We have rock & roll as we know it in large part because of Chuck Berry.
First and foremost, he made the electric solid-body guitar (a relatively new invention in and of itself) the primary instrument of the new musical form, steering the nascent musical style away from R&B piano and countrified hollow-body guitars as the musical vehicle of choice. You don't get to Eric Clapton and Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Page and Eddie Van Halen without Chuck.
Secondly, he was the complete artist. He not only played and sang, but he composed his own material as well (frequently in collaboration with Johnnie Johnson). Few performers wrote their own songs at the time; Elvis didn't, nor did Frank Sinatra or Tony Bennett or Bing Crosby. New York City was full of songwriters who were turning out material for others to sing. But Berry was a natural storyteller, who put his tales of dancing, dating, high school beauty queens and living the American dream to music in a way that was emotionally light years ahead of virtually anything else heard in rock & roll at the time. He ushered in a new era of singers who wrote their own material, such as Carl Perkins, Buddy Holly and Roy Orbison. Of course, some of his most successful spiritual offspring are Brian Wilson and Lennon and McCartney.
Lastly, he brought honest-to-God swagger. Elvis may have oozed raw sex appeal on stage, but otherwise he was a shy country boy. Little Richard was a wild man, but so much so that he almost seemed like a living cartoon. The only other African-American rocker of Chuck's caliber in the Fifties was Fats Domino, who was a quiet, reticent man. But Chuck was not shy. He was handsome and witty and sharp, he dressed in fine clothes and he drove expensive cars. We have a hard time understanding now just how seismically radical that was for 1950s white America. Of course, he paid a steep price for that soon enough.
At the absolute peak of his fame, with a long string of huge hit songs behind him..."Maybelline", "Roll Over Beethoven", "Johnny B. Goode", "Sweet Little Sixteen" among them...Chuck found himself in prison. Not surprisingly, he was the architect of his own downfall. Maybe he had gotten too cocky, and figured his success made him untouchable. He quickly learned otherwise. He had opened a nightclub back in his native St. Louis, and for reasons unfathomable, he thought it was a good idea to drive an underage Apache prostitute from Arizona back to Missouri so she could work at the club. That violated the Mann Act, which forbade transporting minors across state lines for immoral purposes, and that was a federal crime.
Chuck landed himself in the slammer for a couple of years, and in the meantime, rock & rock underwent a massive transformation. Most of the first generation of stars disappeared from the charts, and the few who could hang on, most notably Elvis, began turning out syrupy ballads, which was what the corporate music industry had largely reduced rock & roll to, once they had gotten a better handle on the beast and tamed it.
So when Chuck finally got out of prison, he was bitter, and it looked as if he was forgotten. Worse than forgotten, really...he saw himself being robbed; some lily white punk kids out in California calling themselves the Beach Boys had a Top 5 hit with a song called "Surfin' U.S.A." The credit for writing the song was claimed solely by Brian Wilson, and thus 100% of the royalties were going to him. The problem was, the entire melody, kicked off by a note-for-note copy of Chuck's signature guitar riff, was an exact duplicate of Chuck's own "Sweet Little Sixteen". Chuck didn't hold out much hope for compensation, but after a couple of years of legal agitation, not only was the song re-credited as a Wilson/Berry composition, but Chuck's own music publishing company got the full rights to the song. So, score one for the brown-eyed handsome man.
More daunting still was the prospect of rebuilding his own musical career. America at the time wasn't well-known for giving black ex-cons a second chance, particularly when that chance meant letting their white teenaged daughters swoon over his songs. There was also the fact that nearly a full decade had passed since he had his first hit song, and for a lot of young teens, Chuck Berry was seen as a relic of that ancient past known as the Fifties. But he had the loyal support of his record label, Chicago blues giant Chess Records, and what's more, Chuck had some powerful arrows in his quiver.
It's pretty amazing that for all of the bitterness he felt for the hand fate had dealt him, Chuck didn't let it sour the inherent optimism of his songwriting. As a result, he beat the odds, roaring up the charts with a couple of his best tunes, "Nadine", "No Particular Place to Go" and, greater still, "You Never Can Tell". And he did it during the musical tsunami that was the British Invasion, when so many other American artists were washed away from America's own Top 40. It certainly didn't hurt him any that the Beatles and Rolling Stones were not only proclaiming their love and admiration for Chuck, but recording their own versions of his tunes.
That's kind of the high water mark for Chuck Berry. He was now firmly ensconced as an Elder Statesman of Rock, and given the deference and respect he was due. He continued to tour successfully for decades to come, and his music became ingrained into the soul of global culture. The People's Republic of China made a big deal out of banning "Roll Over Beethoven" because they felt it was disrespectful to the classical composer. When NASA sent the Voyager probe off into the universe on the off-chance it might be found by some other species, they included a disc with examples of what the dominant species on Earth had accomplished to date, and they included "Johnny B. Goode". When they launched the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1986, Chuck was in the very first class of inductees.
I've got a Chuck Berry story of my own, although it's not a very fulfilling one. Back around 2000 or so, I had the chance to see him and Little Richard play live. Richard was astounding, singing with the energy of a 25 year old, pounding out song after song on his piano as he wailed and "Ooooooooo'd" with reckless abandon.
Chuck, sadly, seemed every bit a man in his seventies. His voice was flat, and he didn't even bother to properly tune his guitar. He never toured with his own band in those days; he simply required that promoters find a couple of local musicians to back him up. As any halfway decent bar band can play the Chuck Berry repertoire, it shouldn't be difficult to find some competent sidemen. And yet, this promoter managed to achieve an epic fail. The bass player had his amp cranked up way too high, so that his thump-thump-thump nearly drowned out all other sounds. Worse still was the guy behind the drum kit, who played as if he had never held two sticks before. It probably didn't help any that he had a broken arm and his limb was in a cast. If Chuck still cared about the music, I'm sure he would have told those two to get the hell off of his stage, and then just played and sang all by himself. But sadly, he had stopped caring. This was just another paycheck, and it didn't matter if the show was any good or not...the money would still be the same.
But I don't let that night spoil my love for Chuck Berry. As far as I'm concerned, he contributed enough great art to our culture to get a lifetime pass for bad concerts. And now that he's died (having lived multiple lifetimes in his 90 years), I think it's the perfect opportunity for people to explore his work. Do yourself a favor and look beyond the usual hits, and seek out gems like "Thirty Days (To Come Back Home)", "Promised Land", "Reelin' and Rockin'", and what I think is the greatest rock & roll Christmas song (and why is it that rock & rollers so often fail at creating decent Christmas songs? Hell, even Paul McCartney and Elton John couldn't pull it off.), "Run Rudolph Run".
Farewell Chuck, and thanks for everything.
Tell the folks back home this is the promised land callin'
And the poor boy's on the line
And the poor boy's on the line
