This is from my latest Spectrum column (not yet posted on the www.senior-spectrum.com website -- and when it does appear there, it will only last one week, to be replaced by the next column.
So help me, I could not have imagined that this day would come. Fifty years. FIFTY YEARS. The moment is one of a handful frozen in time in my memory. For most Americans of a certain age, the frozen moment is when we heard of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I recall that, for sure, of course, November 22, 1963. I was walking down the wide grass and sidewalk stretch en route to my high school Chemistry class, when someone shouted out that news. I did not believe it. I was sure it was a joke. But more on that another time, as there is much more to that story — and it is another of those that leads from one thing to another, each of which deserves some exploration. Fifty years ago, February 3, 1959, I was in my bedroom in a 1920s-built house in Redlands. I was 11, nearing 12, and a regular listener to radio. Sometimes it was the towering KFI, AM 640, Los Angeles, with its distinctive mix of talk and music, including a hearty dose of 1930s and 1940s Big Band Era songs and instrumentals. Often, though, it was one of the local rock and roll stations. I was a bit young to fully appreciate the Everly Brothers, Little Richard, Elvis Presley, and the rest. But I was nonetheless taken by the music — none more so than that of Buddy Holly, the phenomenon out of Lubbock, Texas, with his band the Crickets. His style was unique and creative and evolving from Rockabilly toward sentimental ballads. He was not only a singer and guitarist, but also a songwriter. His black-rimmed glasses were a trademark, as was his hiccupy vocal style and distinctive guitar riffs. *** A couple of months ago, over the kitchen table, with a Buddy Holly CD playing in the background, I said to my daughter and her fiancé, both thirty-something, “That’s Buddy Holly.” My words were greeted by deer-in-the-headlights stares. I could almost hear the gears grinding, as they must have been thinking, “Uh, oh, better humor Dad. He’s having a nostalgia moment.” I explained that Buddy Holly was one of the greatest pop singers ever, a huge influence on rock music, but got only polite nods in response. So we turned to other topics as the music played. Ok, in fairness, I can think back to February 3, 1959. Fifty years before that was 1909. What was recorded music played on then? Wax cylinders? And would I have recognized any singer’s name, no matter how big, from that era? Not very likely. *** “Peggy Sue,” “Everyday,” “Rave On” — those are some of the early hits that not only established Buddy Holly as a star by 1958 but that were played for many years more, along with other songs of that period, in Golden Oldies marathons. Many other songs appeared on albums but did not necessarily make the top-40 charts. Many of them, like “Words of Love,” still hold a sentimental power, for me, at least. February 3, 1959. I listened to the big, wooden-cabinet-style radio (it also had a built-in record player, and had been in the family for many years), and heard the chilling announcement. Killed in a plane crash in an Iowa corn field while en route to a concert performance: Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens (“La Bamba” his signature song), and The Big Bopper (J. P. Richardson, famous for “Chantilly Lace” and his deep, resonant voice). Of the three, each star in his own right, Buddy Holly was the most influential on popular music for a generation. Buddy Holly recordings continued to be issued for many years, often overdubbed versions of unpolished studio tapes or even rough home recordings. New compilations are still appearing. I saw a new Buddy Holly CD for sale in a local Starbucks within the last year, yet another selection of “greatest hits.” *** So there I am, stunned and saddened in front of that hulking cabinet radio, in a frozen moment I can call up — and from time to time still do — at an instant. The connection between the almost-12-year-old then and the almost-62-year-old now is real. Music is, of course, very powerful. A few strains of a certain song can trigger memories and connections for most people. “Washington Square,” by the Village Stompers (1963), is another that does that for me. So is “You Were on My Mind,” and the ineffably sad “I Can Never Go Home Again,” both by We Five (there is a story for another time in that last one). Likewise, a host of Beatles songs, likewise. I don’t dare start listing those. Maybe music like that is being made now, music that will resonate down the coming generations in the same way. I hope so. And don’t get me wrong. My musical tastes did not stop with The Day the Music Died (February 3, 1959). I can list some music of more recent years that has stopped me in my tracks and I’ve had to buy immediately. But I’ll have to follow up on that thought another time.
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