Before Chuck Berry, the electric guitar was a rhythm instrument in the hands of most Black players. It sat in the background. It supported the vocal.

It did not tell the story. Berry was born in St. Louis in 1926, and he took that instrument and turned it into a lead voice, a narrator, a comedian, a preacher. He did not just play the guitar. He made the guitar say things. The opening riff of "Johnny B. Goode" is not just a riff. It is a declaration. It is the sound of a Black man from the Midwest saying: I am here. I have something to say. And you are going to listen to every note of it.

Berry walked into a segregated America where white artists were covering Black music and getting the credit and the money. He did not fight that by protesting. He fought it by being undeniable. He wrote songs about cars and school and teenage life -- subjects that white America could not pretend were alien. He took the rhythm and blues of the Black church and the Black club circuit and made it into something that the whole country recognized. The cost was constant pressure, legal battles, the weight of being a pioneer while the system was designed to stop you. Berry paid those bills without slowing down. He kept writing. He kept touring with Johnnie Johnson at the piano, the perfect foil, the man who held the rhythm steady while Berry flew.

"Johnny B. Goode" is the most famous guitar riff in rock and roll history. It is also a Black fantasy of upward mobility -- a country boy who cannot read or write so well but can play a guitar like a ringing bell. Berry wrote himself into that song.

He wrote every musician who came after him into that song. The riff is simple. That is the point. It does not need complexity because it has confidence. Berry's music did not just make people dance. It made people want to be musicians. It created the template for what a rock and roll frontman should be: the showmanship, the charisma, the way he made the guitar an extension of his body. He invented the visual vocabulary of rock as surely as he invented its musical vocabulary.

He died in 2017 at ninety, having performed into his final years. The tributes poured in from every corner of music. He was not just a founder of rock and roll. He was the architect. Without Chuck Berry, the music that followed would have sounded completely different. He took the blues and the boogie-woogie of his St. Louis upbringing and he accelerated it, electrified it, and turned it into a language that the whole world could speak. The guitar still talks because he taught it how. Every time someone picks up an electric guitar and plays a riff that sounds like a sentence, they are continuing a conversation that Chuck Berry started.