John Lennon's line, "If you tried to give rock & roll another name, you might call it Chuck Berry!" isn't quite the whole truth, but it gives some sense of the scope of the subject. Chuck Berry's contributions to the music, in his essential '50s and '60s recordings for Chicago's Chess label, were so huge, and so hugely influential, that the very identity of "rock & roll" as we know it seems unthinkable without him.

He is of course one of the great songwriters of the century, a grand-master wordsmith of, yes, dazzling wit and ingenuity, but also startling subtlety, depth, feeling, and insight. He is of course one of the three or four most influential electric guitarists of all time -- his driving, thrilling solos and great body of licks and techniques have continued to inspire guitarists and delight listeners for over forty years. He is, as much as any other one artist, one of the essential cats who defined and created rock & roll for us all. As such, he has been an incredible influence and inspiration for the artists who followed him: the Beatles, the Rolling Stones (one can hardly even imagine the Stones without Chuck's presence in their work), Dylan, Hendrix, Springsteen, literally countless others -- he's a part of who we are, a part of what makes our music possible.

He is also some other things. He is one of the great masters of the beat, of the grooves and rhythms and rhythmic variations that make our African-American music (and that is to say, all American musical idioms, "white" or "black") so vital, so alive. He's a wonderfully expressive singer, a fact which isn't talked about much because his songs and his playing demand so much of our attention. He's a great blues man. He's a fascinating star, a fascinating person on our public landscape, whose life in all its complexity and sadness is a compelling study in racial identity and in American identity. He's a deep and thoughtful and compex artist whose best-known tunes and tricks, wonderful as they are, are only a part of the story.

Right now, I can't possibly talk in detail about all that stuff! At least I mentioned it! What I have time to do here today is point to some of the essential Chuck Berry music you ought to be listening to, or re-listening to, to find some of these things out for yourself while having an absolutely wonderful time. And I can tell you a little of the story, make a few passing comments on Chuck's songs and writing and recording history, and (since this is our Legends of Electric Guitar series) spotlight some of the high points of the guitar work you'll find on these wonderful recordings.

There is (so far) no one CD issue which is a perfect introduction to Chuck's music, but there are two options which come plenty close enough to be considered an Essential Purchase. If your budget or your feelings dictate a conservative first step, there's the single CD Chuck Berry: the Great Twenty-Eight-- which in fact would have been that perfect introduction if the compilers hadn't blown it by omitting three crucial songs, but which is of course absolutely wonderful anyway, and a great bargain with 28 great numbers packed into a full-to-bursting 70-minute disc If you can spend a little more, you can bypass the single disc and go straight to Chuck Berry: the Chess Box, a handsomely packaged 3-CD set which includes all 28 from the other issue plus 43 additional tunes The discs are generously filled with music (65-70 minutes each), and so much of it is so incredibly good, I'd really recommend going straight for the box set if you can possibly manage it. Even if you're a longtime fan like me who has a bunch of the great old funky Chess LPs and 45s on your shelves, these sets are valuable additions to your library, pulling so many classic performances together to re-experience in hot, clean, fresh-sounding CD sound. And if you don't already have this music in your collection -- what are you waiting for? An incredible world of rock'n'roll is waiting for you, the Cadillac door stands wide open -- grab the keys!

Chuck Berry was 29 years old, in May of 1955, when he got his big break on a trip to Chicago. He'd already chalked up a lot of life experience back in his native Saint Louis, doing a stint in reform school (for a "joyride" car theft) in his teens, working on auto assembly lines and as a hair stylist, getting married and starting a family. And for the past two years he'd been playing steady weekend gigs, fronting a trio with the wonderful pianist Johnnie Johnson and the drummer Ebby Hardy, rocking the house to suit the tastes of his audience with an intriguing mixture of light, uptempo swing and jump tunes (drawing heavily on the recordings of the Nat Cole Trio), grinding low-down Mississippi-to-Chicago blues (Muddy Waters and Elmore James were prime sources), and also a surprising share of country-western tunes, which seemed to be popular with his local black public as well as with whites who started showing up in increasing numbers at his Cosmo Club dates. Chuck's weekend trip to Chicago that May was ostensibly just to see Muddy Waters perform; but a chat with Muddy after the gig led to an appointment with Muddy's label owner, Leonard Chess, who was interested enough by Chuck's poised, articulate statement of his own musical dreams that he suggested the young man come back and see him a week later with a tape of some of the trio's music.

This was Chuck's breakthrough moment, but no one, not even he, could have quite realized what he would make of it. He returned to Saint Louis and decided it would be more impressive to Chess if he presented a tape with original songs rather than covers. He was used to ad-libbing new verses to the tunes he performed, but he had never written a complete song of his own. That week he wrote and demoed four! Those four were the classics "Thirty Days" and "You Can't Catch Me," the beautiful slow blues "Wee Wee Hours," and the jumpin' country tune we know today as "Maybellene! (Chuck originally called the girl "Ida May.") Yes, Leonard Chess was impressed! He slyly suggested the name change to Maybellene (more slick and urban sounding, and with the teen appeal of referring to a then-popular cosmetic line), and targeted it for his new artist's first single. A little judicious payola helped grease its arrival at the radio stations (kingpin DJ Alan Freed was mysteriously credited as co-composer, with an attendant royalty share), the tune shot to the top of the charts, and Chuck Berry's career was off in a blaze of rocket fuel.