“It’s one of the crazier quirks of the rock era that ‘My Ding-a-Ling,’ a forgettable rude novelty song, is Chuck Berry’s only number one single.” The words are from Fred Thompson’s Billboard Book of Number One Hits. I cannot argue with them. Indeed, it’s hard to know what’s more embarrassing — the silly song itself or the fact that it achieved a mark of success that eluded such classics as “Johnny B. Goode” and “Roll Over Beethoven.”
Another irony is that, although Berry was credited as the songwriter, that distinction properly belongs to someone else. Have a listen to the original 1952 version by Dave Bartholomew.
Bartholomew is best remembered as the man who discovered Fats Domino and co-wrote many of his hits. This Christmas Eve he will celebrate his 98th birthday. (Some sources give an earlier date of birth that would make him 100).
Recently, I was reminded of Chuck Berry’s dubious achievement when reminiscing about the music I was listening to in the early ’70’s. Personally, I never had much interest in ding-a-lings. But as a twelve-year-old, the fact that the song below could be heard on the the local “black” radio station surprised and delighted me.
The singer of this vaginal riposte is listed as
Miss Chuckle Cherry. It took several hours until it dawned on me that the name is — duh — a play on Chuck Berry. Her identity is unknown. But the 45 in the clip above, which is autographed Jessie Chuckle Cherry, may offer a clue.
The song is a product of its time. Note the topical references to voting at age eighteen (courtesy of the 26th amendment which was ratified in 1971) and to “dingbats” and “meatheads” (terms popularized by the All in the Family Television show that debuted the same year).
And who was responsible for the lyrics? The writer and producer is listed as Ernie Tucker. At first, I could not find much of anything about him. But “Jukebox George” (in a comment on 45cat.com) astutely notes that the address of the label, Grassroots Records, was the same as that of another company of time, Audio Stag. The Ernie Tucker who ran that enterprise was the subject of an article by Phil X. Milstein that originally appeared in the Summer 2000 edition of Ugly Magazine. Milstein described Tucker as a “black P.T. Barnum” and all around sleazy con artist. He sold both recordings and French ticklers from his base in Times Square. Some of his output made the Pussycat song seem positively wholesome — records with titles like “The Lustful Sex Life of a Perverted Nympho Housewife” featuring dialogue “even filthier than in the average porno flick” and “absurd sound effects.” Another project was more eccentric — an “audio biography” of Howard Hughes that compared him to Jesus.
Today the building from which Tucker operated is the site of a “gentleman’s club,” a fitting tribute to its unsavory past. By and large, however, the Times Square of Tucker’s day has faded into history. The eternal profit motive that fueled the old sex industry eventually gave rise to the new technologies, higher rents, and zoning policies that consumed it. The area is now, or so I have been led to believe, a clean, safe part of mainstream corporate America.
Is that cause for celebration? Or has something vital been lost? What do you think? The Dog Wants to Know.