Here he is on MTV, a beautiful kid with too much hair, packaged up for mass consumption, but the masses soon lose interest, and that Charlie drifts away.

Here he is with David Bowie, propping up the great shapechanger at his lowest creative ebb, a time of glass spiders and dead-end paths. Does he learn something here about the false idol of commercial success?

Here he is in Thelma and Louise, playing the front man of a fake bar band in a scene where the audience's attention is firmly directed elsewhere. Charlie creates the ambience, then disappears.

Here he is in the studio, working with all the household names, even as the wider world forgets his. Charlie is building a quiet reputation as the guitarist who brings the magic to every session.

Here he is with his brother Will, with the Arc Angels, and with the old Austin bluesman who first showed him how to play the guitar, W.C. Clark. Charlie releases solo albums from time to time, but not enough people care. He keeps working anyway, a servant of the music.

Here he is with Bob Dylan, on stage and right at the nucleus of the song and dance man's greatest band, but he's on a tight leash here, a thoroughbred kept in the stable more often than not. When he's not playing, he seems uncomfortable in his own skin, unsure where to stand. When he's allowed to run, he draws attention from the headliner.

Out on the road, the fluidity of his melodic lines and the originality of his inspiration win Charlie many new fans. He stays with Bob's band through the glory years with fellow instrumental prodigy Larry Campbell, leaves for a while, then comes back for another whirl around the world in the Never Ending Tour before returning to his own wobbly trajectory.

Charlie doesn't share his road stories with journalists. He is discreet. His favourite guitar is polished like a mirror.

Here he is behind the desk with Lucinda Williams, helping usher more songs of beautiful heartache into being. Here he is in front of the movie camera, channelling fellow Texan Townes Van Zandt. Here he is on TV, unrecognisable as an evil preacher crossing swords with John Brown in slavery days. Charlie's guitar stays in the trailer.

Back on stage, here he is with the music of his old friend David Bowie, Mr Jones beyond death now but still casting his net and influence wide.

And then tonight, here is the wonderful surprise of Mr Sexton once again, playing with Elvis Costello of all people. At 54, Charlie is the youngster on stage, but at times he seems like an old man in his tight suit, rings and dangly tie. Rake-thin, he's hunched and worrying about his strings and his amp and his hair, constantly trying to keep his glasses from falling off his nose, stepping up to sing back up vocals and staying out of the way of the dinosaurs in the band.

Then the bass player says something and he's like an excited child; his grin lights up the stage.

When Declan calls out Charlie's name, the audience doesn't quite know who he is. He hits the button on his lead pedal. Squinting at the crowd, he steps effortlessly into the musical groove laid down by another guitarist decades before, bringing the required wave of nostalgia crashing through the arena, before taking the song somewhere wonderfully new.

If you watch Charlie night after night, he seems incapable of playing the same sequence of notes exactly the same way twice; there's always some fresh discovery or invention, with rhythm in his lead lines and melody in his rhythm.

There's a weird energy that seems to whirl around him, distracting him at times. If he can hear something no one else on stage can, he also knows every lyric, key change, pause and stab. As a guitarist, he appears to recognise no walls between musical genres or styles – there are just endless, beautiful notes.

Late in the gig, Charlie finally stops fiddling with his glasses and lets them fall, abandoning himself to the music. Now he looks like a young Christopher Reeve, or James Dean, or Robin Goodfellow. The sound of his guitar shimmers through the aether.

At the end of the show, Charlie puts down his instrument, smiles to himself and does a little jig off the stage, leaving the limelight to others.

The audience might not know it, but they've been blessed by Charlie Sexton.

***

I wrote this essay in March 2024. Artwork created with Midjourney AI.

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