Chuck Berry and Brickie. And Colleen.

Whirlwind trip to NYC in which I went to see Chuck Berry with brother Brickie and appeared on television to read some of my poems. The concert at B.B. King's was sold out, most of the people were crammed into these square cafe tables on the floor in front of the stage. Not round tables like in a proper nightclub, which would make sense so that people could face the stage, but square two-top tables placed so they could cram the people in. People at those tables faced not the stage but each other; then had to turn their necks to see Chuck.

Brickie and I set up camp at the bar, perfect view, and standing was no problem. He wanted to drink vodka so I went along with him, and he bought the first three rounds. He insisted, even though he sprung for the tickets as well. I think he was trying to show his little bro a good time in the wake of the Colleen desertion. Cocktails ten bucks apiece. Christ.

Chuck comes out wearing tight black slacks, a spangly sequined red blouse Brickie called a 'show-biz shirt,' and of course this yachting cap that he wears. Hard to say why he's landed on this cap as his trademark head gear. Of course most people know that I long ago wore the blue version of this hat, which is more skippery that yachty. I've retired that hat but Chuck hasn't. Maybe Chuck is bald? Doesn't seem like he is. Anyway he's skinny and wiry and looks good in the hat. He's 82, looks to be about six feet ten inches tall, and dedicated the show to Bo Diddley, who had just passed on.

Does Chuck Berry remember the lyrics to his own songs? No he does not. He can still tear through the opening licks of these songs, though, and makes jokes about fucking up lyrics. "Damn," he said halfway through the show. "Last time I played BB King's I screwed up a total of four times. I done already screwed up seven." Accurate count. He asked for requests, seemed happy that people remembered so many of his songs, then just played what he'd planned on anyway.

The crowd was mixed between guitar geeks and gray baby boomers, all with big jackass smiles on, including me and Brickie, especially after "No Particular Place to Go," by which time we were seriously, even deliriously drunk, which reminded me of high school weekends before Brickie moved out of our house at seventeen to work a hamburger stand at a demolition racetrack in Raleigh-Durham. Mostly I was thnking about Colleen. She always had more of the American rock spirit, the unironic kind. She loves that fifties and sixties shit, loves Orbison, Buddy Holly, Gene Vincent, the Everly Brothers, Frankie Valli, Eddie Cochrane. Never liked metal, never had a Floyd phase, never dug Rush or Zeppelin or the Kinks or the Stones or anybody except Americans singing about cars, drinking, and high school. Something to be said for that.

At a bar on 8th Avenue much later after the show I asked Brickie hey whatever happened to that racetrack concession stand job in Raleigh-Durham? Said he worked the whole summer on a promise, and then they never paid him. Luckily he'd been skimming enough to get by, so he took his wad and moved back to Parsippany, failed the civil service exam, and went to work for our Uncle Teddy in the bakery. That part I remembered. I remember going to the bakery to pick him up, a big place that was more like a factory or warehouse thana bakery, and Brickie covered in flour, telling me never to eat coffee cakes from Teddy's bakery, you wouldn't believe what we put in them.

I tried to pull the cord on the whole night at 2, since I was appearing on live TV the next night to read poems and be interviewed. Brickie ignored my pleas on the basis that the show was at 11:30 in the evening, and due to my nerves I'd be drunk again anyway by the time I went on the air. We closed down a bar near Penn Station where the bartender was playing Dean Martin on the jukebox and they had free hot dogs which Brickie wouldn't eat because of his ulcers. The hot dogs saved me.