Chuck Berry’s 1973 Cadillac Convertible Coupe at the National Museum of African American Culture and History in Washington. DC

Chuck Berry passed away this weekend, and the world is poorer for it. The discoverer—no, the creator of the archetype of a rock and roll song, his meld of blues and country (the studio musicians at Chess thought he played “mostly country songs”) came out as poetry. Articulate, with a deft touch for situationalization, his songs about car races, school, making out—and more—put you there. They were some of the first that made white teens think they understood black culture. They were rebel music.

Those songs. A story teller with bite, insight and daring, Berry made you think you yourself had done the things he wrote about: and had no doubt that he had.

The guitar: a countrified style that was unique and like the words, compelling, articulate and memorable. Musicians imitated him, notably Keith Richards who seemed more than comfortable with his early career mostly Chuck Berry guitar style. Clapton stole, Burton stole, Lennon stole, every high schooler with a pick and an amp stole: but how can you call it stealing when it’s the very substance of what you’re doing?

Of course, most of Berry’s career played out in the era of Jim Crow and he paid the price, drawing jail terms when white musicians who did much worse (Jerry Lee? Elvis?) got a pass. Even Leonard Chess’ famous attorneys couldn’t do better than a mistrial in 1959, and then saw him jailed anyway on the inevitable retrial.

Hip, quick, sparkling, witty: if rock and roll will never die, he’s a good reason for it.

Here are three of my favorites of his, ones you don’t hear too much that catch some of the breadth of his work.

Things That I Used to Do

Thirty Days

Blue Feeling