Roll Over, Beethoven

A true story

A friend of mine and I met Chuck Berry in the Spring of 1964 when he performed at an old skating rink on Dyer street, past the Rocket Drive-In in Northeast El Paso. That area at the outskirts of the city was known for its predominantly white and somewhat redneck population so it was with a little trepidation that we went to the show. Not that we expected trouble but the Southwest has lots of rattlesnakes, some of which are bipeds. We called the kids who lived there Stompers but I don't know why. The cultural divide between us could be measured in astronomical powers of 10 given their preference for The Beach Boys’ surf music. That's right -- surf music in the deserts of West Texas. All the Stompers needed to realize their bikini laden surfing fantasies was a few quadrillion barrels of salt water added to the several million acres of sand that surround the city. And a massive wave machine.

Just add water

Chuck had been released from prison a few months before and was now attempting a comeback. I don't know if he chose the El Paso venue because it was obscure enough to hide a possible failure or because given his prison records, better venues weren't ready to hire a convicted rapist and armed robber. He had served a prison sentence for armed robbery when he was a teenager in 1944, then again for violating the Mann Act in 1959. Even the city's most popular and influential DJ, Steve Crosno, who counted many celebrities and top musical acts among his friends didn’t risk appearing with Chuck, though he regularly defied his Program Director and played Berry's records several times out of the normal rotation.

 

  In the 60's only one radio station in El Paso played Chuck Berry's records. His music and other music like it were considered uncivilized but kids like me liked it a lot. We couldn't wait for school to let out so we could listen to the Top 40 on KELP. The Top 40 was mostly populated with smarmy doowop songs freighted with teenage angst, lost loves, untimely teen death, unrequited passions, and one song that ended with a romantic double murder. But interspersed within the treacly flotsam were the golden nuggets of the real Rock & Roll we longed for. We didn't bother with KROD or KTSM and the sterile offerings by Pat Boone, Perry Como and the like. KSET billed itself as "El Paso's Fine Music Station" featuring familiar classical music excerpts and atrocious instrumental covers of songs by Connie Francis, Frank Sinatra and the cast of TV's Hit Parade. KHEY played country music and I didn't know anyone who listened to that station save one of my classmates and me. We both listened for the same reason. If we could ignore the content of the songs and the singers we could hear some creative licks, riffs and counterpoints from the backup musicians whom I guessed weren’t listening to lyrics or the singers either. Late at night, if the weather conditions were just right I could tune my radio to KOMO, 800 miles away in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and hear more Rock & Roll. The static was awful and the station faded in and out but it didn't matter. Across the border in Juarez, border blaster XELO with its 150,000 watt transmitter spread Garner Ted Armstrong's evangelical polemics worldwide on weekends from 10 PM 'til midnight.

The powerful signal swamped many stations in the U.S.

I could pick up KOMO on this radio

Berry's music was new and exciting. Defying their parents and pastors, kids danced to it and begged for more. It felt good to use up the energy that our elders kept hammering down. It made musicians want to play harder and louder. Dozens of future Rock & Roll stars credited Berry for his influence on their music. Though by current musical standards his music and onstage antics are considered quaint, at their inception they were revolutionary. He was among the first musicians to venture into the unknown ocean of lifelike, exuberant musical expression; not dipping his toes cautiously in the water but jumping in, guitar and all, without a safety line. Chuck didn't teach anyone how to play, he just showed them the way. Play what's in your head ---- not what’s expected. Jimi Hendrix, admittedly influenced by Berry’s music, would lead the next generation of rockers into even deeper waters.

Berry's music broke many radio traditions. Music like his and the musicians who inspired him weren't played on typical radio stations. There were things wrong with "Colored" music. It wasn't fit for the civilized. During the Flapper Era of the 1920's the saxophone’s seductive sound was blamed for causing young women to lose their virtue. (If only!) Now Rock & Roll was believed to be the on-ramp for the highway to hell. Before Americans had genitals, TV audiences watching Elvis on the Ed Sullivan Show were not shown his gyrating hips lest America's youngsters think there was something down there besides pocket change. Chuck broke other traditions as well such as the tradition of paying income taxes. Over his lifetime he would make and lose small fortunes and earn convictions for violating tax laws.

"The highway to hell is that way! Let's go, people!"

On the afternoon I met Chuck I was surprised to see that his band was made up of local guys I'd seen playing around town. Where were his sidemen? Where was the tour bus? Why were those kids on stage? I looked around and wondered why he would play at an old skating rink with its lousy acoustics and rickety bandstand. I understood then what the term rinky dink meant.

The band began to play and I thought they must be the warmup band. Chuck and his men would be up next after the local guys got the audience revved up. But, no. Two songs later Chuck walked on stage wearing a white suit, white shoes, red shirt, white tie, and, of course, his duck tail hair. The band backed up to make room for Chuck and got ready to play.

It wasn't until the late 1980's when I was watching a documentary* celebrating his 60th birthday that I learned Chuck Berry didn't have a band, a tour bus, or a manager. He did as many as 100 shows each year, all one-nighters, using unrehearsed local bands who were paid by the concert promoter. His requirements were that the promoter pay his air fare, one hotel night, pay him in cash, and that the local band had to know all his songs. It was the cash that got the IRS' attention.

We cheered when he opened the show with “School Days”. It was a rough start for the band. They were nervous and it showed. For starters, the drummer was an eighth note late with the first beat, then the bass fumbled the bass run. Chuck continued playing until they caught up. After the first song they got better and the show got better with Chuck doing the stage act we had all seen on American Bandstand, including his trademark duck walk across the stage. The acoustics was crappy and the only pro on the bandstand was Chuck Berry but we loved it anyway.

By 1967 he was a headlining again

By the time they had played six or seven songs they were in sync with Chuck and were able to pick up his cues for the bridges and the beat. They began playing "Johnny B. Good" and the exhilarated crowd dove into it, roaring the chorus along with Chuck and the band. It was a shared moment of discovery, kindred spirits, exuberantly shouting out joy and fun. The bass player who had been rock steady in support of the song decided to show off his improvisational skills. Chuck and the other musicians looked at him -- what the hell was he doing? They continued playing and when the chorus came around we roared again:
        “Go, go, go Johnny go! Go, go, go Johnny go!"
Chuck turned his back on the audience to face the bass player. He cued the drummer to increase the tempo. He turned back to the audience, tossed his head in the direction of the bass player then cued the drummer to up the tempo once more. The drummer was having the time of his life taking direction from Chuck Berry! By this time the beat was so fast that the bass player could barely keep up. He was standing high up on his toes, leaning back as far as he could, holding his breath, and seemed about to fall over. Chuck brought the beat down to normal and gave the bassist a little smile maybe to remind him to never upstage the marquee act.  

Go! Go! Go, Johnny! Go, Go, Go!

When band took a break my friend and I went looking for a bathroom. We got lost and found Chuck sitting near an exit at the end of a hallway backstage. He was sitting by himself on a rusty folding chair smoking a cigarette; the exit door propped open to let the smoke out or fresh air in. He saw us and nodded acknowledgement. We were alone, face to face with Chuck Berry. I could ask him anything. I was afraid to lose the moment and tried to think of intelligent things to ask. Instead, I became a standard issue “fan” babbling nonsense ---- Great show! Love your songs! Have all your records! What do you call your guitar?! His responses to my stupid remarks were appropriately courteous and laconic.

Many musicians have a sort of affection for their instruments. The attachments might be based on some superstition or maybe they truly have a favorite instrument that "fits" them better than any other. B.B. King's favorite guitar is named Lucille. He has an elaborate story about how he came to name it following a fire at a club where he was playing. Willie Nelson's acoustic guitar which has as many miles on it as Willie's face, has a large hole worn into the wood below the strings where his picks scrape when he hits hard chords. Chuck took a drag on his cigarette, looked out the door at the desert then said to me, "What do I call my guitar? I call it my guitar". 

Almost 50 years later, paraphrasing Sigmund Freud, it’s clear to me that sometimes a guitar is just a guitar.

*The documentary about Berry's career was called "Hail! Hail! Rock & Roll". 
It's available on DVD from Netflix 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hail!_Hail!_Rock_%27n%27_Roll