My first interaction with Chuck Berry was "My Ding-A-Ling." We weren't off to a good start.
Chuck Berry, though, was shrewd and smart. Much smarter than that dumb song that I heard on my blue transistor radio as a kid. His songs were masterpieces in setting the scene. Presenting intriguing characters. Setting landscapes. Chuck was an artist. And where business was concerned, Chuck took matters into his own hands. Was his own boss. His own accountant. His own deal-maker. He determined his own destiny. He decided that he knew the type of music that people of all colors wanted to hear. And buy. That last part is key. Where popular music was concerned in the 1950s, Chuck saw the future. Riskier. More provocative. More daring. More suggestive. He also knew there was a lot of dollars waiting there.
Chuck was lean and mean. And dangerous. As a kid, he got my attention upon first sight. The hair. The shirts. The jackets. The belt. The rings. The shoes. The moves. The showman's smile. The glorious arrogance. The occasionally crazy eyes. But most of all, the guitar. That big, fat, fire-breathing Gibson guitar. Slung low. Ready to aim. Ready to fire. One blistering lick. Then another. Then a memory-carving riff. Chunking. Pulling. Tugging. Back. Forward. Back again. Then stop on a dime. Bam! That fucking guitar cracking waves as Chuck soloed hard and fast, lean on notes but heavy on attitude. Chuck was no spring chicken by the time I was introduced to him, but power is power, and an alpha male will be noticed. I noticed. Guys like that don't age. They season.
Chuck was no saint. He did time. He made enemies. He wasn't as generous with the success and attention he got as he should have been. Johnnie Johnson's fingers on the piano keys in Chuck's best songs was the sugar in Chuck's coffee. One doesn't taste quite right without the other. Chuck's live playing could be painfully off key and uninspired. He also liked the ladies, despite being married. He had a mountain-sized ego, didn't apologize for it, and basically could be an unpredictable prick. There are some valid reasons for the paranoia and hair-trigger temper he demonstrated. Growing up black in St. Louis in the 1940s, dealing with cheating promoters and fighting for royalties, run-ins with the law, and more would turn anyone a bit sour. Still, he was a tough pill to swallow. Despite the flaws, though, all of us have certain people we give a free pass. Chuck Berry was such a person for me. The good outweighed the bad. And the good was really good.
Chuck Berry didn't just forever alter pop music by making rock and roll dynamic, fun, universal, interesting, entertaining, and infectious. He forever altered pop culture. Little Richard had sass and class. Buddy Holly had the smarts. Elvis had the presence and voice. Chuck Berry, though, he had real "swagger." Not pretend. The kind that doesn't apologize. The kind that laughs at timidness. The kind that's based on being a bad ass. A real gun-toting, matter-of-fact, back-the-fuck-up bad ass. Not fabricated or manufactured. Based on talent, desire, and drive. Chuck Berry also made the guitar a very cool piece of equipment. Whether they know it or not, Chuck Berry helped spawn a legion of guitarists that will continue to do his bidding long after he's gone, and that's making electricity dance and sing. Chuck Berry was a poet. A musician. A rebel. An intellect. A demon. A crooner. A storyteller. A charlatan. A force of nature. As much as I love Elvis and Jerry Lee and Bill Haley and Rufus Thomas and Buddy Holly and every other person who contributed to rock and roll's roots, Chuck Berry to me is the true creator.
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