I’ve known Pete York and Miller Anderson since the late 60s. Several early DP tours were with Hardin/York and we’ve often met from time to time since then.
Over the years, Pete has organized lots of these special events, featuring a phalanx of great musicians. In 1970, Ian Paice, Miller and I took part in Pete’s first one (I still have the poster advertising “Super Drumming” at Bumper’s Club in London).
Twelve months gone again!
And where did I go? On the road, that’s where. The road that leads to your door. To many doors; stage doors, closed doors, dressing room doors, hotel corridors, van doors, bedroom doors – dreaming through that revolving door of time.
And what did I see? I saw sunsets and sunrises, spotlights and smoke machines, take-offs and landings, love and music, hands in the air and constellations of smart phones.
So sad to hear of his passing. Sad, for several reasons… when a hero dies, of course, one thinks first of the person and his family and the sorrow about it all, followed with the wider recognition of the rich legacy he left behind. But linked with that, somehow there is grieving for one’s own lost childhood.
I was about ten years-old when Fats came into my awareness.
It was around the mid eighties, after Perfect Strangers, that Bruce, Jon and I decided to have a ski holiday in Colorado and to that end we rented a huge house in Keystone for nine days. I think it had five or six bedrooms, a massive kitchen, and the living room was three stories high boasting an enormous fireplace whose rough stone chimney reached all the way up to the ceiling.
I have said often enough that the entire edifice that is rock’n’roll is held up by the twin pillars of Little Richard and Chuck Berry. Little Richard for his searing voice and superb band and Chuck for his scattershot lyrics and iconic guitar style. And most importantly, they wrote the songs.
Naturally, I’m saddened by Chuck Berry’s passing. The world turns and heroes are gone.