You never can tell when you’ll bump into Chuck

THE poster was handwritten but the words were absolutely legible. It said: ‘This Saturday night at Dedham High School Gym – Chuck Berry’. I could scarcely believe my eyes that the legend that was Chuck Berry was going to be playing two miles down the road from me in a high school gym. I was looking forward to getting a scoop for Spotlight Magazine.

Chuck, who died early this week, was one of the great chroniclers of the Sixties and Seventies.

He painted lurid but oft-times romantic pictures of America, vibrant and with very strong narratives. And when Chuck was riding along in his automobile, I know that I was beside him at the wheel.

I vowed to do everything in my power to get an interview with him in Dedham.

Meeting your heroes can be a dangerous business. I was on a roll as a journalist when I got drunk with Kris Kristofferson at Lenny’s Club at the Turnpike, one of the big venues close to Boston.

We spent the afternoon wading into a river vodka and coke, like two fly fishermen without rods.

When Kris finally hit the stage and sang Me And Bobby Magee the crowd went mad.

Kris growled into the microphone: ‘That’s the sh **** est I’ve ever sung that song,’ and he walked off stage. We waited and we waited and we waited but he never came back.

Another day I set off to interview Jim Croce and when I got there a very nice man told me that he had gone out and invited me to wait in his suite.

The good Samaritan was Randy Newman.

I didn’t get drunk with Randy but he played me tunes on the piano and sang a few songs. A more gracious and entertaining afternoon you couldn’t imagine. And then there was Don MacLean. I remember the first time that I heard his song Vincent I was driving under a black inky sky on a clear winter’s starry, starry night.

The song grabbed me so strongly that I had to pull off the highway and listen to it.

And then amazingly I was backstage with about ten other journalists at Boston Symphony Hall. McLean cockily put his boots up on the table and asked us to identify ourselves and where we were from.

Places came up like New York, San Francisco, Minneapolis and when my turn came I said: ‘I’m from Ireland.’

The boots came down off the table and he beamed a big smile and started a conversation with me that lasted for about three minutes while the other stiffs looked on.

BUT the best was yet to come: Chuck Berry up the road in the high school. The concert was brilliant. The high school setting made it seem like I was in some teen movie and afterwards buzzing with excitement I went backstage to see if I could get an interview with Chuck.

He was gracious and told me he’d be out in a few minutes.

Apart from me there was only a young fellow of about 17 waiting to see the great man and this teenager related to me how he had been picked up hitching on Route 128 by a black man driving a limousine with a woman beside him.

‘Where are you going?’ he was asked. ‘I’m going to see Chuck Berry,’. Slack-jawed, the kid realised it was Chuck who had given him the ride.

All he wanted was Chuck’s autograph.

We waited and waited but there was no sign of Chuck.

So eventually after about half an hour I knocked timorously on the door and to my dismay it swung right open, revealing Chuck sitting on a chair with a stunning redhead in his arms.

He said: ‘What are you doing, man?’ I apologised and explained what had happened with the door.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.’

When he finally came out and said: ‘Okay, you have three questions.

‘Are you serious?’ says I. He looked at me and witheringly replied: ‘That’s one.’