Late last night HCB and I were exchanging emails (as in our wont.) The topic in this instance was Chuck Berry. H was concerned with inaccuracies in lyric transcripts, and I couldn’t help but recall how, when I interviewed the man for the NME in the mid 1970s, he came off like a slick, greasy, obnoxious conman with something close to contempt for his own work. (And don’t even mention the stories of his sex life.) But, while seeming wholly reprehensible, he did write all those songs. All those incredible songs. Was Chuck idiot savant of 20th century poetry? Check “No Money Down” reproduced below – a perfect, custom-paint vignette of the USA, like some hipster Norman Rockwell – preserving the days when the transaction between capital and labor at least kinda worked, when the UAW had plenty of juice and capitalism seemed to be creating a consumer version of the workers' paradise. Of course, we were burning natural resources like there was no tomorrow – and here in tomorrow we’re going to have to pay the price – but ol’ Chuck could make it all so seductive.
"Well Mister I want a yellow convertible
"Well Mister I want a yellow convertible
Four door de Ville
With a continental spare
And wire chrome wheels
I want power steering
I want power steering
And power brakes
I want a powerful motor
With jet off take
I want air conditioning
I want automatic heat
I want a full Murphy bed
In my back seat
I want short wave radio
I want TV and a phone
You know I got to talk to my baby
When I’m riding alone
I want ten dollar deductible
I want twenty dollar notes
I want thirty-five in liability
(That's all she wrote)
I got me a car
And I'm going to drive it down that road
And I won't have to worry
Bout driving that broken down old ragged Ford"
Click here for Chuck doing it live. And click here for a quality Chuck Berry fan site.
The secret word is Jitney
Click here for Chuck doing it live. And click here for a quality Chuck Berry fan site.
The secret word is Jitney
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6 comments:
I love Chuck Berry's songs. He chronicles his time perfectly. Every song's a little story. Look at Too Much Monkey Business or Maybelline. Forget Mark Twain, Chuck's the story teller who can get to the American archetype.
I read somewhere that he planned it all out cynically. "What do white people like? Cars and girls! That's what I'll sing about." But similar to another man with an unlikeable personality, Eminem, he really gets to the heart of it, and does is in rhythm and rhyme.
I think we have to accept that Chuck -- with some good reason -- doesn't much like white folks. (Unless they're young, female, and hot.)
Have you seen this video?
Chuck, the poet...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RU_PzcThrPk
no wonder he developed contempt for his own work. He was singing for someone else.
Genius is often not likable, the tragedy is that I don't think he knows how perfect his songs are, he thinks he's a fraud when he's the real deal, the man who perfected Rock & Roll, well him and Johnny Johnson, his keyboard player, who should really get half the credit.
There's fryers, broilers,
A-Detroit'n barbecued ribs.
You get the treat of the week,
Oh when you dig that real fine jive with the welcome beat.
Fall in there, lose your lead,
At the house, the house of blue lights.
Oh yeah!
I think he knows exactly how good he is and how good his songs are. The chip on his shoulder is Elvis, who got more credit back in the day. But I don't think there's a bone in his body that needs to be liked-- so he doesn't pander much. If he feels it, he'll blow everyone's mind. If he doesn't, he'll do his job. The sex stuff is his own business. The songs-- they're his gift. To you.
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