Chuck Berry - Genesis of Rock'n'Roll

“I don't think I'm special; nothing like Nat King Cole's expression, Maya Angelou's poetry or Duke Ellington's elegance. My music is very simple. I wanted to play the blues but I wasn't 'blue' enough. I wasn't like Muddy Waters or other people who had really suffered. In our house there was always food on the table and we were better off than many other families. So I focused on fun, joy and novelty. I wrote about cars because one in two people owned one. I wrote about love because everyone wants love. I wrote songs that white people could buy because that would bring me money. That was my goal: to look at my bank statement and see millions of dollars”

(Chuck Berry)

“If you were to give rock and roll another name, you could call it Chuck Berry”

(John Lennon)

“There was a time in my life when the only thing I wanted was to learn to play like Chuck Berry”

(Keith Richards)

Intro

St. Louis Blues

This is a story about music, cars and prison, but above all it's an American story. It begins in St. Louis, the largest metropolitan area between two rivers, the Missouri and the Mississippi. The same city that, in the early years of the last century, ranked among the top four in the United States. The one that in 1904 managed to draw people from all over the world for the World's Fair and the Olympics.

The city of the great arch and the Cardinals baseball team. And, therefore, the cradle of ragtime, jazz and blues. It's in East St. Louis that a boy named Miles Davis first dreamed his dreams. On its streets, Ike and Tina Turner prepared for the quarrelsome years of soul.

It's no coincidence that in 1914 "St. Louis Blues" was one of the first tears wrung from 12 bars of pain. The devil's music, with its sad and cursed poetry. An "open city" of styles and influences, poised for one of the greatest musical revolutions of the 20th century. An explosive mix of white country and black blues that would captivate the youth of an entire nation. From the white audiences of the Fox Theatre to the Black crowds in suburban juke joints. An orgasmic, subversive genre that would soon have its undisputed "King Elvis", but which - according to many - truly found its home here, in St. Louis. Thanks to a Black guitarist destined to become "the inventor of rock and roll".

Hail Hail Rock And Roll

Charles Edward Anderson Berry was born in Elleardsville - a Black neighborhood of St. Louis, Missouri - in October 1926. His father, Henry William, was a carpenter, while his mother, Martha Bell Banks, ran their household of six children. The family lived by tradition, weaving together the joys of music with a solid religious upbringing. At six, Charles joined the choir of the Antioch Baptist Church and had his first close encounter with classic liturgical gospel.

It's 1932, and the Berrys decide to move so that young Charles can attend first Simmons Grade School and then Sumner High. The boy immediately shows great songwriting talent, encouraged above all by his music teacher, who notices a natural gift for musical meter. At fifteen, he performs for the first time in front of a school audience, confessing a deep love for the blues. And jazz too. Charles adores Benny Goodman's guitarist and constantly tries to follow in his footsteps with his first acoustic guitar.

By selling fruit and vegetables, the boy manages to fulfill his second dream after music: cars. With his new Ford, Charles sets off for Kansas City with a few friends, but suddenly the dream shatters. The boys rob people for money and get arrested. Ten years at the Algoa reformatory.

Berry, however, is lucky, and in the month of his birthday in 1947 he gets out of prison after serving just over three years.

Nicknamed Chuck, the young man decides once again to move fast, marrying Themetta Suggs the following year and welcoming a daughter, Ingrid, into the world.

This is the period when Berry hones in on the music he wants to make, blending his beloved blues of T-Bone Walker and Louis Jordan with Nat King Cole and the country of Hank Williams.

His musical dream draws near: in 1952 he becomes a regular at the Cosmopolitan Club, performing with Johnnie Johnson on piano and Ebby Hardy on drums. The blend of blues and country wins over white audiences too, leading the band to transform into the Chuck Berry Trio.

The Black guitarist thus begins a journey of overcoming racial barriers, managing to win over both the visceral R&B crowd and the more reserved, traditionalist white audience.

At twenty-eight, Charles "Chuck" Berry sets foot in a recording studio for the first time, playing his guitar with a group called Joe Alexander & The Cubans.

Chuck is no longer a young man, but the lure of newborn rock and roll is strong, despite an already thriving hairdressing business. It's the start of 1955 when he sets off - destination Chicago - to see a concert by one of his biggest idols, Muddy Waters.

Surprisingly, the blues legend himself advises him, at the end of the show, to go knock on the door of Chess Records. And it's Leonard Chess in person who invites him to come back to St. Louis to cut a demo of his original songs. Berry doesn't need to be told twice, and so he goes back to Johnnie Johnson and Ebby Hardy to record a handful of songs he already has in mind. Among these, the one Leonard Chess likes best is "Ida May", because it's about cars and sex. In May 1955 Berry records it with Willie Dixon on upright bass, renaming it "Maybellene".

The rockabilly rhythm of "Maybellene" is a massive hit in the United States, climbing all sorts of charts, from pop to country. Alan Freed, a DJ at New York radio station WINS, shows enormous faith in him, putting him constantly on his playlist and, above all, personally involving him in a film about the music that's upending American youth.

"Rock, Rock, Rock" is directed by Will Price, but it's really just a celluloid pretext to spread the new sonic gospel to the world.

Far more significant, in fact, is the related soundtrack, Rock, Rock, Rock (Chess, 1956), which is considered the first official album of Chuck Berry's career. The record, in truth, was conceived to give visibility to the early standard-bearers of Chess Records. Harvey Fuqua's Moonglows hail from Cleveland, Ohio, and on tracks like "I Knew From The Start" and "Sincerely" show off fine vocal qualities poised between R&B and doo-wop. Destined for greater popularity, the Flamingos join the party with harmonic gems like "Would I Be Crying" and "A Kiss From Your Lips". What truly sets the record alight, however, is the emerging personality of Chuck Berry, who, with his blazing guitar, is about to turn the staid American music scene upside down.

The sexual car metaphor of "Maybellene" fires up the senses at a breakneck pace, driven by a nervy vocal and unusually full-bodied rockabilly instrumentation. The guitar solo tears through the most traditional country music, tying it directly to the beat of "Thirty Days", a memory of his reform-school days. Berry profanely blends Black rhythm with white style, achieving tempos that are frantic and, above all, anarchic for the era, as in the piano-and-upright-bass boogie of "You Can't Catch Me".

A creative path that easily hits its final target, the manifesto-song. The riff of "Roll Over Beethoven" thus becomes Chuck Berry's trademark, that revolutionary something that turns into the coordinates of a brand-new sonic style.

Just four songs, then, can be more than enough to wake young Americans from their stupor and spell out the genesis of rock and roll.

Driven by enthusiasm, Berry decides to dive headlong into the world of music, personally running a business that looks set to be more than thriving.

At the end of 1955, to keep up with the rock and roll rush, Leonard Chess pushes him back into the studio, with the explicit task of repeating the chart-topping success of "Maybellene".

Chuck knows full well that it's now make-or-break, and starts to sharpen his artistic persona. It's 1956 when, at the Brooklyn Paramount Theater, he shows everyone for the first time the "Duck Walk", his bouncing stage move.

Now only one thing is missing: an LP all his own.

With After School Sessions (Chess, 1957) Berry hones his style, branding in the coordinates for a new, adventurous musical voyage.

"School Day" is the call to arms for American students, a back-and-forth between vocals and jittery guitar, embodying a crucial moment of generational growth. The sonic revolution turns swing on its head with frantic boogie, and "Too Much Monkey Business" could pass for proto-punk well before "Subterranean Homesick Blues". It's the rise of the hiccupping riff ("Rolly Polly") meeting Latin music on the seminal "Brown Eyed Handsome Man", a lyrical vindication of the Black man armed with an electric guitar.

The formula is thus found: blend the visceral blues of the great tutelary gods ("No Money Down" reworks Muddy Waters's "Hoochie Coochie Man" while the canonical "Wee Wee Hours" shows off Johnson's piano skills) with the most classic standards of white music. All of it whipped into an electrifying ethnic cocktail, which first looks to the Hawaiian-tinged country of "Deep Feeling" before drifting down toward the Mexican border on the instrumental "Berry Pickin".

Towering above the rest, however, is the solitary guitar-upright bass encounter of "Havana Moon", a gem inspired by his idol Nat "King" Cole. Berry, in fact, was trying to fast-track his way into becoming a true songwriter: "Together" and "Driftin Heart" are his first ballads influenced by the great master. The dark rhythm of "Downbound Train", however, seems to state something serious: the main road for Charles "Chuck" Berry is rock and roll.

Chuck B. Goode

After School Sessions was a huge success, sending Chuck Berry on tour across the United States. The guitarist decided to invest the sudden flood of money, founding Chuck Berry Music Inc. - a music publishing company - and buying a large plot of land in Wentzville, intending to build a musical amusement park there called Berry Park.

Not content with that, he opened Club Bandstand, a venue in St. Louis where Black and white patrons could spend the same evening enjoying good music together.

At the start of 1958, the flourishing period continued on the recording front as well.

One Dozen Berrys (Chess, 1958) tries to broaden the scope of his music, going for a more varied, mixed-blood sound. Hence the Mexican romanticism of "La Juanda" mingling with the hillbilly family-portrait feel of "It Don't Take But A Few Minutes". And while tracks like "In-Go" follow jazz's seductive path, certain instrumental numbers seem tailor-made to give a group lesson in the blues. "Guitar Boogie" has fun with a shuffle rhythm, while "Blue Feeling" slows down on piano in a bluesy key. Better still, "Rocking At The Philarmonic" lets loose in a perfect swing, with the vigorous counterpoint of Willie Dixon's upright bass and Lafayette Leake's blazing piano.

All commendable, but by this point Berry was the undisputed bard of interracial adolescence. The boogie of "Oh, Baby Doll" and, above all, the wild schoolgirl of "Sweet Little Sixteen" are still too incendiary to feel dated.

The reinvention of rock and roll was far from over, and Chuck knew it full well. The swing and roll of "Reelin' And Rocking" celebrates unbridled (sexual) fun, because the time had come for his own "Rock And Roll Music". And it's curious that, in the end, an album open to other genres should turn out to matter for just one reason. Rock and roll.

It was, then, a magical moment that finally exploded in a series of electrifying live shows, starting with the fireworks-display night at New York's Apollo and culminating in the great honour of playing in front of the crowd at the Newport Jazz Festival. His band was a perfect machine, with the rhythmic engine of the Dixon-Hardy pairing and the sudden surges of Johnnie Johnson's piano. Unfortunately, Berry's musicians were also heavy drinkers, and that didn't sit well with the boss at all. Already by late 1958, Chuck decided to tour alone, backed each time by local musicians.

Of course, he could afford to. American youth was shedding its skin to the rhythm of this new music, and the guitarist from St. Louis was one of its chief prophets, a bard of unbridled fun in the name of fresh existential needs. All of this, naturally, shook the foundations of the puritan establishment, which struggled to accept a Black man as an idol of the masses. In June 1958, Berry was arrested for illegal possession of a firearm and released shortly after on bail. The Missouri police tried to get his French girlfriend to claim she had been a victim of sexual abuse.

Berry, however, was not one to be intimidated, and in 1959 he set off on a hugely successful tour of Australia. His comeback truly took shape only in July, when a revolutionary record hit stores containing a simple riff that would change the history of rock and roll.

No title was ever more fitting. Chuck Berry Is On Top (Chess, 1959) captures, with perfect clarity, the state of grace the rebellious guitarist had reached. Berry finally hit his personal peak, putting his name to the definitive declaration of independence for the first great generational music.

To begin with, the raw materials before the big bang. "Almost Grown" doubly ties together the most thrilling swing, the doo-wop of Harvey & The Moonglows, and the beat typical of someone who wants no trouble. The electric guitar thus has its primal cry, kicking off the party of "Carol", innovative and saturated on "Maybellene" (a track already released, included on the album alongside "Roll Over Beethoven"). It's the author's stylistic signature finding its centre of gravity, arriving at "Sweet Little Rock And Roller", a song that, by this point, could easily be defined as the "Berry sound". A neurotic excitement that runs through the alluring syncopated rhythm of "Little Queenie", weaving the limping riff of "Around And Around", another step forward down the road of the most frantic rock.

Berry felt almost omnipotent, even allowing himself the luxury of playing everything solo, as on the collage of "Jo Jo Gunne", or veering into oddball experiments, like the tarantella of "Anthony Boy" and the Cuban-flavoured "Hey Pedro". Tracks that are plainly unable to keep pace with what Chuck comes up with when he unleashes blues and swing through the yearning for emancipation of the American teenager.

A "country boy" who dreams of becoming a star in a "big boy band". With Willie Dixon's swing-blues bass and Lafayette Leake's magic fingers on piano, Berry turns into "Johnny B. Goode" and announces to the world that one kind of music has just slipped away to give birth to a small, not-so-tender creature: rock and roll.

Worried Life Blues

The decade is drawing to a close, and Chuck Berry's life truly seems to be reaching unreachable heights. Many of these, however, prove fragile in their precariousness: in August 1959 the guitarist is again in close contact with the police, charged with "disturbing the peace" during a concert in Meridian, Mississippi.

This is just the preamble to the real bad news. In December of that same year, Berry finds himself in Jerez, Mexico, and falls for Janice, a strange girl of Apache origin who tells him she's twenty years old. Chuck is smitten and invites her to work at his club in St. Louis, but Janice is soon found by American police working as a prostitute in a hotel in the city. The bad news is that the girl is only fourteen. Berry is charged with promoting prostitution and transporting a minor across state lines. As far as the law is concerned, it's the decisive moment to lock up the "Negro" so beloved by rebellious teenagers and white women. Three years and a five-thousand-dollar fine.

Worried about his career, Leonard Chess convinces Chuck to record as much as possible, trying to stockpile enough studio material to cover his impending, forced absence.

The successor to the unwieldy Chuck Berry Is On Top, Rocking At The Hops (Chess, 1960) tries to juggle blues and rock and roll with as much elegance as possible.

Gone, however, is the by-now unmistakable three-chord anthem, a pale echo of the great Johnny B in "Bye Bye Johnny," with no wild solo, but with the already skilled phrasing of new recruit Matt "Guitar" Murphy.

Berry duels nimbly through the boogie of "Down The Road Apiece," but seems almost to be living another life, a depressed bluesman on the banks of the Delta. No longer at the teenage party, but alone with Big Maceo Merriweather's "Worried Life Blues" and Jay McShann's "Confessin' The Blues."

And amid all this there's also a deep urge to experiment, veering toward smooth vocal territory with the Ecuadors-style doo-wop of "Too Pooped To Pop" and the rhythmic "Betty Jean." Certainly a good idea to avoid getting trapped in the same sonic formula, but the impression is that "Duck" Chuck could dare more than the languid steel guitar of "Mad Lad." The sax-driven R&B of "I Got To Find My Baby" would already be a step forward. For now, however, the black man prefers to take refuge in the sad warmth of "Childhood Sweetheart" (in the style of Elmore James), only remembering at the very end that he has a rocker's conscience he must never abandon. "Let It Rock."

Right on schedule, a year later New Juke Box Hits (Chess, 1961) arrives, which, despite its bombastic title, offers almost nothing of note. Chuck Berry doesn't want to repeat the formulas that made him famous, satisfying his audience only with the riff of "I'm Talking About You." For the rest, the guitarist searches for new sonic solutions, trying out above all some sugary romantic vignettes like "Diploma For Two." The result is rather syrupy and gradually slides into the moping of "The Way It Was Before" and "Stop And Listen."

Better, certainly, is the ballroom Latin feel of "Thirteen Question Method" and the New Orleans style of "Don't You Lie To Me." Quite evident, however, is an underlying carelessness, probably caused by his sudden legal troubles. Berry, in fact, takes shelter behind the safer shield of blues, among the smooth "Away From You" and "Sweet Sixteen" and the intriguing steel guitar of "Run Around."

What's left is an artist caught between recycling and renewal, leaning on the shoulders of those who inspired him. The Little Richard of "Rip It Up" and the Bobby Troup of the fun twist number "Route 66." From the man who "invented rock and roll," one expects much more.

On February 19, 1962, Charles "Chuck" Berry watches the cold gates of the Terre Haute penitentiary, in the state of Indiana, close behind him.

Leonard Chess senses the danger and, to keep attention on the guitarist alive, releases the first compilation of his career. Twist (Chess, 1962) is, of course, a pretext to revisit his biggest hits, from the blaze of "Maybellene" to the anthem "Johnny B. Goode." Undoubtedly a commercial move, but certainly charged with the right pathos in honor of a musician hounded by the law for being inconvenient and altogether too imposing.

"School Days" are, for Berry, too much fun and too nonconformist, and certainly, singing about a "Sweet Little Sixteen" doesn't do much to help the self-righteous accept him among their idols. Between a riff and a boogie, there are two unreleased tracks well worth hearing (especially compared to the lackluster episodes on "Juke Box"). "Come On" is a nimble New Orleans-style R&B number, while "Back In The Usa" enriches his rock and roll legend with unmistakable chords and spot-on doo-wop backing vocals. A little musical cheat sheet to prove to everyone who the real number one is.

Berry, meanwhile, spends his time behind bars studying to finally finish high school, but above all, preparing — musically speaking — for his return to freedom.

Closing out the stopgap trilogy is Chuck Berry On Stage (Chess, 1963), a fake live album set at Chicago's Tivoli Theater.

The various tracks, in reality, are the product of the guitarist's studio work at different points in his career. The jazzy "How High The Moon", for instance, dates back to 1957 and is also emblematic of an extremely slapdash album, overrun as it is by shouting voices absurdly out of place.

So the songs slide by, songs that certainly don't do any favors for the reputation of a musician already battered by personal misfortune. On "I Just Want To Make Love To You" and "All Aboard", Berry revisits his idol Muddy Waters for fairly standard blues turns, padded out with the usual pleasant choral touches from the Ecuadors. In other words, it never rises above a certain instrumental competence, as in the remake of James Wayne's "Junco Partner" credited to "The Man And The Donkey". And yet the record is worth hearing because it's the only chance to enjoy tracks that matter to Berry's lesson in rock and roll. "Go, Go, Go" revisits the eternal tale of Johnny through Leroy C. Davis's unleashed sax, while "Memphis, Tennessee" glides along beautifully, minimal and sinuous. Also brilliant is the reprise of "Brown Eyed Handsome Man" (in a version for horns that's decidedly more fluid) and "Jaguar And Thunderbird", which leaves you stunned with a fast rap well ahead of its time.

Ultimately, "On Stage" is a record that would deserve to be forgotten for the fraudulent business of the overdubbed choruses and for some tracks - like "Rocking On The Railroad" - that are simply remakes of earlier hits. It's true, however, that certain songs, in a different context, would shine far more brightly.

The virtue, of course, lies somewhere in between.

You Never Can Tell

On October 18, 1963, Chuck Berry walks out of prison and makes an extraordinary discovery: the world of rock and roll hasn't forgotten him at all.

Back in June, a bunch of scruffy upstarts called the Rolling Stones released their very first single, a cover of his "Come On". The Wilson brothers' Beach Boys climb to the top of the charts with "Surfin' Usa", a none-too-subtle rework of "Sweet Little Sixteen". The American coastline is bracing for the great British wave, while bands like the Beatles, the Kinks and the Animals have no trouble admitting they were raised on a diet of Chuck Berry riffs. And the great inspirer is hungry for payback.

Chuck Berry's Greatest Hits (Chess, 1964) is assembled to celebrate the return to the scene of rock and roll's beloved godfather, a smart parade of tracks that are by now classics.

"Roll Over Beethoven", "Maybellene" and "Johnny B. Goode" are history lessons in themselves, the inspiration for dozens of young bands ready to reap what Berry's riffs and African-American beat had sown.

Berry is the inventor of rock and roll for reasons that go well beyond mere style. The new musical course is a fluid flow of creative minds, from Jerry Lee Lewis's fiery piano to Buddy Holly, from Little Richard's nonsense to his majesty Elvis.

Chuck, however, has something that makes him unique: a fluid, almost cinematic narrative streak. "Nadine" (the album's only unreleased track) is, then, yet another tale of pursuit through the magma of human feeling. In this way, Berry doesn't just pave the way for the Stones or the Animals, but becomes a model for anyone who wants to pick up a guitar to say something, to express themselves.

"Nadine" climbs the charts in the United States, but above all in an England that suddenly seems to catch fire for the guitarist from St. Louis. The Old Continent welcomes him with open arms, legitimizing his triumphant comeback with a successful tour.

That same year, the English label Pye decided to release one of his records featuring songs never issued in the United States. The Latest And The Greatest (Pye International, 1964) tries to ride the wave of success on British soil, offering a mix of old and new tracks. The move betrays its commercial intentions, including certain stock romantic numbers like "Fraulein" (a country tune penned by Bobby Helms) and "Crazy Arms", already brought to prominence by the young Jerry Lee Lewis. This is certainly not Berry at his most inspired, caught between the standard blues of "Things I Used To Do" and yet another tribute to master Elmore James on the notes of "O'Rangutang".

More than the swing of "You Two", what really steals the show are his classic guitar rhythms, slickly polished between jazz and rock and roll on the sturdy self-rewrite "Liverpool Drive". The new English generations need constant refresher courses in the St. Louis lesson, and so it's back to "School Day" territory with "No Particular Place To Go", yet another sonic manifesto for an artistic life that refuses to have anything to do with the word decline.

Galvanized by the success of his comeback, Chuck Berry lives 1964 to the fullest, even indulging in the pleasure of playing alongside the father of jungle beat himself, Bo Diddley.

On Two Great Guitars (Chess, 1964), the Chicago label's two standard-bearers meet at the crossroads between the frantic highway of rock and roll and the shadowier back alley of small-club blues. On the lengthy "Chuck's Beat", Diddley's unmistakable rectangular guitar flirts with the scratch of Berry's Gibson, giving birth to an energetic creature somewhere between beat, blues and rock and roll.

The two don't share a magical rapport, but they manage to blend their trademark styles effectively, as on the tribal marathon of "Bo's Beat". An atypical record, then (later padded out with solo tracks), that captures a joyful session between two important musicians who gave a great deal to the devil's music.

Berry is thus an artist reborn, elevated by his own myth through a string of adoptive sons such as John Lennon, Keith Richards and Eric Burdon.

You Never Can Tell (Pye International, 1964) plays precisely with this heavy legacy, a small treasure chest of riffs and rhythmic gems. "Promised Land" tells, over a roaring, distorted guitar backing, a simple American story, traveling toward rock and roll's most lyrical destinations.

It's the poet Chuck hiding inside the musician Chuck, in some cases too indulgent toward a past that keeps casting its spell. Here a certain underlying cunning might emerge, handy for riding an almost unexpected wave of success. "The Little Girl From Central", in fact, follows the rhythm of "Sweet Little Sixteen" too closely, while "Big Ben" dances to the steps of "No Particular Place To Go". It seems, in short, that Chuck the artist struggles to find a new bearing, lost in the energy of the swing-boogie of "Brenda Lee".

And yet, when Johnnie Johnson's delightful melodic piano kicks in, a new path suddenly appears. "You Never Can Tell" brings New Orleans back to life and shows all his English godsons that the great Johnny B is still standing, ready to sell his hide dearly.

Saint Louis to Liverpool

1964 is a year packed with releases, driven by the huge success of Chuck Berry's style in England. Saint Louis To Liverpool (Chess, 1964) is thus another example of how to carry a seminal sound from one side of the ocean to the other.

Here, then, are "You Never Can Tell" and "Promised Land" again, songs that built the new fortune of a musician who had fallen out of favor far too many times. The album also bets on a few previously unreleased gems that, however, add or take nothing away from the stature of the legend. "Little Marie" is the usual rehash of an already-written song (in this case "Memphis, Tennessee"), while "Our Little Rendezvous" recycles yet another blues riff. Better, then, the wholesome rock and roll of "Go, Bobby Soxer" or the superb, hushed version of "Merry Christmas, Baby", from Charles Brown's original.

An album, in short, neither good nor bad, that also risks being mistaken for a bland commercial operation.

Fortunately, Chuck Berry In London (Chess, 1965) reverses course and, despite its title, puts an end to the rock and roll speculation taking place on English soil.

The guitarist returns to London in 1965, welcomed as the "King of R&B" by an ecstatic audience. Hence the decision to record new material at Pye Studios alongside Rod Stewart's former band, the Five Dimensions. Here, then, is the first album made up entirely of new material since New Juke Box Hits.

With "London", Chuck Berry briefly abandons the classic rock and roll format (aside from the sparkling "Dear Dad") to embrace a genuinely blues-driven heart. Elmore James's riff lights the way on "She Once Was Mine" and "I Want To Be Your Driver", passing through the obligatory crossroads of the great W.C. Handy by way of the "St. Louis Blues" rhythm. Here Berry rediscovers his fundamental musical substrate, the offspring of a city that pulses to the sleepy harmonica heartbeat of "After It's Over" and "Should We End This Way". And yet it's a porous substrate, ready to soak up the seminal fluids of neighboring musical territories. "My Little Love Light" lives out its Latin groove alongside the Mexican winds of "You Came A Long Way From St.Louis". "Jamaica Farewell" reinterprets Belafonte under the warm Caribbean sun.

A work, then, full of positive vibrations and, above all, free of certain stylistic repetitions that were starting to feel rather tedious.

It's 1966 when Mercury Records makes the St. Louis musician an offer he can't refuse: $150,000 in exchange for a label switch that feels almost like a betrayal between lovers. Berry is weak in the face of money's allure and accepts, leaving an almost unfillable void in Chess's grooves. Leonard and Philip therefore decide to release a new album of unreleased material.

Fresh Berry's (Chess, 1966) tries to exorcise the abandonment, reciting by heart the blues prayer of the successful Chuck Berry In London.

And, at first, it even seems particularly inspired. "It Wasn't Me" moves elegantly through tight rock-blues weaves thanks to Paul Butterfield's gritty harmonica and Mike Bloomfield's guitar. Berry plays the fast, driving rock and roll card again (the trio of "Every Day We Rock And Roll", "My Mustang Ford" and "Ain't That Just Like A Woman"), but the old magic seems to have vanished. Chuck himself is probably aware of it. Otherwise there'd be no room for the jazzy languor of "One For My Baby" or the mawkish Mexican flavor of "Vaya Con Dios". All the guitarist can do is spin through his musical inspirations, between the whispered blues of "Wee Hour Blues" and the beat of "It's My Own Business". A vein, in short, that is starting to run dry, settling for modest funky grooves like "Right Off Rampart Street". Decidedly little for an authentic legend who helped dozens of bands take their first, infant steps.

Leonard Chess takes the blow hard. His parting words are telling: "Go ahead, but you'll see, within three years you'll be back here again". Chuck Berry's Golden Decade (Chess, 1967) closes out an era, one that began with the roaring engine of "Maybellene" and ended with that "No Particular Place To Go" described from inside a cold cell. The rise, fall and rebirth of Charles "Chuck" Berry, godfather and poet of rock and roll.

Rockin’ At The Fillmore

1967 will certainly not be remembered as the year of a rock and roll legend's unexpected label switch. In the rotten, deviant velvet underground of New York, an obscure band releases an album/manifesto/work of art that forever changes the very concept of rock music.

The simple, thunderous, intuitive riff sheds its skin, transforming into a sonic creature named "Foxy Lady". The same Liverpool kids, raised on the most immediate beat sound, are now influential men, lysergic to the bone, travelers through the infinite spaces of "A Day In The Life".

A visionary poet will soon declare that "the music is over". 1967 is the year a staggering musical wave arrives to sweep away everything that was once revolution and courage. No small trauma for old-school rock and roll, which nevertheless is spared, at least in part. Lou Reed wouldn't exist without rock and roll.

Nearly wounded to death, Chuck Berry tries to roar with his old grit, and when he opens a Doors show at San Francisco's Fillmore, he electrifies the crowd with a long, blistering version of "Johnny B. Goode".

And yet, his new record label is already starting to treat him like a dusty old myth, a nostalgia-jukebox act for entertainment purposes. Chuck Berry's Golden Hits (Mercury, 1967) serves only to rival Chess, a hideous, artistically pointless rewrite of a string of magical songs.

The fire of "Maybellene" and "Back In The Usa" suddenly seems to go out, cold in an emaciated attempt to replicate past glories through new arrangements. What's more, digging up the past is commercial and professional suicide, since the new standard-bearers of psychedelic rock are not the English godsons of four years earlier. Even the Rolling Stones are no longer the band of "Come On", even though Richards keeps grinding out wonderful retro riffs.

Chuck Berry realizes his "English" period is over, and so wisely decides to go back into the studio in one of America's small-but-great musical motherlands: Memphis, Tennessee.

Chuck Berry In Memphis (Mercury, 1967), however, fails to go beyond good basic intentions, backed by excellent musicians like Reggie Young (guitar) and Bobby Emmons (piano). Naturally the album is a kind of love letter to the city's typical sound, nicely framed by the R&B postcard of the opening "Back To Memphis".

After the scandalous reworkings on "Golden Hits", Berry tries to renew himself as an artist, testing the rough road of soul on "I Do Really Love You" and the evergreen James Brown-style blues of "It Hurts Me Too". Promising musical paths, but just as ruthless in revealing a musician short on inspiration. Hence yet more tributes to idol Nat King Cole ("Ramblin' Rose" and "Bring Another Drink", not to mention the horn-driven remakes of old hits like "Sweet Little Rock And Roller" and "Oh, Baby Doll").

An album, then, that's rather watered down, rarely finding any bite beyond fine musicians and good ideas.

Despite a less-than-brilliant run of records, Chuck Berry enjoys a second youth live on stage, leaning on his legendary name and, above all, on a shrewd knack for adapting to the new flower-power scene. Berry, of course, is no hippie and never will be, but he has the privilege of playing several times at the legendary Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco alongside the likes of Grateful Dead, Big Brother & The Holding Company and Quicksilver Messenger Service.

His real intentions, however, are given away when he fails to reach an agreement for the Woodstock and Monterey festivals, showing a far greater interest in the cachet than in the brotherhood the two mega-gatherings stood for.

Live At Fillmore Auditorium (Mercury, 1967) is the credible document of this intense period on the road, recorded in June 1967 in San Francisco.

Chuck Berry is, by now, a legend, turned to dust by California's psychedelic experiments and the raga deviations of New York's underground. Eric Burdon's Animals open the show, legitimate musical offspring of a sound that may be gone forever. It's no coincidence, in fact, that Bill Graham introduces Chuck - before the theme "Rockin' At The Fillmore" - with the words "the great father". Perhaps to avoid feeling too old, Berry decides to offer up an "alternative" setlist, built around eternal blues love, reinvigorated by the backing of the emerging Steve Miller Band, immediately aggressive on "Everyday I Have The Blues". What comes out is a strange record, full of covers, from Chuck Willis's "C.C. Rider" to the obvious Muddy Waters of "I'm Your Hoochie Coochie Man". And yet, at this point, giving in to the swing of "Flying Home" seems a wiser move than firing off the eternal cartridge of "Johnny B".

Giving space to Steve Miller's harmonica on "It Hurts Me Too" and "Wee Baby Blues" lets him feel like a father, yes, but at least not like a castaway from a musical era suddenly left behind.

In 1968, Chuck Berry's path with Mercury Records starts to grow more tortuous and dead-ended. It's a rather dark period for the guitarist, who spends most of his time at the pools of Berry Park, trying to recover a creativity that now seems inevitably compromised. Needless to say, a record like "Strange Days" had revolutionized the very concept of rock and roll, recasting it in a psychedelic key and signing it with pure urban poetry.

In other words, Jim Morrison is the new Elvis Presley.

With From St.Louis To Frisco (Mercury, 1968), Berry tries to retrace a path that leads him directly back to the origins of his music, leaning on the sacred blues fire of "Louie To Frisco" and returning to Johnnie Johnson's trusty piano on "The Love I Lost". A path that, however, hides treacherous traps: "Misery", for instance, is a pale imitation of "Roll Over Beethoven", while "My Tambourine" echoes an old hit by The Bees.

If St.Louis, then, is the warm and safe past, Frisco represents a (more or less desperate) attempt at musical evolution. St.Louis is "Ma Dear", a typical horn-driven R&B number, while Frisco is "I Love Her, I Love Her", sinuous and seductive funk. Berry experiments with the rough-edged "Soul Rocking", but he's clearly not thinking straight when he puts together the sonic chaos of "Oh, Captain".

A record, in short, torn between reason and feeling, the desire for something new and a lack of ideas. Which one wins is still anyone's guess.

It's 1969, and in the new world of harder rock a renewed love affair with Chuck Berry and his rock and roll breaks out. The Rolling Stones perform in New York in late November and, between riffs and satanic anthems, find time to play "Carol" and "Little Queenie". Many, too, argue that the Beatles' influences on "Back In The Ussr" aren't far removed from the band's original sources. The most striking case is certainly that of the MC5, the foul-mouthed Detroit band who filter the old "sex, drugs and rock and roll" lesson through a punk velocity ahead of its time. A great hit, an angry, blazing version of "Back In The Usa".

And where is the rediscovered master? Still at Berry Park, tied to a Mercury label none too pleased with the commercial results of his latest records. Here, the guitarist from St.Louis decides to do everything on his own, in his last, desperate creative assault. In mental quarantine for a truly innovative record.

Presented, in fact, as "a startling innovation", Concerto In B. Goode (Mercury, 1969) is, in reality, an irrational jumble of blues sounds, guitar effects and manipulated vibrations. Chuck Berry produces and mixes a record with no direction, lost between blatantly stolen riffs ("Good Lookin' Woman") and the usual (barely) moving blues scales, like those of "Put Her Down".

An uninspired musician, then, tries to win back the eyes of those who still imitate him, but like an old father who always tells the same story. Hence the mischievous double entendre of "It's Too Dark In There", and, above all, the grandiloquence of the title track which, over more than eighteen minutes, tries to pass itself off as a wah-wah guitar suite.

A harebrained excursion into territories of the freest, most anarchic frenzy which, however, ends up looking more like chaos devoid of light. In more cynical terms, a reckless way of stretching things out to fill a whole side for a record label that already regrets the huge investment it made.

Chuck Berry's Sixties couldn't have ended in a more anonymous fashion.

Back Home

Between the end of 1969 and the start of 1970, Leonard Chess's prophecy reaches its most inevitable fulfillment: exactly three years later, Chuck Berry returns to the Chess Records fold.

To celebrate the prodigal son's return, a big recording session is organized in Chicago for a first album of this new chapter.

Back Home (Chess, 1970) opens, in fact, with a couple of top-class numbers. The intro to "Tulane" is unmistakable, but it's there mainly to let everyone know the guitarist from St. Louis is back, before making room for the surprising Bob Baldori's harmonica and veteran Lafayette Leake's piano. It's a return to his finest way of making music, at the crossroads of beat and great storytelling. The following "Have Mercy Judge" continues the tale of youthful drug trouble, slowing things down into a blues mode that should always be the true spirit of the devil's music.

It's a shame, then, that the record soon slips back into the flat routine of recent years, between crudely arranged blues numbers ("Gun" and "Christmas") and uninspired boogie riffs like the one on "Instrumental". It seems odd that Berry still dares to recycle old hits into apparently brand-new songs: "I'm A Rocker" is far too close to "Reelin' And Rockin'" to fool anyone. There is, however, at least a renewed underlying energy, as on "Some People", which sways sinuously to a funk-and-soul groove. Chess, then, can smile, because, for better or worse, their man is back.

To better ride the wave of renewed enthusiasm, Berry again calls on the talent of Bob Baldori and, together with his band The Woolies, heads to Okemos, Michigan to immediately record the follow-up to Back Home.

San Francisco Dues (Chess, 1971) continues along this new path, a mix of brilliant ideas and mere filler. The record, however, shines more vividly than its predecessor, starting with the warm, enveloping swirls of "Oh, Louisiana" right through to the tribal pulse of "Lonely School Days".

Tracks like "Let's Do Our Thing Together" and "Your Lick" are solid rock-blues numbers, evidence of a period that's far from exceptional but at least shows some creative spark. "Festival" revives the rock and roll of bygone days, while certain beat-flavored passages like "Bordeaux In My Pirough" and "Viva Rock And Roll" come as a pleasant surprise. Less impressive are yet more sleepy blues numbers (the title track and "Bound To Lose").

A successful record overall, then, one that, with "My Dream", dusts off an old flavor of spoken-word poetry — the flavor of a bygone era defended here with pride and courage.

Despite the big relaunch, Back Home and San Francisco Dues fail to achieve major commercial success, warning signs of a career that seems to be heading toward an honest conclusion. Rock enters its harder phase, but Chuck Berry still finds fame and glory: after a show at the Hilton Hotel in Las Vegas, an audience member named Elvis Presley declares he has just seen "the king of rock and roll" live on stage. And that's not the end of it.

In 1972 it's John Lennon who invites the man from St. Louis onto the Mike Douglas Show, presenting him as the most valid semantic alternative to the very term "rock and roll".

This latest tribute proves a good omen. On February 3rd, Chuck Berry returns to England for a concert at the Locarno Ballroom in Coventry as part of the Lanchester Arts Festival. Seemingly a show like any other, but something unexpected happens. More than thirty thousand spectators find themselves wildly jumping to an innocent yet risqué little nursery rhyme — "My Ding-A-Ling" — leaving even the musicians on stage stunned. The song is five years old, but it's only in early 1972 that it climbs to the top of the English charts, going straight to gold. Berry's music thus finds fresh new life, even stirring up the usual prudish outrage over lyrics deemed unfit for polite society.

Built to capitalize on this unexpected magic moment, The London Chuck Berry Sessions (Chess, 1972) stands as proof of a genuine stage triumph.

"Reelin' And Rockin'" sets the room ablaze with electric sparks, a hearty appetizer before the evening's main course. The obscene nursery rhyme "My Ding-A-Ling" is musically irrelevant, even grating in its total inability to express what Berry has achieved since the '50s. And yet his aura looms large amid excitement and sweat, showing the cold world of business what love for music really means — an extraordinary way of channeling the force of human senses to a paying crowd. Even the "Johnny B. Goode" riff seems superfluous: feet never stop stomping and the crowd's singalong never stops deafening. For those who prefer reason, there's the first half of the record, assembled in the studio with exceptional musicians. Ian McLagan and Kenny Jones (Small Faces), Rick Grech (Traffic) and Derek Griffiths. With them, Berry puts together a brief instrumental compendium of all his styles ("London Berry Blues") and lets loose with tight rhythms like the one on "I Love You".

Business as usual, in short. The successful blues of "Mean Old World" and the trademark rock and roll of "I Will Not Let You Go". Tracks that draw energy from the live euphoria, appearing (and only appearing) almost majestic in a kind of magic that once seemed nearly unattainable.

The magic continues into 1973. At Wembley's Empire Stadium, the very history of rock and roll takes the stage with Bill Haley, Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard. Naturally, all eyes are on Chuck, who closes the show, later captured on film in "The London Rock And Roll Show". The man from St. Louis is enjoying a new renaissance, and to make the most of it he decides to head back into the studio for yet another round.

Bio (Chess, 1973) rides that positive streak, turning into a kind of sonic diary after nearly twenty years in the business. That's the point of the opening title track, which, over a galloping rock-blues groove, looks back to his earliest performances as well as his unconditional love for Muddy Waters.

With the addition of Elephant's Memory (previously with John Lennon), Berry secures himself an autopilot for the new record, one with no rough edges and no great fanfare.

"Hello Little Girl Goodbye" is a solid piano-and-sax rock and roll number, and paired with the fun funk of "Woodpecker", it proves that the "grand old man" is truly hard to kill off. Chuck still has stories to tell (the country flavor of "Rain Eyes") and effective hooks to weave ("Got It And Gone"). His love for the blues will never fade, even at the risk of becoming something obsessive, repetitive and cloying. Certain demonic doldrums like "Aimlessly Driftin'" and "Talking About My Buddy" never stop inducing yawns within his by-now sprawling creative output. Still, it's an honest and enjoyable record, one that silences those who keep painting him as a spent artist.

American Graffiti

Between 1972 and 1974, the time of memory arrives for Chuck Berry. After the extraordinary success of his English concert, the old Mercury Records decides to put together the Fillmore concert with the Steve Miller Band along with a handful of tracks from his not exactly vast catalog.

What emerges is a sort of journey backward in time, evident right from the title of the collection: St.Louie To Frisco To Memphis.

Working with a decidedly richer trove of material, Chess puts together songs like "Carol", "You Never Can Tell" and "Promised Land" for Chuck Berry's Golden Decade Volume 2 (Chess, 1974).

The 1970s are heading toward their darker side, from the nightmare of war to the Watergate scandal. With the hippie dream gone, the American public looks back on the past with sweet nostalgia, remembering radio broadcasts and strawberry milkshakes, drive-in movies and - of course - the first, real rock and roll. It's the nostalgia of the film "American Graffiti" that fuels a new fifties revival. Chuck Berry is one of those names that, in moments like this, stands out clearly, with his stage walk and his immortal music. Chess knows these dynamics well and decides to go all in. That same year, 1974, sees the release of a new collection, this time packed with more unreleased material.

Chuck Berry's Golden Decade Volume 3 (Chess, 1974) includes a few hidden little treasures, all dating back to the artist's golden period in the late '50s.

This is the era of that unmistakable blend of beat and swing, best sipped through "Beautiful Delilah" and "Oh Yeah", before moving on to more substantial choral tribalisms ("County Line") and piano blues ("Blue On Blue", with his trusty Johnnie Johnson). The early Berry creeps into these eclectic paths, between boogie and roll numbers like "House Of Blue Lights" and "Time Was", a knowing jazzy-flavored fiddle solo. It's a brilliant way of filtering the past, readable between the lines of "Do You Love Me", doo-wop with the Moonglows of the young Etta James.

Of course, the fact remains that Chuck Berry's music has by now become a museum piece, and indeed the collection shines precisely for its retro appeal at a moment of sweet nostalgia.

After the great binge of memories, the man from St. Louis finds himself having to look to the future and, above all, to a historic record label that is no longer as free as it once was.

It's 1975, and Berry is still having a blast playing on various American TV shows, but his music is by now completely out of step with the times. Precious few record labels, in fact, are willing to take on a wax museum statue of rock and roll.

To fill the sudden void, Chuck once again tries the album route for what will soon turn out to be his last record for Chess Records.

Chuck Berry (Chess, 1975) is a lackluster mosaic of colorful sonic tiles. Recorded in New York, the album revisits the old songbook formula, packed with other people's songs arranged according to the usual genre blend. Unavoidable, then, is the blues of “I Just Want To Make Love To You” (from the Muddy Waters classic, complete with wah-wah here) and the hypnotic “Baby What You Want Me To Do”, featuring the voice of his daughter Ingrid. Berry dusts off old boogies like “Swanee River” and seems to take quite a bit of pleasure in the country strumming of “I'm Just A Name” and “Too Late”. His own enjoyment isn't enough, though: the Latin grooves of “South Of The Border” and the Louisiana classic “You Are My Sunshine” are essentially pointless curios.

Better when the guitar digs into a more energetic beat (“Shake Rattle And Roll” and “Sue Answer”), because here the listener gets to have fun too. Otherwise, we'd have to talk about a musician once again struggling creatively, a pure entertainer for a slightly aging crowd.

The covers album slips by unnoticed, a clear sign of a rekindled flame that's as intense as it is fleeting. 1977 is the year of English punk, which completely overturns the rules of old rock and roll to push it into a far more rebellious, streetwise, couldn't-care-less dimension. The “white riot” of the Clash and the Albion anarchy of the Sex Pistols prove to everyone that rage and fury must oust the baroque excesses of progressive rock and mammoth hard-blues.

Berry's music, however, once again manages to save itself from the deluge of notes, a source of inspiration even for unsavory characters like Sid Vicious. A new militia of rockers following in the footsteps of the Beatles' devotion.

Berry wouldn't want to just stand by and watch, but in fact he's well aware that he's reached a creative dead end. A silence of over four years weighs on him, broken only in 1979 when the inventor of rock and roll decides to return to the studio at Berry Park together with his longtime musician Johnnie Johnson.

Meanwhile, to exorcise more than one demon, Chuck Berry Live In Concert (Magnum, 1978) is released, recorded live in September 1969 at the Toronto Rock And Roll Festival. It's yet another apotheosis of rock and roll – christened onstage by Berry himself with “Rock And Roll Music” – featuring seminal artists like Jerry Lee Lewis, Bo Diddley and Little Richard. The St. Louis guitarist stands alone, backed by a band of unknowns, yet still manages to electrify the crowd of hippies who had flocked there to worship the “Live Peace” of John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

Here, then, is the sinuous blues of “Hoochie Coochie Man” and the primal rhythms of “Nadine”, “School Day” and “Too Much Monkey Business”. Berry holds nothing back right up to the fiery finale of “Johnny B” and “Maybellene”, though it's clear the flower children aren't exactly his preferred crowd.

Rockit (Atco, 1979) is the unremarkable epitaph of an entire career, written with the friends who matter most (Johnson on piano and James Marsala on bass), in the name of the guitar that, before any other, told the story of a generation of Americans.

The cars make a comeback, then – more than twenty years after the legendary “Maybellene” – but the rock and roll of “Move It” is nothing more than a pretext to remember something that no longer exists. The ailing Chuck Berry inevitably sings the praises of life in “Oh What A Thrill”, yet proves once again incapable of moving beyond the beloved, drowsy blues of “I Need You Baby”. The whole album is a race against a time that's gone, and the pairing of “House Lights”/“I Never Thought” is nothing but a way of exorcising this very backward chase.

Berry, however, bares his teeth one more time, and when the little odyssey of “Wudn't Me” kicks in, he restores a bit of glory to his narrative gift. One last story about a Black kid in Mississippi fleeing the Ku Klux Klan, before finally handing the wheel over to the new wave of new wave. A disco music version of “Havana Moon” simply couldn't stand on its own two feet, not even for a few seconds.

Too Much Monkey Business

The last hopes Chuck Berry places in Rockit are immediately dashed.

In June 1979, “Johnny Boy” is at the White House performing for Jimmy Carter when he learns that the taxman is investigating a series of serious instances of tax evasion connected to some concerts at Madison Square Garden in New York. Berry – who would plead guilty – had accepted several under-the-table payments, driven by greed and by his manager Richard Nader. The court shows no mercy: four months behind bars at the Lompoc penitentiary in California and three years of community service. Devastated, Chuck embarks on a brief European tour before seeing the inside of a cell for the third time in August. Behind bars he's treated like royalty, backed by a movement called “Free Chuck Berry”, while he writes his autobiography.

It comes out in November 1979, and manager Bill Graham immediately organizes a big welcome-back concert at the Old Waldorf in San Francisco. The evening goes off happily, but it fails to spark a genuine comeback. The inventor of rock and roll is by now out of ideas, unable to reinvent a career beyond his old, timeless hits. All that's left is a life as a wandering troubadour of popular music, caught between incendiary (and nostalgic) shows, autographs, and the blandest everyday routine of an American legend.

Over the course of the '80s, a Chuck Berry devoid of new ideas thus sets about reaping everything he had sown over more than twenty years. In January 1986 he's invited to Cleveland for the inaugural ceremony of the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame, and is later inducted into the Songwriters Hall Of Fame. It's unquestionable recognition for his seminal contribution to a genre that so radically revolutionized the way thousands of young Americans thought and behaved.

Chuck Berry is officially a legend, revered by fans and fellow musicians the world over. One of the latter goes by the name of Keith Richards, who plies his trade as the guitarist of the Rolling Stones. He's one of those who spent his childhood grinding out the riffs of "Johnny B. Goode" and "Maybellene". It's Keith himself who, spurred on by Stephanie Bennett of Delilah Films, puts together a monumental show in St. Louis to celebrate sixty years of a rock and roll legend. Tickets fly out the door at the Fox Theatre box office — a venue loaded with symbolism, given that a young Charles was once denied entry there because of the color of his skin, just fifty years earlier. Now, under the direction of filmmaker Taylor Hackford, that same Charles is ready to set his audience alight, a generation on from his fame and glory.

A precious soundtrack to Hackford's brilliant documentary, Hail! Hail! Rock And Roll (MCA, 1987) accompanies Chuck Berry's definitive ascent to the rock Olympus of icons. And you can hear it right away, from the unmistakable opening of "Maybellene" and "Sweet Little Sixteen", backed by a top-tier band featuring Keith Richards on guitar, Johnnie Johnson on piano and Bobby Keys on saxophone.

Back in St. Louis, Berry seems perfectly at ease, basking in an ecstatic crowd and unleashing immortal riffs like the one in "Brown Eyed Handsome Man", chased down in the company of blues prodigy Robert Cray. The chemistry is nothing short of miraculous: songs that were already "oldies" shine again with their own light. Like "Back In The USA", handed over to Linda Ronstadt herself, who had taken it to the top of the charts a decade earlier.

Chuck can only smile with joy as he welcomes to the stage first the blues deity Eric Clapton for a drowsy "Wee Wee Hours", and then Etta James's voice, which brings out all the grit in "Rock And Roll Music". A perfect night to make a little rock and roll together with a man who has just become a legend.

By the end of the Eighties, it's once again time for a celebratory release, naturally curated by his longtime label. The Chess Box (Chess, 1988) contains "I'm Just A Lucky So And So" (a Duke Ellington cover) and "So Day Long Night", an instrumental blues enriched by Paul Butterfield's harmonica.

Chuck Berry, however, simply can't enjoy his retirement, haunted once again by run-ins with the American justice system. In 1989 he's reported by one of his employees at the Southern Air restaurant in St. Louis for having installed hidden cameras in the ladies' restrooms. It's the prelude to another run-in with the police who, in 1990, search Berry Park and find weapons, porn tapes and small amounts of marijuana. Fortunately, the guitarist avoids a fourth stint behind bars, getting off with a hefty fine.

That same year sees the release of Missing Berries: Rarities Volume 3 (Chess, 1990), which includes a few jazz/swing gems like "Untitled Instrumental" and "Vacation Time". Far more worthwhile is Count Basie's reworking of "One O'Clock Jump", with Leroy C. Davis's sax taking center stage.

It’s Only Rock And Roll

By the dawn of the Nineties, Chuck Berry's career has become more museum relic than creative musicianship. In 1993, England lovingly welcomes the first cries of an Oxford band who, with a sonic tenderness titled "Creep", are about to steer rock music toward new shores. The Generation X described by Canadian writer Douglas Coupland finds a kindred voice in Kurt Cobain, consumed by a relentless burning. With Seattle's Sub Pop and grunge, rock and roll spews out its most underground and apathetic, frustrated and restless side. Cars and sweet little girls are now light years away. An old rock and roll legend has no choice but to resign himself, carrying on with his business and his concert circuit, between small clubs (the Blueberry Hill in St. Louis, for instance) and grand houses (Bill Clinton's White House, for instance).

It's in the year of "Nevermind"'s rage that the historic Chess Records decides to put together a monumental work to definitively settle accounts with a living legend. The Chess Years (Chess, 1991) is an entire sonic city under the name Chuck Berry: a box set of nine discs holding over two hundred recorded songs. Missing, of course, is the Mercury period, but nobody seems to mind. It kicks off with the unmistakable guitar style of "Roll Over Beethoven" and runs all the way to the astonishing, raunchy success of "My Ding-A-Ling". An entire life in music, and in fact, a piece of the very existence of 20th century popular music itself.

The new millennium arrives, bringing with it new joys and new sorrows. Berry keeps enjoying a wildly successful artistic retirement, touring the world with his timeless classics.

His discography, by now, has been at a standstill since 1979, enriched only by compilations of varying thoroughness and the occasional live album. The Anthology (MCA, 2000) gathers up much of the hits of a generation, while Live! (Columbia River Entertainment Group, 2000) veers toward a bluesier repertoire, with "Key To The Highway" and the "Got My Mojo Working" made famous by Muddy Waters.

Surprisingly, in 2001 his longtime friend (and pianist) Johnnie Johnson hits him with an irritating lawsuit, accusing him of having deceitfully cut him out of the credits for a great many songs recorded between 1955 and 1966. Yet another proof that the god of money has always slyly taken Chuck Berry under its dazzling, glittering wing. A career that began amid petty robberies and reform school seems to close out with applause and rivers of money, more or less legitimately earned. In between, the life and works of the inventor of rock and roll.

Chuck Berry died on March 18, 2017, at 90 years old. First responders found Berry unconscious and were unable to revive him, St. Charles County police said.

By the narrowest of margins, the man who gave rock and roll its very pulse never got to see his final creative legacy pressed into grooves. It's titled Chuck (2017), his twentieth studio album, but it reads "Toddy" — his wife Themetta Suggs, life companion and muse. Chuck Berry's posthumous work is thus a love letter, keenly expressed in the rockabilly enthusiasm of "Wonderful Woman", where it seems his musical offspring — from the Beach Boys to AC/DC — are still there paying homage. It's not a compendium of his career, but the attempt of a renewed newcomer: best expressed in "Big Boys", an autobiography of his climb to success set to his classic "ding-a-ling" and his signature rapid-fire rhymes. Unfortunately, the limits of the LP, his longtime Achilles' heel, show through once again here, in tracks that lean a bit too heavily into sentimentality. Two sequels to legendary songs, "Lady B. Goode" and an exotic-flavored "Jamaica Moon", barely manage to raise a smile.

Outro

Chuck's Beat

While Elvis Presley wears monarchic titles thanks to an innate stage presence, Chuck Berry locks himself into the mind of America's new musical direction, creating a raw blend of primal blues and good-natured country. The newborn rock and roll screams through his explosive guitar, drawing in thousands of curious ears ready to turn into a generational vision.

The riff of “Johnny B. Goode” accompanies a compositional flair that is unique of its kind, amid speeding cars, more-or-less happy loves and utopian dreams. Chuck is, perhaps, the first poet of rock and roll, able to capture the conflicting moods of an audience no longer split along Manichean lines. Black R&B and white-faced country. These few elements alone would be enough to sow the seeds for a great harvest. Like that of Jerry Garcia, leader of the Grateful Dead, who names Berry among his primary influences, having fun covering “Around And Around” and “Promised Land”. Or that of the more beat-leaning Who and the proto-punk Dylan of “Subterranean Homesick Blues”. Or of a whole generation of rock guitarists, from the faithful disciple Keith Richards to the raw instrument of Joe Perry, right up to the chico Carlos Santana of “Havana Moon”. Chances are that even “Come Together” wouldn't have been the same without that incendiary rhythm.

The list could go on much longer (and much more tediously): the Sex Pistols with yet another “Johnny B. Goode”, Mano Negra's “County Line” and Gary Glitter's “School Day”. Artists of every sonic persuasion paying their more or less heartfelt tribute to the great godfather of rock and roll.

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