Promised Land

Chuck Berry

By Natalie Silver

Let me preface this post with one simple clarification of a small, but major misrecognition of rock and roll’s eminent origins.

How shall I say this? Chuck Berry may be the “Godfather” of rock and roll. He may also be the “Father” of rock and roll. He may be both of those things, which is great and which is nice, but which is also inadequate; because above all else he is unquestionably the fucking KING of rock and roll. To categorize him as anything else is utterly disrespectful. And I will not tolerate any disagreement. 

To demean Chuck Berry to “Godfather” of the genre that he literally created would be like calling Isaac Newton the “Godfather” of physics, when, in fact, he is King. Or maybe like calling Harriet Tubman the “Godmother” of abolition (she is Queen). Is Michael Jordan the “Godfather” of basketball? Is Martin Luther King Jr. the “Godfather” of the Civil Rights Movement? Say it with me, they are kings. 

Chuck Berry’s music is ground zero—the periodic table of riffs and licks to be pulled from, inspired by, reproduced and rebranded by his hundreds of thousands of disciples, AKA any rock musician or band, ever. “Promised Land” alone contains like, every basic riff in rock music. It’s the ultimate one-song onboarding manual for every future rock ‘n roller’s education. 

This song, which was also popularized by the Grateful Dead, was written by Berry in prison and released in 1964 on his album “From St. Louis to Liverpool.” It tells of a cross country journey from his humble Virginia hometown to the Golden State and its promise of a new beginning.

His narrative radically juxtaposes two polar opposite existences in America—a dichotomy with roots dating back to the nation's conception. His descriptions of class discrepancies simultaneously convey the heavy intersectionality of true American existences—be it oppressed or free, black or white, poor or rich, woman or man, invisible or empowered.  

His journey begins in a broken-down Greyhound and ultimately ends eating steaks in a plane over the land that represents freedom, acceptance, and the promise of rising to the top. It is the California Dream—an amended and gold-dusted version of the flawed American Dream, and a second chance at believing in its idealism that, until now, was kept from a poor black man’s reach.

The best part of the song is its last lyric:  

“Tell the folks back home this is the Promised Land callin' / And the poor boy's on the line.” 

But what he’s really saying is this:  

 “Fuck you; against all odds, I am here. I have made it. I am King.” 

October 2, 2019