POP MUSIC REVIEW : REAL BERRY FINALLY STANDS

A long time ago (Friday night), in a galaxy far, far away (Anaheim), a strange and alien musical ritual unfolded.

The closest terrestrial analogy to this frequently bizarre, other-worldly event would be a Chuck Berry concert circa 1987 at the Celebrity Theatre. But as every good student of distant planetary systems and alternative realities knows, superficial familiarity to human experience can easily unravel in a web of detail run amok. (Like, for instance, a science-fictional planet where everything and everyone looks exactly like they do on Earth, except for an Ed McMahon clone who finds absolutely nothing funny.)

Contrary to the controlled, respectful and, most of all, predictable tone of rock concerts on present day Earth, in this galactic dimension, anarchy reigned supreme. (Sure, punk and heavy metal shows on this planet sometimes get rowdy, but they’re predictably rowdy.)

During a disconcerting proceeding that lasted nearly four hours, time often went out of sync; two fights broke out among the beings in the audience; disoriented creatures resembling ‘50s singers Thurston Harris and Wilbert Harrison were led onto a rotating stage where each sang briefly before being whisked away once again by what appeared to be Darth Vader’s imperial storm troopers.

A humanoid who looked and sounded a lot like Wilbert (“Kansas City”) Harrison--after being projected into a cruel and unforgiving future--apologized for a disjointed, rambling performance by saying: “I got bit by a bee.” You figure it.

Another alien approximated the real Thurston Harris’ hits “Little Bitty Pretty One” and “Over and Over,” but did so with the dazed look of a life form that hadn’t quite recovered from teleportation over a distance of several light years.

After a time warp lasting nearly an hour (measured in solar minutes), a being resembling Chuck Berry appeared and began to act much like the earth-bound Chuck Berry of the 1980s: sloppy and completely unconcerned with his performance or reputation, half-heartedly waltzing through limp versions of “Roll Over Beethoven,” “Sweet Little 16” and other rock classics.

At this point, when any reasonable human observer would have thrown up his hands in utter confusion and demanded “Beam me up, Scotty,” the ritual dramatically changed mood and direction yet again.

In a process unfathomable to earth-based analysts, the combination of brawling fans, unfamiliar sound equipment and uncertain backing from five instrumentalists each working in a different musical space-time continuum served as a catalyst and somehow transformed this clone into the real Chuck Berry.

Suddenly, there on stage, playing and singing with every fiber of his heart and soul aflame with passion, was a 61-year-old man who, along with Elvis Presley, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis, defined and shaped rock ‘n’ roll; the man whose infectious music was quite rightly put aboard a satellite years ago and sent into deep space with the hope of introducing some alien civilization to one of the unqualified delights of terrestrial culture.

Interjected with the best songs from his own inexhaustible repertoire were some heartfelt blues (“Everyday I Have the Blues”)--unusual because Berry has said he’s never considered himself a blues singer--and unexpected covers of other artist’s hits (Harry Belafonte’s “Kingston Town” and Nat King Cole’s “Ramblin’ Rose”).

This Chuck Berry even stopped the music at one point to recite a long prose piece about the nature of love, hopes, dreams and illusions that showed him to be as powerful and clever a poet as he is a guitarist, singer and songwriter.

For Berry to pull a genuine artistic triumph out of an evening that came perilously close to unmitigated disaster was nothing short of miraculous. (How bad was it before things turned around? Following the fracas that erupted during the first part of Berry’s set, one frustrated theater official was heard saying to another: “Other than the shooting, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the show?”)

It’s easy and fashionable to fantasize about what greatness long-dead rockers like Buddy Holly or Ritchie Valens might have achieved had they lived; in all probability most would have become sad echoes of once-greats as so many of their surviving contemporaries have, Berry included.

But it’s exhilarating to think that if an interplanetary search team shows up on Earth one day asking for “more Chuck Berry,” they might just discover firsthand what the earthly excitement was all about.