andrews27
Rocks Off Regular
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Wake up Bowie or we all through!!
Posts: 1,598
Pittsburgh, PA, USA
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I met Chuck Berry in January 1980 at Heat, a long since-defunct club in a warehouse on the lower west side of Manhattan, near the Hudson River docks. The streets outside were all of cobblestone and had ancient trolley tracks inlaid, the lines filled with white ice. Chuck had just gotten out of prison for tax evasion and was barnstorming the US to raise some cash.
Chuck's sets were advertised for 10:00 PM and midnight. The opening act was Sylvain Sylvain from the New York Dolls with his new band, who weren't very interesting. That was over at 10:30, and Chuck didn't come on until after 1:00 AM. I had been there since around eight o'clock, and didn't want to give up my spot at the edge of the stage to go urinate, though by the time Chuck's first set ended, I needed to badly.
So I'm in the men's room alone and had just finished up, when behind me I hear a door creak like in a haunted house. I turn around and Chuck walks in through a private door that I hadn't noticed. It's wild that he didn't have a toilet in his dressing room, but that was warehouse space nightlife, and there may not have been a dressing room, even.
He was dressed all in red, suit and shirt. There was nothing for us to do but eyeball each other.
I could have cried.
"Chuck!" I blurted, "Thank you! We all owe you so much! Everybody in rock 'n' roll does!" I swear, I stopped just short of saying, All white people do!
"Far out!" Chuck said, happily. He made like to slap my hand, and I duly accepted his five.
"Be cool," Chuck concluded. I've always wished I had taken his advice.
I stayed for the second show and fought my way to another spot at the front, farther away from Chuck than I had been for the first show. A few songs in, Chuck saw me down there and bopped his way over. I no longer remember what song it was, but he leaned over close to me and played the solo right into my face. His hair (I had been surprised to see) was frizzed out and grey, not dyed and slicked, and blue and purple stage lights gleamed off the tips. He dropped sweat all over me. I was the literary type: Jesus Christ, I thought, This is like being fucked by Frederick Douglass!
When Chuck finished the song, he handed me the pick. I was surprised to see it was a heavy-gauge, opaque grey model, quite ordinary. Maybe I expected it to light up, or something. I still have it, tucked inside David Johansen's harmonica case, along with Bo Diddley's broken bottom E-string, which was handed to me from a different stage years later. (I got to talk to Bo that night, too. I'm like that.)
By the time Chuck finished his second set, which had started about 3:30 AM, there were no cabs to be had. I walked back across the frozen west side and made it to my NYU dorm room at about a quarter to six. That was the start of my second semester.
I thought I was tired then, but I'm really tired now.
Jesus Christ, we are fucked by Father Time. Rest in peace, Chuck. That was 37 years ago.
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