PUTNEY — I will never forget the night I went with my friend Deb to a huge old warehouse in Boston to see Chuck Berry work his magic. He was just indescribably and amazingly testosterone, serpent, fox, and daisies. Spry for an old guy of 41 back in 1967.
Chuck arrived a bit late on that Saturday night. The local bands that opened for him had a little more time to hope to land the girls who languished at the rim of the stage.
When Chuck finally loped up the steps and into the scene somewhere around 11 p.m., the pretty boys with their drums and guitars just evaporated from memory.
Suddenly, there was no one else in the warehouse but Chuck. His energy made you feel like you were a half-screwed-in light bulb flickering away and then you got the final twist that turned you on. Chuck sang-danced-strutted, with his guitar cord tailing him like a snake. Cool heat.
We wagged our hips to all the old standby songs. The electric sizzle from Chuck Berry's guitar strings rattled our knees and made our white sneakers tap and even, somehow, slide on the concrete floor. He toyed with us and got everyone to sing “My Ding-a-Ling,” to have naughty feelings about the secret thing he was gleefully alluding to.
God, it was fun.
* * *
This was Boston. This was Saturday night. Sunday began at midnight, and that meant it was worship time and the Blue Laws would be enforced.
But when the clock struck midnight, we were just getting going. Chuck was having so much fun; he ignored the time and just swung into another song.
The crowd went crazy. He was being bad. Real bad.
Well, the men in blue were having none of that. The cops climbed up onto the stage during the song. Chuck went to the back of the stage, and he and the police had a little tête-à-tête.
Chuck nodded that he understood the situation and began to pack up ... until the cops got back down to the aisles.
At that point, he swung his axe back to his groin and broke into another song, strutting in his unique way and smiling into the spotlights.
The cops turned around and took to the stage again.
This charade happened several times. Chuck would trail them apologetically to the edge of the stage, say goodbye, then spin into another song like it was all part of the plan. The cops were so red-faced and mad.
But nothing awful happened. Chuck wasn't dragged away or cuffed. He was just too powerfully ignited with the holy spirit of Rock for the cops to take him on.
Even God had to let him carry on. He was a one-man revival with a backup crew of musicians who knew how to shake out the devil.
* * *
Chuck Berry kept on singing for at least half an hour, just so we kids would all get our money's worth. In the end the show was priceless, of course.
And we walked out into the night of a Boston Sunday around 1 a.m. No trains were running, nor taxis, yet still somehow we all found our way across the tracks and back home.
Some kind of church was founded on Rock. New times then. Old times now.
History. We made it. Can't get the music out of me. Ever.