Johnnie Johnson 1924

Johnnie Johnson played his own funeral.

Well, he would, wouldn't he? After all, this is the man Eric Clapton called "The greatest blues piano player in the world."

His playing washed over St. Paul's Lutheran Church on April 21, in what Johnnie's wife calls "the 'Hood." Just off Grand in St. Louis, the city Johnson adopted, and which adopted him, in 1952.

Through the modern equivalent of piano rolls, a disk of Johnson's perfect version of "Pinetop's Boogie Woogie" was put into the church's Synklavier and Johnnie's own fingers were once again pounding the keys, just before he was carried by members of The U.S. Marine Corps—some of whom he served with during WW II—out to the waiting limousine, and off to his final rest in the National Cemetery in St. Louis.

It was a burial with full military and musical honors.

Goodbye Johnnie

To Our friend Johnnie Johnson, The Father of Rock and Roll Piano

— For Frances —

The squirrels are getting ready to have their babies —
Breasts filling with milk.
The red, red Cardinal sings heaven's reveille on the telephone wire.
There are leaves on the little trees.
Daffodils in the flower bed beaming.

And we have lost our friend.

Gone in the spring
To play in the angels' band.

Leading dawn chorus with his strong left hand.
Blasting through the last of the North Wind's
Trying
Winter woe
With harmonies that have changed us all
Into
Rocking
Joyous
Free-flagged
Boogie Woogie
Hip shaking
Gods and Goddesses.

Goodbye my friend
Your blessing is alive deep in the pumping of our hearts.

You gave that blessing freely
And, now, we long to feel it
Once more.

So put the record on and we'll dance together again
And
Forever.

Goodbye Johnnie.

Sweet, sweet Johnnie.

Goodbye and God Speed

To the keyboard in the sky.

—Paul Martin
Editor's Note: Martin read this poem at Johnnie Johnson's funeral

The service—as was the viewing the previous day—was full of musical magic, poetry and celebration. Musicians from all over the country and promoters and friends from all over the world converged on St. Louis in a show of love and respect.

At the service, Kelly Hunt, Fontella Bass, The Bosman Twins and Mae Wheeler raised the spirit with raucous gospel. At the viewing, the constant flow of musicians—starting at around 11 a.m. and ending close to midnight—included former Jimmy Rogers band member Dave Krull who flew in from California, and The Grateful Dead's Bob Weir with fellow Ratdog member, keyboardist Jeff Chimenti, who interrupted an ongoing tour and chartered a jet to get to the Ronald L. Jones Funeral Home to honor Johnson with their musical gifts.

The list of performers at the viewing clearly showed the deep respect in which Johnson was held by his peers. But it also paid homage to a man who was truly loved, not only for his pioneering piano style, but also for his generous, good and embracing soul.

Keith Richards' e-mailed tribute started off with the words, "Gentle Giant." And that he was.

Perhaps the longest trip—although Johnson's friends, the promoters Neil and Rhonda Mumme, flew in from Australia—was made by blues legend Henry Townsend. Townsend—at close to 100 years old—made the trek in celebration of Johnson's life from nine blocks away.

He came tooling right down the center of Fair Street, seated—regally, dressed in black from his beret to his blindingly shined shoes—in his electric "mule." The electric powered wheel chair which carries him, still, to gigs all over the world.

His journey covered the greatest miles in years and history.

Here was a man—a friend—who rode the rails with Little Brother Montgomery in the early part of the 20th century. A man who helped create the piano style Johnnie Johnson later synthesized into rock 'n' roll. Come to pay his respects.

As Keith Richards revealed to the world—in his film on Chuck Berry, Hail, Hail Rock 'n' Roll! —Johnson created the bridge from boogie and blues pioneers such as Townsend and Montgomery, and Otis Spann and Pinetop Perkins, Jimmy Yancey and Clarence "Pinetop" Smith himself, to what is now called rock 'n' roll. As Muddy Waters once shouted, "The blues had a baby and 'rock 'n' roll' was its name." Johnnie Johnson was that baby's father.

It was Johnnie's piano and his explanation to Berry of how T-Bone Walker's guitar riffs were the perfect complement to it, which created the sound that still pumps our blood. The sound of Maybelline, Sweet Little Sixteen, Roll Over Beethoven, Back In The USA and Little Queenie.

Johnnie Johnson was, and is, The Father of Rock 'n' roll Piano.

Johnson was born in Fairmont, West Virginia, on July 8 1924. When he was four years old, his mother bought a piano as a piece of furniture. Johnnie put it to good use, though, with his untutored—almost miraculous—attention to the keys.

From then onward, the keyboard was never very far from those huge, strong hands of his.

It was there when he became one of the first-ever black member of the Marine Corps. Stationed in the Marshall Islands, recruited into the Marine Corps Band—The Barracudas—with members of the Lionel Hampton, Count Basie and Glen Miller orchestras.

And it was there at the birthing of rock 'n' roll when he hired Chuck Berry to sit in for an ailing member of his trio at St. Louis's Cosmopolitan Club.

Johnson was inducted into the Boogie Woogie Hall of Fame as well as The rock 'n' roll Hall of Fame. He held an Honorary Doctorate in Music from Fairmont State University. He was given The Pioneer Award by the Rhythm and Blues Foundation. And, in 1991, he earned himself a Grammy.

None of these honors and achievements, however, tell the full story of a musician who did not die a wealthy man —in monetary terms. Of a man who filled us up with his powerful left hand and his delicate right. Of a man who drove the bright red rock 'n' roll convertible right through our hearts and into our souls. Or of a husband and father whose family mourned and celebrated, celebrated and mourned, with his musical offspring, over those two days in April.

Yes, we have his recordings—thank God. And, yes, we can put them on the player and hear that mighty Johnnie feel pound through the speakers. Including his final recording—the seven-song, the Cousin Moe Music, CD Johnnie Be Eighthy. And Still Bad!

But we have, also, a huge hole that can never be filled again—the hole where Johnson stood and held court in our musical heart.

When we heard him play his own "taps" in the church that Friday morning, it felt like the whole universe held its breath to stop from crying. And it felt like Johnnie Johnson was smiling.