Reading Is Fundamental: RJ Smith’s *Chuck Berry: An American Life*

Moving beyond the myth of the Duckwalk and ronka-ronka, dealing with rock ‘n’ roll’s prickly pioneer

Chuck Berry might just be rock ‘n’ roll’s greatest trickster—a visionary who saw through the world’s hypocrisy and turned it back on itself, all while playing guitar like his fingers were on fire. But he wasn’t just rock ‘n’ roll’s architect, teaching literally everyone how to write rock ‘n’ roll songs and play guitar like a-ringin’ a bell in its first decade. This Heartbreakers album I have on as I peck this out proves that. So would any given Stones album, or virtually any definitive rock ’n’ roll record. Chuck Berry was the music’s hardest-edged icon, someone who made as many enemies as he did fans, all while blazing a trail that everyone followed.

RJ Smith’s recent biography, Chuck Berry: An American Life [$32, 415 pages, Hachette Books, New York, 2023], gives us a portrait of a man who didn’t just invent rock ’n’ roll—he weaponized it. Berry subtly confronted race relations with the kind of sly, razor-sharp wit that made him both magnetic and maddening. Smith strips away the glossy mythology to reveal a man as mercilessly complicated as his music was groundbreaking. This isn’t a book that sanitizes Berry’s life—it dives headfirst into his stubbornness, strange obsession with cash, and ruthlessness in relationships.

Smith digs deep into Berry’s story, moving beyond the myth of the Duckwalk and those three-chord ronka-ronka anthems. He shows us the nuances of a Black artist who knew exactly how to outwit a world rigged against him. Songs such as “Brown-Eyed Handsome Man” and “Johnny B. Goode” weren’t just catchy hits. They were coded messages to an America that couldn’t quite handle a Black man speaking his mind. Smith captures how Berry played the game on his terms, sneaking themes of racial pride and frustration into his lyrics—often so subtly that audiences sang along without realizing they were part of something subversive.

One of Chuck Berry: An American Life’s most powerful elements is its focus on how Berry navigated a music industry and society that tried to box him in. This was a man who’d brush off interviewers with deflective charm, knowing he couldn’t always speak openly about segregation or systemic inequities. Berry’s brilliance lay in his ability to write hit records that hit you in the gut while slipping a message under the radar—a message about being Black in a country that wanted his sound but not his skin.

Equally, the book tackles head-on Berry's singular focus on money. In every sense, he was a hustler, always on the lookout for what he was owed and demanding every penny before stepping onstage. Smith’s Berry is a man who guarded his earnings as fiercely as his artistic legacy, mistrusting an industry that had cheated him and other Black artists too many times.

Typically, Berry flew into town with his Gibson in its case, a toothbrush, and a change of socks and underwear in a small satchel. A late-model Cadillac was to be rented and ready for him at the airport. He would motorvate to the venue minutes before showtime, expecting the following: 1) his fee, in cash, in a briefcase; 2) one local rhythm section, familiar with his repertoire; and 3) two rented Fender Dual Showman amplifiers.

Berry would meet the promoter, count every bill in the briefcase, and only then head backstage to greet the band. If his fee wasn’t met to the penny, he’d snap the briefcase shut, load it and his guitar into the Cadillac, and drive off without playing a note. But if his demands were met, he’d finally meet the band, pull out his ES-345, and give only the barest instructions. As Smith writes: “In live situations, he was simultaneously the most laid-back and the strictest of bandleaders. No practicing, no setlist, few instructions other than ‘watch my foot,’ which signaled the end of the song, or some big change, was coming.”

Then he’d do the wipe from left to right across the Fenders’ dials, count off, and launch into his greatest hits. The band, unprepared for his sudden key changes and Berry turning away from them mid-song, would hang on for dear life.

45 minutes later, Berry duckwalked offstage, wiped down his Gibson, and drove off in that Caddy, the cheers or boos (depending on how well the band survived) fading into the distance. For Chuck Berry, it didn’t matter—he always got paid.

Berry’s approach to business was beyond hard-nosed. It was often relentless, alienating promoters, venues, and even his most devoted disciples. If he showed up and played, great. If not? Well, you still owed him.

Smith doesn’t shy away from Berry’s contradictions. He was at once a proud innovator and a man deeply skeptical of the fame machine—someone who understood that rock ’n’ roll loved him as a product but might not accept him as a person. The book balances these tensions, peeling back layers to show Chuck Berry as both revolutionary and pragmatist—a man willing to charm audiences but always aware of the game being played.

Equally, Smith handles the personal side with unflinching honesty. Berry wasn’t known for treating the people closest to him with much tenderness—whether it was women, his wife, or the musicians who had the privilege of backing him up. For every fan who saw Berry as rock ’n’ roll’s living, breathing monument, there’s a story of someone else steamrolled by his ego and temper. Even Keith Richards, whose devotion to Berry bordered on reverence, suffered snubs, insults, and a black eye personally delivered by his hero. For Berry, being a legend didn’t mean handing out favors—it meant playing by his own rules every single time.

If there’s anything Smith captures best, it’s how these darker sides are inseparable from Berry’s artistry. Chuck Berry was no angel, but he was a survivor in an industry that didn’t care if he sank or swam. The same stubbornness that drove him to demand cash upfront fueled his uncompromising vision. He knew the system would chew him up and spit him out if he gave it the chance, so he built a fortress around himself—even if it meant keeping friends and family at arm’s length.

The heart of Smith’s book lies in connecting Berry’s legacy with America’s ongoing struggle over race. You can feel Berry’s impact not just in rock ’n’ roll but in the way artists after him—from Jimi Hendrix to Prince—used music to talk back to power. Berry was rock ’n’ roll’s original poet of freedom and defiance, and Smith shows how his message remains as sharp and relevant as ever.

Chuck Berry: An American Life does justice to a man who was anything but easy to pin down. Smith brings out the complexities and contradictions, giving us a Chuck Berry who’s as sly, rebellious, and brilliant as the music he made. It’s a book that reveals why Chuck Berry wasn’t just a performer. He was a pioneer, shaping rock ‘n’ roll while challenging America to take a hard look at itself—even if it took us decades to realize he was doing it.

In the end, Chuck Berry: An American Life is a raw, uncompromising look at a man who changed the world but never tried to play nice. Smith makes no attempt to gloss over Berry’s flaws. Instead, he shows us how they’re woven into his music, his legacy, and his undeniable impact. For Chuck Berry, rock ‘n’ roll was a battlefield, and he was its warrior king—brilliant, prickly, and unapologetically himself. It’s a biography that feels as challenging as the man himself, and it’s a reminder that rock ‘n’ roll’s greatest pioneers are often its most ruthless.

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