Chuck Berry told Jim Crow to roll over

March 18, 2017

Many times over the last several years I’ve reminded my friends that we live in the same world as Chuck Berry. Like people who lived in the time of Beethoven, we lived in a world where Berry still walked among us. Now some kid will have to sing, “Roll over, Chuck Berry.”


There are people (and one President) who think America was great in 1954. We call these people “racists.” America was in the wicked grip of Jim Crow, slavery’s bastard offspring. Then on May 17, 1954, the Supreme Court decided the Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka case and institutional racism of “great” America lost one important pillar. And three years later, skinny Dorothy Counts would be escorted into a high school in North Carolina while white students spit on her. But the writing was on the wall.

The summer of 1955 Chess Records released a single by an R&B singer from St. Louis named Chuck Berry who played guitar and wrote his own songs. He sang confidently and black legs spread wide. “Mayballene” hit #1 on the R&B charts and was the #3 song for the year on the Billboard chart. The world BCB (before Chuck Berry) was over. White kids were buying “race” records like there was no caucasian tomorrow. The children of the Baby Boom were smashing the wall of American segregation and “Johnny B. Goode” was their battle cry. I bet even some of those kids in the “White Citzen Council” who spit on Dorothy Counts would, sooner or later, own some Berry records.


And it it wasn’t just American kids. The lads in the Beatles and the Rolling Stones sold their Anglican souls to become like Chuck, so much more than Elvis. Both played sets heavy in Berry-penned songs, including his B-sides. Listen to the Beatles’ version of Chuck’s “Rock and Roll Music.” John Lennon slyly changes the line, “It’s got a backbeat” to “It’s got a black beat” as they played in places where promoters wanted their audience to be racially segregated. (They refused to play segregated shows. They were playing a black beat, after all.)

Without Chuck Berry, there would be no Beatles or Stones, and perhaps no 1960s as we know it. Those 1950s white teenyboppers who snuck copies of “Sweet Little Sixteen” on to their parents’ hi-fi became the countercultural rebels of the 1960s, listening to John Coltrane albums and heading to Mississippi to register black voters that “Freedom Summer” of 1964, and then on to join SNCC and the whole movement to deconstruct the immoral order. You don’t have Lennon singing “Give Peace a Chance” in 1969 without “Mayballene” in 1955. And you don’t have anything that comes after. It would be 60 more years of the same, Truman to Trump.


I was reflecting on this shortly after I heard the news today that Chuck has left us. As I am sometimes compelled to do, I scratched out some words as his first 1957 album, After School Session, blasted on from my turntable.

Earth BCB

There was a wall

Created by slave traders and Indian killers

One drop plus

The world was black and white

White against black

There was a wall

A partition between the waltz,

even the hillbilly one

and the boogie woogie

and a midnight rendezvous out back

One nation

Two halves of a whole

One race

Two people trapped

Walled off in a divided land

Then a back beat came

and the wall cracked

It had a black beat

and the white kids saw him

A brown-eyed handsome man

Out of a St. Louis shack

Give me Memphis Tennessee

Down to the delta

Then across the nation

A sound as black as coal

The wall fell

There would be no more before

The century turned on a dime

dropped right into the slot

Hail, hail rock and roll


Chuck Berry goes back as far as I can remember.  My dad had a copy of “Johnny B. Goode” and I would visualize this strange character who could play a guitar just like ringing a bell. When I was 8, Chuck was back on the radio with his novelty hit, “My Ding-a-Ling,” but I already preferred his back catalog. I watched Chuck on the Mike Douglas Show with John Lennon, who said, “If you tried to give rock and roll another name, you might call it ‘Chuck Berry’.” When NASA launched Voyager 1 into deep space forty years ago, I remember how smart they were to include a Chuck Berry record to demonstrate to some alien race that were an evolved species because we had Chuck Berry. (Leading to the hilarious Saturday Night Live Weekend Update tagline, “Send more Chuck Berry.) By the late seventies, Chuck’s music was rediscovered by punk rockers. His “School Days” was a favorite moment in the Ramones’ movie, Rock n Roll High School. And then in the 80s, thanks to Back to the Future, we learned that Chuck was first inspired my Michael J. Fox. Chuck Berry is the eternal time loop, up in the morning and off to school.


It seems like he’s always been there. I was born in 1964 (shortly after his release from prison) so I guess he was. Anyone born after today will will have never shared the planet with Chuck Berry. How will they know that this wasn’t just a guy with a guitar? How will they know that his black beat changed a nation still chained in Jim Crow apartheid? How will they learn about the jukebox jumping with records back in the USA?

It’s not a tragedy to die at 90, especially if some of those years were spent locked up. There will be plenty of salacious details rehashed. Maybe they’re relevant. I just know this world would not be as it is if not for one brown-eyed handsome man named Charles Edward Anderson Berry. Hail, hail.

(Photo:  Jazz Fest, New Orleans 1994 by BP Fallon)

Note: This isn’t meant to a feminist analysis of Chuck Berry’s life or his music. That can come another day. The father of rock and roll is dead and the mother was never even named.

You can learn a lot from a rock star.

January 28, 2015

As a guy with a massive love of music but minimal musical talent, I’ve been lucky enough to get to hang around  musicians for most of my life. From local jammers to superheroes, like the guys in U2 and REM, I’ve had friends who know how to take a thought and turn it into a song that people want to sing. It’s a beautiful process. I’ve been working on a book called Mirror Star about some of these people and the excitement they’ve brought my life. But for now, I’ll just post this picture of me and Carrie Brownstein, of Sleater-Kinney, at the 2008 Obama rally in Portland.


I’m on this topic because Cozy had her first backstage experience yesterday. We were at the KINK Bing Lounge show of Trigger Hippy, Joan Osborne’s great band with Black Crowes drummer Steve Gorman. Steve is a very old friend of mine and a former roommate. In fact, I played a role getting him into the Crowes when I was Drivin’ N’ Cryin’s manager in 1987. It’s always great to catch up with Steve and the new group is really, really great, like a band I would have wanted to see in 1970.

Joan just fell in love with Cozy and my baby girl has the same birthdate as Steve (so we’re convinced she’s going to be a drummer). I was excited for him to meet her as he’s known my ups and downs for the last 27 years and gave me a lot of great father advice when we were still expecting (before he ran off to hang out with Dave Grohl and Ringo Starr).


So what does a baby get from being backstage at rock gig besides the above picture to brag about when she’s older? Not that much and I don’t want to foster mindless idle worship or encourage some version of groupiedom. (I want you to REALLY listen to the lyrics of “Superstar” by The Carpenters.) However, there is something of value of having friends who are successful musicians.

Most of those people got to do what they love for a living for one reason, a lot of hard work. When I was in high school, I took a folk guitar class and was frustrated that I couldn’t already play like Jimmy Page. I’d think, “I should have started at 10. It’s too late!” And I sort of just quit. If I had just practiced my ass off from 16 to 20, I would have been able to play all those licks for the last 30 years. My friends didn’t quit. I learned a lot from my long conversations with Bono and Susanna Hoffs. I learned about the creative process and what it takes to do it right.

I love the chapter in Malcolm Gladwell’s 2008 book, Outliers, where he compares The Beatles and Bill Gates. Both practiced obsessively at the the thing they loved. He calls it the “10,000 Rule.” You need 10,000 hours of practice before you can really get good at anything. Macklemore wrote a song about it called “10,000 Hours.” I’d like to think I have 10,000 hours of teaching in and I’m working on 10,000 hours of writing now. I know my friends who have put in their time drumming or songwriting can now enjoy the fruits of their labor.

I want Cozy to know that to do the thing you love well takes a lot of commitment. If she wants to play the violin or write speeches or fix refrigerators she needs to go all in. People aren’t born rock stars, they pay their dues. (I will save the required discussion on the evils of American Idol for another time.) And it’s often not very glamorous. You are alone in a room or playing in a tiny club to 4 people who are ignoring you. But you are working your craft. So yes, she will have piano lessons and, unlike me, she won’t quit.

Well, I guess some people are born to be rock stars. Steve Gorman wasn’t the first star she met at a show. Before she was born she met Beatle son Sean Lennon after a great Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger show. I’m sure she’ll meet more in the future. (Does Bono baby sit?) And I hope they tell her how you get to Carnegie Hall. Practice.


Hanging out with Beatle baby Sean Lennon and Charlotte Kemp Muhl of the GOASTT, Mississippi Studios, May 24, 2014.

The following book was mentioned in this blog and you can buy it from Powell’s by clicking the cover below.