成人快手

In search of Chuck Berry

• Stephen Smith
• 11 Oct 06, 05:06 PM

To many, he's the king of rock 'n' roll. He's also its first outlaw.

Chuck Berry, the original hip gunslinger of the guitar, turns 80 next week (18 October) and axe-fancying Newsnight supremo Peter Barron sent me to St Louis, Missouri, in search of the great man. But Chuck's reputation goes before him and we knew we wouldn't get him on a plate. He is possibly the least biddable man in showbusiness - no mean distinction. Allow me to direct you to the excellent Berry rockumentary, , in which the guitarist has a full-scale stand-up row with Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones over how to set an amp. It's not often that Keef makes you feel protective towards him but he has your sympathy here, as he patiently explains to his hero that turning the thrashed Marshall stack up to 11 is all well and good for putting Chuck in the moment but won't be so pleasing on the ear of posterity.

The man responsible for influencing the Stones and the Beatles, as well as up-and-coming players such as Mercury Prize nominee Richard Hawley, also has some jail time on his resume. Chuck's been busted for exotic offences including 'transporting a minor across a state line' and turned against the Press when, in his view, they began mis-reporting him. He wrote his autobiography twenty odd years ago and prospective interviewers are invited to leaf through its pages for the answers they seek.

The soon-to-be octogenarian lives quietly at his estate, Berry Park, outside St Louis, where his chief recreation is mowing his many acres on a tractor. His family say the only devilry he gets up to behind a wheel these days involves sculpting crop circles into the greensward. Berry Park was conceived by Chuck as his riposte to the whites-only country clubs from which he was excluded when he was growing up in the days of segregation. Alas, the dream of a come-one, come-all resort has not endured. The stylish amenity of a guitar-shaped swimming pool has, we understand, been filled in. And on a marble plaque at the gates to Berry Park, the chiselled legend 'Welcome To…' is now concealed by a strip of gaffer tape.

In vain did I tarry on Chuck's driveway for a glimpse of the man who penned 'Johnny B Goode', 'No Particular Place to Go', 'Roll Over Beethoven' and other rock 'n' roll masterworks. Fruitlessly did I entreat Chuck's charming grown-up children, Chuck Berry Jr and Ingrid Berry, musicians themselves, to put in a good word for me with the old man. They understood that, at the very least, a postcript to Chuck's story was overdue, but they also knew better than me that Daddy was his own man.

Once a month, they join him on stage at the Blueberry Hill club in St Louis. The pop star who sold millions of records in his pomp plays to 300 or so fans in a subterranean dancehall called the Duck Room, named after Chuck's trademark 'duck walk' step. The Newsnight team finagled front-row seats for his most recent appearance.

Among the many showbusiness legends that surround Chuck Berry is a reputation for an almost supernatural punctuality - and bang on 10 o'clock, the stage was taken by a tall, slightly halting figure in a chemise of silver filigree, a well-worn, not to say, patched-up, electric guitar tucked under his ribs. I wouldn't have described myself as a diehard Berry fan, and that was before I'd dogged him down country roads like the sheriffs and marshalls to whom he once gave the slip. And it would be inaccurate to report that he was word-perfect. He wasn't even song-perfect, more than once embarking on a number that he and the band had decisively seen off, or so you'd thought, much earlier in the evening. But when he realised that he had erred, he made a joke of it, and everybody laughed. Better still, he would disguise the minor slip by uncorking one of his signature, string-bending solos. Not only was this great, in and of itself, but you were reminded that no one else had done this before Chuck Berry did it.

He played for a good hour. After he had formally taken his leave of the platform, leaving the band to their own devices, the air was rent from time to time by his noises off, unmistakeable Berry licks from backstage. Chuck Berry had simply gone into another room, so to speak, but his music was still with us.

He reappeared, slumped on a chair, to sign autographs. I wanted my picture taken with him but he was now baulking at the flare of flash bulbs. 'I'd very much like to talk to you, Chuck,' I said. 'For the 成人快手.' At the name of this venerable broadcaster, the eyes flickered briefly beneath the yacht-skipper's cap. But 'Talk to Ingrid' was all he would say.

I walked out to the car-lot, in time to catch the old boy driving away in a new sedan at excruciatingly low speed. He wasn't 'motorvatin' over the hill' so much as tortoiseing home to Berry Park. He was indulging his lifelong love of automobiles, while remaining ever vigilant for the wiles of 'the man'.