For one who passed too soon.
I bet you expect me to say something about this day, something insightful that I should have been crafting for the last nine years. Honestly, I damn near would have forgotten were it not for the weekend newspaper.
Today is the 50th anniversary marking the death of Buddy Holly. On this day, his chartered plane (shared with the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens) crashed into the cold, wintry fields of Iowa -- how much more depressing could that landscape possibly be?
I remember the first time I heard "That'll Be the Day." I was about eight and watching one of those infomercials for a tape collection of the best songs of the '50s. When Buddy Holly sang that would be the day he died, it wasn't prophetic or deep. To an eight-year-old who thought "Mr. Sandman" was where it was at, I thought the song was sung by an old man who would die soon, because only old people die when you're a child.
The first time I saw Buddy was a few years later in Jasper. My parents dragged me and my sister through souvenir shops as we fussily searched for the elusive $10 or less stuffed animal souvenir. My mom pointed out collectors' stamps at the glass counter. The Queen, Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe --
"Who's that nerd?" I sniped as only an 11-year-old can.
"Buddy Holly," said Mom.
Typical me, it's love at first sight but I don't know it until three years later. This time it's another '50s compilation tape bought from Music World, as I rebelled against the day's conventional sounds of rat-faced boy bands and blond robotic teen-tarts. This time there was no "That'll Be the Day." Instead it was "Oh Boy!" a fast-as-Holly-can-strum rocker where Buddy laid it all out there: you were missing something special for not loving him and his music. I acquiesced.
His music is brilliant, reaching beyond the '50s time capsule of life, cupping the balls of '60s rock, tickling the Beatles, the Stones, and pretty much anyone else marching in the British Invasion. He took guitar playing to a new level with his unusual technique of strumming downward, but twice as fast as a conventional strummer. He experimented with overdubbing, and could actually duet with himself. He used an orchestral string section in his final studio recordings and gave the world his final encore, "It Doesn't Matter Anymore."
He may not have made the impact that Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Elvis made on the wild-child attitude of rock n' roll, but he made his mark on a few that would.
It's been a few years since I lived in my whirlwind, junior high crush of a man more than 50 years my senior and long since dead, but he's still my hero, my inspiration.
I love you, Buddy, and you'll never be forgotten. Rave on.
2 comments:
I love Buddy Holly, too... he's one of the few musicians who died before his time that really make me think of how much music was lost, as well. You know how some rockers are immortalized simply because they exited the earth earlier than expected, but probably would have just fizzled out in a year or so anyways? I think Buddy would have kept playing amazing music until he couldn't play no more. Which, I guess, he did.
Absolutely! Even if he stopped recording his own music, he would have been integral in the music scene. Apparently, he was incredibly fond of London and had toyed with the idea of moving there (and oddly enough, he was insanely inspirational to many young Brit artists). I guarantee you he would have had an even deeper impact on the British Invasion of the '60s.
It's a shame that fate takes the life of someone so packed to the gills with talent and then leaves rotting fish like Milli Vanilli (though damned if "their" music isn't catchy), Creed, Fergie, and so many others to stink up the scene.
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