By Alejandra Loera
By Adam Lovinus
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nate Jackson
By Marcus Alan Goldberg
By Reyan Ali
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nate Jackson
There is a Chuck Berry song in space. I don't recall which one, but some sage chose it to go up in one of those NASA deep-space probes, along with other recordings and artifacts of the human experience.
Some scientists like to think it was alien bacteria landing on Earth in an asteroid, spacecraft or pink Coupe de Ville untold years ago that began the whole sequence of life here. I'd like to see the life that develops on any planet infected by Berry's space-bound music. Given less than half a century to incubate here, it has had a pervasive effect.
"If you tried to give rock & roll another name, you might call it Chuck Berry," John Lennon once said, and why not? Elvis Presley may have made a bigger splash, but it was Berry who set the standard to which rockers from Buddy Holly to Dylan, the Beatles and the Stones—and onward—aspired.
Unlike Elvis, Berry was self-contained, developing a cocky signature guitar style that, while perfectly suiting his lyrics, also became the basic architecture of rock; those lyrics were sly, lean poetry that slipped unfettered sex and social commentary into his idealized candy-apple images of American life.
He sang about refrigerators and soda pop and filling stations and baseball, but there was always something else going on. In "No Particular Place to Go," Berry celebrated the sexual liberation of American youth brought about by the automobile. With his eye for the new, Berry wrote about then-optional seat belts, seeing in them man's ancient nemesis, the chastity belt:Riding along in my calaboose, still trying to get her belt a-loose, All the way home I held a grudge, for the safety belt that wouldn't budge, Cruisin' and playing the radio, with no particular place to go.
I'd put that alongside Walt Whitman any day when it comes to catching the cadence of the USA.
Berry's seen it all. He's been imprisoned twice, at least one of those times for the crime of being black in America. He's also been feted by a president—at last year's Kennedy Center Honors. After being ripped off in his earlier years, he now has one of the most exacting and demanding contract riders in the music business, making sure that if anybody gets screwed this time, Chuck Berry Esq., will be the party applying the Vaseline.
I haven't seen him play in a few years, but the last time—and most times before that—it has sure been rock & roll. Chuck shows up, unpacks his guitar, says a howdeedo to backing musicians he's probably never seen before, and starts to play. More often than not, his guitar is wildly out of tune, so much so that the band can barely discern what key he's in. No matter: he bludgeons you with a blunt instrument instead of a sharp one, and you're just as ravaged when he's done. He entertains. He reads poetry. Even when he's singing his ancient hits there's a sense of immediacy, like he's walking a tightrope up there. He plays wildly abstract versions of his old licks, the way they might be played by whatever life form develops on Planet X 6 million years hence. He rocks, Chuck does.—Jim Washburn
In the late 1980s, I once worked as a gofer backstage at a music-awards show at the Wiltern Theatre in Los Angeles. X co-founder John Doe was sitting there, waiting to go onstage and strumming an acoustic guitar. His wails echoed through the hall, sounding something like this: "YAAAAR, GUUUUHHH, FRAAAAAMP, FOURTH OF JULY, YAAAAR, GUUUUHHH, FRAAAAAMP . . ." Doe then stopped, looked up from his strings and eyeballed me. "How 'bout a beer?" he asked. I went to the cooler. Empty. A promoter handed me some bills and sent me across the street to pick up mass quantities of brewskis. Typical promoter: he'd only given me a few bucks. Forced to ante up with what little cash of my own I had on me, I dejectedly walked back to the Wiltern. Somehow, the two 12-packs of the King of Beers I was lugging would have to satisfy the hundreds of musicians and hangers-on backstage. I'd hardly opened the door when Doe swooped down, reached into a shopping bag, ripped open a 12-pack box, pulled out an ice-cold one and grabbed my shoulder. "Hey, buddy," he whispered, "take the rest up to my dressing room." My advice to Hootenanny promoters: stock beer.—Todd Mathews
Fronted by swaggering hellion Eddie Spaghetti, the raucous four-piece Supersuckers are an electrifying cocktail of loud guitars, hedonism and bravado. Their most recent bio suggests you "play it so loud that you can't even hear it" because "Supersuckers aren't made for listening; they're made for living inside your nutsack." Yeah! Woo! We don't know exactly what that means, but it's worth thinking about. In fact, when asked if he'd like Supersuckers living in his nutsack, co-worker Chris Ziegler had this to say: "It's ironic that you ask because I'm currently looking for a place for me to live, and I was originally looking for a two- or three-bedroom apartment." When asked to please just answer the question and not use it as an excuse to talk about himself, Ziegler grew pensive. "How many people are in the band?" he asked. "Four," we replied, "two per sack." "Oh," said Ziegler thoughtfully. "That's too bad because I have a three-bedroom nutsack, no smoking, no pets, very quiet, detached washer/dryer. Must see to believe." Sorry, Supersuckers. We tried our best to house you in Ziegler's balls, but it doesn't seem like it's going to work out.—Alison M. Rosen
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