This isn’t really the point of the blog, I know. I mean, it’s my fuckin’ blog, so I can do with it what I will, but this isn’t politics.
But Chuck Berry did die last night.
Now, an incredibly important aspect of the person I am boils down to music and my ability to soundtrack the goings-on around me. This has always been a truism for me, going all the way back to swim practices in 5th grade that I mentally grafted to “Nevermind the Bollocks” in all of my remaining memories.
Without Chuck Berry, this is impossible. Without Chuck Berry, it’s beyond impossible–it’s unintelligible.
While I rarely sought out Chuck qua Chuck, it is literally impossible to not get Chuck qua Jimi, or Chuck qua Johnny and Joey, or Chuck qua Iggy. Chuck was the mold from which Rock and Roll was cast. Everything I love in guitar-based rock, from the insouciant smirking as the solo starts to the physical flourishes–jutting the neck up and down as though being electrocuted–to the pure buzzsaw energy, I have Chuck to thank for.
So pour some out for the Inventor of Rock and Roll today. I will.