died fifteen years before I was born. Who was this guy, I wondered, and where did he come from?

It was my friend Craig McKinney who had introduced me to the music. We began to inquire about the musician's life. It seemed odd that such an important contributor to modern music had been lost somewhere in time. We began to check out the jazz biographies and essays at the local library. Nearly all of the writers on Charlie contradicted one another.

One of the most respected essays was one written for the Saturday Review in 1958 by Ralph Ellison. Ellison had grown up in Oklahoma City, and knew the Christian family. In his essay, he stated that there were three Christian brothers: Charlie, Edward and Clarence. Craig looked up the names in an Oklahoma City phone book. He found a listing for a "Christian, Clarence." Nervously, he called it. "Are you Charlie Christian's brother?" he asked the voice on the other end. "Yes," it replied.

In the winter of 1978 we drove to Oklahoma City to meet with him. We ended up with a couple of hours of taped interview, photographs, and the most concise biographical information ever gathered on the innovative, pioneering musician. My friend Craig and I returned later that spring, and after a brief visit with Clarence and his wife, Ella Mae, we were now headed to Charles' birthplace and final resting place.

Clarence had informed us that Charles was not born in Dallas, but in Bonham, a small northeast Texas town, in 1916, July 29 to be exact. He told us how he learned to play, something assumed by other biographers. Most of them had claimed that this information was unknown, forgotten, and ungatherable. We knew who he loved and when he triumphed. We knew the boy that longed to play baseball, but ended up playing music because of a practical joke played on his older musician brother, Edward. We felt that we had learned about all we could, that we were now the most informed experts on the life of Charlie Christian. But we were about to learn the most important lesson of all.
Clarence Christian, a sturdy, weathered, black man in his mid-sixties, was the most impressive part of the research thus far. He overflowed with wisdom, a kind of aging patriarch. You could tell that he was confounded that a couple of white boys in their early twenties would at all be interested in his brother, now thirty-six years dead. But he told them, with a graceful, flowing, melodic tone, the very essence of his beloved brother's life. A large marquee publicity photo of Charles hung in the living room of his modest, well-kept, older wood-frame home. It was signed at the bottom right, "I'm still carring on." This misspelling only added to the authenticity. A cherished guitar pick was under the glass on the bottom left of the frame. And he was "Charles," not "Charlie." "Charlie" was the name given to him in 1939 by renowned bandleader Benny Goodman, with whom he achieved his fame. "Charles" was Clarence's brother.

There was something different about Clarence that morning we left Oklahoma City on our sojourn to Bonham, Texas. The always overly informative spirit appeared subdued by sentiment. We knew that the house they lived in was on West Johnson Street. "Bonham's a small town," he said. "You'll find it." The response was the same when we inquired about the location of the cemetery, "You'll find it." Cemeteries are easy to find in a small town.

Bonham is a little town nestled in mild hills in northeast Texas, about sixty miles northeast of Dallas. As we drove in on that lush, warm and sunny spring afternoon, the green hills seemed to boast of their fertility. And there on our right, on the edge of town, was a glistening, well-kept cemetery.

There were a couple of maintenance workers near a small, white wooden building. "We're looking for someone. May we look through the register?" "Sure," one of them said and led us inside the small building. We combed through the list of names. No "Christian, Charles." Clarence had told us that his father and Edward were buried there too. "Are there any other cemeteries in town?" I asked. They directed us to another down the road.

We encountered the same result at the other cemetery, again a glistening monument to its inhabitants. We asked if there were any other cemeteries in Bonham. They directed us down the road to where we had already been. This didn't make any sense. It didn't register. We began to question the value of all the detailed, fascinating evidence we had been presented with. We began to question its presenter. We barely knew Clarence. What if he wasn't telling the truth?

Bonham was the county seat, so we went downtown to the courthouse. Downtown Bonham was a typical southern town built around a square. The courthouse was housed in a brown brick building on the southern end of it. We entered the building and walked in down the corridor to the registrar's office. "We're looking for all the cemeteries in Bonham," Craig said. A thin, pert, middle-aged white woman, with her glasses resting comfortably on the edge of her nose, responded, "Well, there is one northeast of town." We'd been there. "And there is one northwest of town," she said. "That's it?" we asked. "Yes," she replied. "Does that help you?" she asked in her smooth Texas drawl. "No, but thank you," as we both shook our heads and headed out the door down the hallway. "Say!" we heard her call from behind. We stopped and turned around. "There's an old colored cemetery south of town, but I'm sure that's not the one you're looking for." We looked at each other, our eyes meeting in disbelief. That was the one we were looking for.
It was now late afternoon, rapidly heading towards dusk. We had spent the better part of the day driving from Oklahoma City and hunting in the wrong cemeteries. After receiving directions to the "old colored cemetery," we headed to the south part of Bonham. We were sure that this was the end of our hunt.

The southern part of Bonham was "Tank Town." Immediately one could see the contamination of this sterile little community: run-down buildings, neglected property and shabby little businesses. We made the proper turn according to our directions, anxiety running high for both of us. What we saw will never leave my mind. There it was, the "old colored cemetery." An old arched iron gate, bent and twisted by time and elements, stood as an aged guard. Beyond it, fallen and leaning tombstones competed for their place among the weeds. There was no maintenance shed. There was no register.
We got out of the car and went through the broken down fence. If we wanted to find Charles, we would have to look at every single stone. This was further complicated by the fact that some of them were so weathered that the reading of them was nearly impossible. Others, you could tell, were homemade. Some had nothing but sunken ground with which to claim their occupants.

As we searched, the sun neared its course for the horizon. Frantically, we ran from stone to stone, all to no avail. In some places we looked twice. It didn't make any sense - this genius, this artist, lost in a human trash heap. It was getting too dark, so we decided to call it off. As we walked back to the car, I was trying to hold back tears. We stopped and turned for a final look. The sunset cast a purple and orange-red hue behind the silhouette of overgrown trees and weeds. The darkness creeping into the lot only emphasized the degradation of leaning tombstones. Strains of "Solo Flight" ran through my mind. Misty eyed, we climbed back into the car to find a place to spend the night. We would come back the next day only to the same result. If Charles was there, he didn't have a marker, or someone had taken it.

After interviewing some of the residents of Bonham we drove back to Oklahoma City, with plenty of new questions to ask. Clarence didn't hesitate to give some answers. "You didn't find it, did you?" he asked, obviously knowing the answer. "Charles' grave isn't marked. But I can find it. Our uncle poured a cement slab over the top of it to keep them from burying anybody on top on him. Space is pretty filled up in there." He went on to tell us where it was, but I found it hard to concentrate. I kept seeing that sunset, that silhouette. One of the most crucial elements of Charles' life was that of any black man in the south in the 1940's. Though hailed in New York and lauded by contemporaries and fans, in Bonham, Texas, Charlie Christian was just another nigger.

Postscript: In 1994 a headstone and historical marker were erected at Charles' gravesite during a ceremony sponsored by the Texas Historical Society and the Fannin County Museum of History. The headstone was donated by the Black Liberated Arts Council of Oklahoma City and the marker funded by

Dave

[mr. beaumont]

A sad story indeed...and not the only sad story in the history of jazz musicians...many of the people we hail as genius today lived and died virtually peniless...kinda sad considering jazz is the only american art form...

I may have bigger influences than charlie, but I owe everything to him...as anyone who plugs in a guitar and leads a group does...

[fumblefingers]

Yep. Charlie was the man!
By the way do you mean “original” art form? I always hear that and am taken aback just a little.

What about these? Are these original American art forms?
1. Blues
2. Rock and Roll
3. Soul
4. Hip-Hop
5. Country & Western
6. Rockabilly
7. Rap
8. Rhythm and Blues
9. Disco
AND
10. Camera design
11. Movies
12. Art Deco architecture
13. Radio design
14. Telephone design
15. Toilet design
16. Skyscraper design
17. Automobile design
18. Computer design
19. Machine gun design
20. Stinger missile design
21. Jet fighter design
22. Aircraft carrier design
23. Nuclear Bomb design
24. Botox injections therapy design
25. Fake titty design

[robertm2000]

Amazing story - this is real history. And a good example of what can be found if there's a personal stake in it. I know it will get me to look more closely at Mr. Christian's work and influence.

"Original" art forms? How many of them are just attempts to commercialize what is popular at the moment?

Charlie Christian (1916 - 1942) - Find A Grave Photos

[Synchro]

Quite an evocative story. It's sad to think of it being that way but not surprising in that day and age.

Many of my personal heroes have been guitarists and that's the context of most of my knowledge of them, their work as guitarists. It's easy to forget that these are people and, in many cases, people that have had a challenging existence whether it be substance problems, relationship problems or inner demons that seem to afflict highly creative people in many fields. It's also easy to assume that wealth accompanies fame but that's not always so.

It's sad to imagine poor Charles Christian, suffering tuberculosis and ending up buried in such humble circumstances but that was probably pretty common for poor people of any race back then. Still, it is interesting to think of old Charlie outside of the context of music; a man that came from a family that was proud of his accomplishments; a person that rose to the top of his field in spite of the indignities of segregation and the poor treatment he undoubtedly endured throughout his life because he was judged by his pigmentation, not his abilities.

He was a pioneer in his field, a man that showed the way to an entire generation of guitarists including some of the greatest players of my lifetime. Without CC there probably would not have been a Wes. Without Wes would George Benson have ever been the player he now is? And the list goes on. BB King credits CC as a major influence and on an instructional DVD he played some very CC-inspired licks.

I post frequently at a Gretsch forum. Some of the guys dig Jazz, others not so much. I've always said that anyone playing guitar today really needs to acknowledge three men that forged the path; Francisco Tarrega, who helped establish the guitar as a serious instrument; Charlie Christian, who used the electric guitar to play horn-like solos; and Django Reinhardt, who did for Europe what CC did for the US, albeit acoustically. IMHO, every guitar player today owes a debt to these three men.

[fumblefingers]

Originally Posted by robertm2000

Amazing story - this is real history. And a good example of what can be found if there's a personal stake in it. I know it will get me to look more closely at Mr. Christian's work and influence.

"Original" art forms? How many of them are just attempts to commercialize what is popular at the moment?

Charlie Christian (1916 - 1942) - Find A Grave Photos

That's a nice head stone but the memorial is very poorly written. It's riddled with errors such as "he started out on piano in 1937" and "sang" on many Benny Goodman hits.

Good grief. Yes, he deserved better and still does.

[fumblefingers]

Originally Posted by Synchro

Quite an evocative story. It's sad to think of it being that way but not surprising in that day and age.

Many of my personal heroes have been guitarists and that's the context of most of my knowledge of them, their work as guitarists. It's easy to forget that these are people and, in many cases, people that have had a challenging existence whether it be substance problems, relationship problems or inner demons that seem to afflict highly creative people in many fields. It's also easy to assume that wealth accompanies fame but that's not always so.

It's sad to imagine poor Charles Christian, suffering tuberculosis and ending up buried in such humble circumstances but that was probably pretty common for poor people of any race back then. Still, it is interesting to think of old Charlie outside of the context of music; a man that came from a family that was proud of his accomplishments; a person that rose to the top of his field in spite of the indignities of segregation and the poor treatment he undoubtedly endured throughout his life because he was judged by his pigmentation, not his abilities.

He was a pioneer in his field, a man that showed the way to an entire generation of guitarists including some of the greatest players of my lifetime. Without CC there probably would not have been a Wes. Without Wes would George Benson have ever been the player he now is? And the list goes on. BB King credits CC as a major influence and on an instructional DVD he played some very CC-inspired licks.

I post frequently at a Gretsch forum. Some of the guys dig Jazz, others not so much. I've always said that anyone playing guitar today really needs to acknowledge three men that forged the path; Francisco Tarrega, who helped establish the guitar as a serious instrument; Charlie Christian, who used the electric guitar to play horn-like solos; and Django Reinhardt, who did for Europe what CC did for the US, albeit acoustically. IMHO, every guitar player today owes a debt to these three men.

well said, regarding those 3 guitar giants.

[Stevebol]

It seems like the guys who could have been real game changers like Christian and C. Brown died way before their time. Not to knock Bird and be-bop in general but so called 'jazz' desperately needed both Christian and Brown.