Chris was an amazing person: an ex-high school football player and Golden Gloves (champion) boxer, who could get teary -eyed on stage singing some old country weeper. He could be a man of few words, just nodding in conversation or showing a small, elfin smile, or (like the last time I got to talk to him, backstage at a bar in Denver) talking almost non-stop for around two hours, about boxing, music, cars, guitars and the funny things you see touring the country in a crowded band-van.
Years ago, at a Sunday afternoon gathering at the home of former Phantom Herd bass player "Bunk" Bentley, I mentioned to Chris, off-handedly, some comment about Chris being a great artist. He was hung over from the previous night's gig, but was sipping a beer anyway. "I'm no artist!", he said, grumpily. He took a long pull from the bottle, then said, quietly, "I'm a Country singer." He was, and and a lot more.
