Mr. Speaker, in tribute to Bo Diddley, one of the true pioneers of rock and roll, who has influenced generations, I would like to submit the following excerpt from the article entitled ``Pioneer of a Beat Is Still Riffing for His Due''…
Mr. Speaker, in tribute to Bo Diddley, one of the true pioneers of rock and roll, who has influenced generations, I would like to submit the following excerpt from the article entitled ``Pioneer of a Beat Is Still Riffing for His Due'' written by Bernard Weinraub for the New York Times on February 16, 2003:
[From the New York Times, Feb. 16, 2003]
Pioneer of a Beat Is Still Riffing for His Due
(By Bernard Weinraub)
Every morning at 4 a.m., Bo Diddley walks into a ramshackle
studio on his 76-acre property outside Gainesville to write
music. Several electric guitars are scattered on the floor.
The studio, a double-wide trailer, is crammed with recording
equipment, a synthesizer and electronic gadgets of obscure
types. Piled in every corner are boxes of tapes of Bo Diddley
songs never released.
Mr. Diddley, 74, sat forward on a hard chair and lifted a
blond-finished guitar, made for him by a music store in
Gainesville. His enormous fingers, wrinkled and strong,
grazed the strings. Hooked into an electronic gadget, the
strums became the sounds of a small orchestra: strings,
chimes, a brassy horn, an organ and a gospel piano, providing
a thumping echo of Bo Diddley songs.
``I'm still jumping, doing all right,'' he said, grinning.
``I'm just trying to figure out how to stay in the game.
America will drop you like a hot potato, I don't care how big
you are. You're big one day and the next day, right away,
you're a has-been. Just trying to figure it all out. Maybe I
just began.''
Bo Diddley is a musical pioneer who has influenced
generations of rockers, and with electrifying stars like
Chuck Berry and Little Richard, he reshaped popular music
half a century ago. But despite helping build rock's rhythmic
foundations, he has never enjoyed quite the success and
recognition of his two contemporaries. Last May all three
received the first Broadcast Music Inc. (BMI) Icon Awards as
founders of rock `n' roll. But as a patriarch, Mr. Diddley
rivals and in some ways surpasses his two contemporaries.
Performers as diverse as Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Jimi
Hendrix, Mick Jagger and Bruce Springsteen have been inspired
by the syncopated Bo Diddley beat--bomp ba-bomp bomp, bomp
bomp--which has been traced to myriad sources, including the
drumbeats of the Yoruba and Kongo cultures. At the Beatles'
first American news conference in 1964, a reporter asked John
Lennon, ``What are you most looking forward to seeing here in
America, John?'' He replied, ``Bo Diddley.''
Mr. Diddley's uses of the electric guitar, creating special
effects like reverb, tremolo and distortion, influenced funk
bands in the 1960's and heavy metal groups in the 1970's. His
strutting and powerful presence onstage, his sly,
wisecracking songs (``Hey, Bo Diddley''), his cocky
attitude, jive dialogue, lyrics of sexual prowess (``I'm a
Man'') and ritualized bragging predate rap, which
sometimes disgusts him with its language.
``I opened the door for a lot of people, and they just ran
through and left me holding the knob,'' he said with pride
and anger.
Mr. Diddley is still struggling, still creating, still
reinventing his career, even though he released few albums in
the 1980's and 1990's. ``Every weekend I'm booked somewhere,
someplace,'' he said. ``You got to
change, you got to roll with the punches and come up with
something new.''
Mr. Diddley is hardly shy about proclaiming his importance.
``Have I been recognized? No, no, no. Not like I should have
been,'' he said. ``Have I been ripped off? Have I seen
royalty checks? You bet I've been ripped off.''
Mr. Diddley's sense of grievance is justified. Like many
other musicians of the 1950's, 60's and earlier, white and
black, he was exploited by record companies who took care of
car payments and home bills but never provided an accounting
of record sales. Beyond this, his stature and impact as a
composer, arranger, performer, singer and even humorist have
been overlooked.
Praise From His Peers
``Still the most underrated rock 'n' roller of the
century,'' Phil Everly of the Everly Brothers once said.
Robert Santelli, chief executive of the Seattle-based
Experience Music Project, the interactive music museum,
concurred. ``Bo is the most misunderstood and the least
appreciated pioneer of rock 'n' roll,'' he said. ``That
beat--that signature Bo Diddley beat--is essential to the
rhythm of rock 'n' roll.''
Mr. Santelli, a former official at the Rock 'n' Roll Hall
of Fame in Cleveland, can find it in every tributary of rock.
``You hear it from Springsteen on down--you hear it in the
Rolling Stones, the Who, the Yardbirds and those first-
generation British bands,'' he said. ``They were trying to
find a balance between black blues and rhythm-and-blues and
rock 'n' roll, and Bo Diddley was the living embodiment of
that balance.''
Joe Levy, the music editor of Rolling Stone, says he is
undervalued in another way. ``He's still out there, still
making music,'' he said. ``Here's this guy who made great
records and could still make great records if he was given
the chance.''
Why Mr. Diddley has never quite succeeded on the level of
Mr. Berry or Little Richard is in large measure a consequence
of the racial thicket that black Rock 'n' roll performers
traversed in the 50's and 60's to gain acceptance by a broad
white audience.
Mr. Diddley still speaks of what he calls the most
humiliating moment of his life. In 1959, the singer recalled,
he and some of his band members, who were black, began
swimming in a pool on a scorching day at the Showboat Casino
in Las Vegas. As soon as the band members jumped into the
pool, the white families in it climbed out. A pool attendant
put up a sign that said ``contaminated water,'' he recalled.
Mr. Berry achieved enduring success partly because
adolescent white audiences found his buoyant, somewhat
naughty enthusiasm as appealing as black teenagers did.
Similarly, Little Richard, in contrast to Mr. Diddley, went
out of his way to appeal to white audiences. But even though
his original lyrics to ``Tutti-Frutti'' were bluntly sexual,
his silver-lame suits, pancake makeup, thick eyeshadow and
high, slick processed pompadour gave him a high-camp sexual
ambiguity that rendered him unthreatening to white teenagers
and parents.
Bo Diddley never quite conquered the racial divide. As
George R. White, author of ``Bo Diddley: Living Legend''
wrote: ``Diddley remained firmly rooted in the ghetto. Both
his music and his image were too loud, too raunchy, too black
ever to cross over.'' His records were frequently played on
jukeboxes and at dances but far less on the radio. Television
appearances were rare. There were no movie offers.
Mr. Diddley was often uncompromising. In his dressing room
before a 1955 appearance on ``The Ed Sullivan Show,'' on
which he was set to sing ``Bo Diddley,'' Mr. Diddley said
that the show's producers asked him to sing Tennessee Ernie
Ford's ``Sixteen Tons,'' then a huge hit. Mr. Diddley claimed
not to know it, so cue cards were quickly written. Mr.
Diddley said he thought he was now to perform two songs, not
one, and he began with ``Bo Diddley.'' Later he drawled,
``Man, maybe that was `Sixteen Tons' on those cards, but all
I saw was `Bo Diddley.' '' Sullivan was enraged, Mr. Diddley
recalled.
``He says to me, `You're the first black boy'--that's a
quote--`that ever double-crossed me,' '' Mr. Diddley
recalled. ``I was ready to fight. I was a dude from the
streets of Chicago, and him calling me a black boy was as bad
as him saying `nigger.' They pulled me away from him because
I was ready to fall on the dude.'' He said Mr. Sullivan told
him that he would never work in television again. ``I was
scared,'' Mr. Diddley acknowledged.
The final insult, he said, was that he was told to return
his $750 fee for the show.
In fact, Mr. Diddley's next television appearance was seven
years later on ``The Clay Cole Show'' on WPIX-TV in New York.
He didn't appear again on a network show for a decade, until
he performed on ``Shindig'' on ABC in 1965.
Mr. Diddley was named Otha Ellas Bates at birth on Dec. 30,
1928, in McComb in southwestern Mississippi, a violent civil
rights battleground in the 1950's and 60's. His mother, Ethel
Wilson, was 15 or 16; he never knew his father, Eugene Bates.
His family were sharecroppers; he was raised by his mother's
first cousin, Gussie McDaniel. ``In fact, Momma Gussie raised
my Momma,'' he said.
The death of Mrs. McDaniel's husband, Robert, in 1934 and
the harshness of the Depression-era rural South led the
family to Chicago, where they had relatives.
In Chicago, destination for so many other Southern blacks,
the family changed the boy's name to Ellas Bates McDaniel.
Mr. Diddley said he thought Chicago schools wouldn't accept
him unless Mrs. McDaniel was seen as his legal guardian.
Ellas soon showed an an aptitude for music. At 8 he saw a
boy playing violin and asked Mrs. McDaniel to buy one. The
family was on relief. So their church, the Ebenezer
Missionary Baptist Church on the South Side, began a
collection, bought him a violin and paid for lessons--50
cents each--by a classical teacher, O. W. Frederick. Bo
played classical music until he was 15, when he broke a
finger. (He can no longer play the violin because his
fingers are too thick, the result in part of a short
teenage career as an amateur boxer.)
But more important, the music of the South Side was the
blues, thanks to Muddy Waters and many others who had also
moved to Chicago from Mississippi.
His First Guitar
Mr. Diddley began playing the drums but yearned to play
guitar and sing like his idol, the Mississippi-born John Lee
Hooker. Mr. Diddley's stepsister, Lucille, gave him a guitar
for Christmas in 1940, when he was about to turn 12.
Bo taught himself to play, experimenting and duplicating
the sound of his bow on the violin by rapidly flicking his
pick across the guitar strings. (He also played trombone and
the drums in the church band.)
He did not treat the guitar gently. ``I couldn't play like
everyone else,'' he said. ``Guitarists have skinny fingers. I
didn't. Look at these. I got meat hooks. Size 12 glove.'' He
came to approach the guitar as if it were a drum set,
thrusting the music forward. ``I play drum licks on the
guitar,'' he said. The result was an unusual sound--later
played on his hand-built, exotically shaped guitars--that
evolved into a distinctive backbeat, described by music
historians as the meter of ``shave-and-a-haircut, two bits.''
In the background he added maracas, which he built from
toilet-tank floats, giving the music a Latin texture, and he
gave more rhythm to the drum beat. The lyrics were often
delivered staccato, adding to the pounding rhythm.
The Bo Diddley beat can be traced to West Africa via Cuba.
It is also firmly rooted in African-American culture. In
rural Mississippi and elsewhere in the South, slaves were
denied access to traditional drums because slaveholders
feared they could be used for communication. So they patted
out rhythm on their bodies. This became ``Hambone,'' an
African-American musical tradition of stomping and slapping
once used by shoeshine men and still affecting tap dance,
cheerleading and a host of other disparate pursuits. At the
same time, the guitar beat in the rural fields of the South
was a common rhythm played by children on homemade single-
string instruments rooted in Africa called diddley bows.
And that, of course, was how Bo Diddley got his name.