Valerie Rojas
Co-editor
On March 11, a 79-year-old Chuck Berry strummed his maroon Gibson 335 guitar, enticing eager fans to hail his legendary rock ‘n’ roll at the Win River Casino in Redding, Calif.
And yours truly was in attendance.
When I first got word that this mammoth of a musician was going to be in the Golden State, I knew there was no way I could miss his performance. After all, this St. Louis resident is not exactly in his youngest of years, and who knows whether I would ever be granted another opportunity to witness Chuck Berry in all his glory, live in person.
I made the nine-hour commute, husband in tow, and was able to catch what I thought was going to be one of the most amazing performances of my lifetime.
After arriving at the casino and weaving through mobs of decrepit geezers glued to penny machines, I finally found the will call office. We presented our identification cards, asked when the big show was going to begin and made our way to a very long line full of what can only be described as a mix of hillbillies and failed musicians. I knew I was in for an interesting evening.
After waiting around the lobby for a good 20 minutes or so, the auditorium doors opened, and we were led inside. We took our seats and prepared for the assumed awesomeness that would soon unfold.
An hour later, it would be over.
Shortly after we were seated, a dark figure tiptoed his way onstage, finding solace behind a stack of amplifiers. If it weren’t for the red sequined shirt glistening under the spotlight or the sailor’s cap atop his head, I probably would have missed him.
The man made his way quickly to the microphone on center stage, and the audience erupted in cheers as the first chords of “Roll Over Beethoven” hit our ears.
I couldn’t believe that the man onstage was really Chuck Berry, let alone that he was a staggering 79 years old. Berry wiggled onstage just as much as he probably did back in the late 1950s.
While he managed to prance about the stage with energy that rivals much younger performers, Berry could hardly finish a majority of the songs. In between having to cue his bass player and keep hold of his guitar as the strap slid off, Berry barely managed to hit the halfway mark through a number of his hits, either forgetting the lyrics or the right chords.
While Berry is famous for playing with unrehearsed local bands that are hired shortly before the show date, the local musicians accompanying him this evening were actually quite in sync with Berry; the bass player (who happened to be the only musician flown out of St. Louis) withstanding.
After breaking a string in the middle of the short set, Berry calmed the anxious audience by reciting his own version of slam poetry complete with all the sexual innuendo you would expect from a man with such a sordid history.
Guitar problems fixed, Berry breezed through “Nadine,” “Maybelline,” “School Day” and “Wee Wee Hours” as the show progressed. After an open invitation to the women in the audience to join him onstage, Berry teased with a snippet of his infamous “Duck walk” before making his sly exit offstage.
Chants for an encore erupted throughout the auditorium only to be turned down as the house-lights flickered on. Berry was nowhere to be seen. The intimate evening with Berry was over.
An 18-hour drive, two $45 tickets, $200 spent on gas and one speeding ticket later, I had seen the legendary rock ‘n’ roller in person.
Sure, I only heard five songs, but was it worth it?Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
