IV. 691 Buckner Rd.
The iconic dance scene in Pulp Fiction at Jack Rabbit Slim’s has Uma Thurman and John Travolta “dancing apart to the beat”, doing the twist, the fly, the pony, the hucklebuck, and God knows what all — they’re doing all of Chubby’s antiquated moves in a dance-off. It’s one of those spectacular multilayered pastiches at which Tarantino excels: Travolta, the old disco hunk, now overweight and with a ridiculous hairdo, looking as self-consciously out of place doing those simple steps as Chubby was on that old Australian show; Mia had just asked Vincent whether he was an Elvis man or a Beatles man over a Douglas Sirk steak and a Durward Kirby burger, all in this retro diner with various celebrity-impersonator waiters and waitresses — you almost expect a Tony Manero look-alike to strut by, though it’s the wrong era. Apparently Harvey Weinstein seriously considered opening a chain of Jack Rabbit Slims due to the film’s massive popularity but was talked out of it by Tarantino himself, who explained that his faux establishment was a send-up of the themed restaurant fad of the early ‘90s.
The song the duo is stepping to, however, isn’t “The Twist” or another of Chubby Checker’s dance-craze hits; rather, it’s “You Never Can Tell” by Chuck Berry. Alternatively titled “Teenage Wedding”, it’s typical of Berry’s ouvre, a bouncy slice-of-life number propelled by inventive wordplay (“They furnished off an apartment with a two-room Roebuck sale/ The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale”), the narrative tells the optimistic tale of Pierre and mademoiselle getting married and settling down into a picturesque middle-class American existence.
But the song, as I hear it now, is slashed through with a melancholic streak, owing perhaps to the fact that Berry penned it while he was in prison. In prison at the height of his fame. The phrase “c’est la vie” is often used as a shrugged dismissal of one of life’s manifold disappointments. But in its use here, as uttered by “the old folks”, it strikes me as fatalistic. Chuck does something interesting, coupling this fatalistic line with a phrase that generally implies its opposite: “It goes to show you never can tell.” Isn’t he suggesting then that his superficially optimistic narrative is but a prescribed and empty route? Indeed, his description of a too-young couple getting married and freighting their lives with various trinkets to stave off the emptiness — isn’t this ultimately an indictment of the American dream itself, predicated as it is upon consumerism, shallowness, and frivolity, at least from the perspective of experience, that is, from the old folks’ perspective?
Chuck Berry was in prison for violating the Mann Act. It’s true, he was probably in a sexual relationship with a 14-year-old girl and I’m not going to defend him for it. But I will repeat the point that others have made: Many beloved rock ‘n’ roll figures have been involved in sexual relationships with statutorily too-young women. Very few of them have ever been charged for it though, never mind convicted. Chuck did his time. So the notion that celebrating his artistry is tantamount to laughing at a Bill Cosby joke I think misses the mark. Additionally, this was close to 60 years ago. Is there not a statute of limitations for moral outrage? Don’t answer that.
It’s also impossible to assess his trials (there were two of them — the first was tossed out on appeal due to the judge’s constant use of the word “nigra” among other transgressions) without contending with the fact that he was a well-known black man operating in an extremely racist society. The Mann Act was passed in 1910 and it prohibited the transport of women and girls across state lines for “immoral purpose[s]”. Its amorphous language has led to its being selectively applied and frequently for political purposes, the targets of which have often been leftists, counterculture figures, and black men. Charles Manson, for instance, was charged with violating the Mann Act just a few months after Chuck was, in 1960, though the charges against him were dropped. Jack Johnson, the famous heavyweight from the first part of the 20th century, was convicted of violating the law in 1912. It’s widely understood that the law was enacted expressly because of that well-known black man’s well-known predilection for consorting with white women.
On Chubby Checker’s website, you can click through several different photo galleries. One of the galleries is called “Chubby with Stars”, in which you can see him posing with James Brown, Dick Clark, Little Richard, and Mario Lopez among others. There’s a shot of Chubb and Paul McCartney in which Sir Paul has seemingly refused to look at the camera. In another gallery called “Family and Close Friends” you can see various pictures of Chubby and his wife, Rina, and shots of their children and grandchildren. There’s a series of photos of he and his daughter Mistie Bass on vacation in Italy. In a remarkable display of consistency, Chubby wields the exact same mien and posture in roughly 99 percent of the photos: a practiced half smile and a slight forward bow of his head. His hair, without question a wig, is always perfect. None of this looks forced, mind you. It’s just the man, now in his mid-70s, authentically plying his craft.
Curiously, also included in this “Family and Close Friends” collection rather than in the “Chubby with Stars” gallery, is a picture of Chubby with a wizened old man in a blue baseball jacket and a captain’s hat. They’re both staring directly into the camera and smiling. The caption is curious too — it says simply “691 Buckner Rd.” Googling the address brings you to a single-family home in Wentzville, Missouri, belonging to one Charles E. and Themetta Berry. Plugging in a few more pieces of data reveals the residence’s location as being precisely 28.8 miles from the old man’s final resting place at Bellerive Gardens Cemetery in Saint Louis, the city of his birth.
While he was still behind bars, Chess Records released the very first compilation of Chuck’s material back in February of 1962. In an obvious attempt to capitalize on a certain dance craze that had swept the nation, they called it Chuck Berry Twist.
C’est la vie say the old folks, and good-bye, Johnny B. Goode.
Scott Schoenberg is a writer living in Los Angeles.