Charles Rangel: Harlem’s Congressman, Jazz’s Quiet Witness

Charles Rangel was more than a Congressman. He was Harlem's heartbeat—a living archive of its culture, community, and sound. In the National Jazz Museum in Harlem's Harlem Speaks Oral History series, Rangel reflects on growing up with the music, the icons who defined a generation, and how jazz was inseparable from Black life in 20th-century America.

In a remarkable interview conducted by Loren Schoenberg and Christian McBride, with appearances by Billy Taylor and Arthur Barnes, Rangel offers stories rich in detail and rhythm —from the Apollo Theater to the Hotel Theresa to sneaking into Minton's Playhouse.

"Jazz is the only music that America can call its own," Rangel says. "It allowed itself to break down color lines and bring people together long before people were challenging racism."

But it's not just commentary—it's memoir. Rangel doesn't talk about Harlem's golden age, he re-inhabits it.

He recalls sitting in the same seat every time Billie Holiday sang at the Apollo.

"There was no question in my mind that Billie Holiday loved me," he says with a smile. "She would look for me." Years later, he was the night clerk at the Hotel Theresa when Holiday arrived at 2 AM, asking for a room. Not recognizing her at first, he turned her away—only to realize, to his shock, who she was. That moment captures what Rangel embodies: a fan, a witness, and a keeper of the flame.

His love for the Hotel Theresa runs deep. He paints it not just as a place to stay, but as Harlem's informal cultural embassy —"Many people were in the lobby that never registered for a room. They'd ask to be paged—just to be seen."

And then there are the scenes of raw jazz drama—like when Duke Ellington, challenged by Jimmie Lunceford 's band in a cutting contest, famously ditched the charts and called for head arrangements.

"He just closed the books and played from the soul," Rangel says. "That was the power of those bands—they didn't need paper to make magic."

But perhaps the most unforgettable story involves Lionel Hampton. Rangel helped bring Hampton to Washington D.C. to receive the Congressional Gold Medal. Just days before, Hampton's apartment caught fire.

"He was on the local news in his pajamas," Rangel laughs. "I had to find him a tuxedo in one night." At the ceremony, when the band struck up Flying Home, Hampton, then well into his 80s, sprang up, grabbed mallets, and played like a man reborn. "That was a new man that night. He just never stopped."

These aren't just stories. They are testaments to resilience, joy, and the inseparability of music and place.

As The Jazz Files launches, this tribute sets the tone: a reverent look back at the voices and visuals that have shaped our jazz history—many of them, like Rangel's, recorded just in time.

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