Not Fade Away: Six Decades, Three Rock Stars and the Day the Music Died
“I can’t remember if I cried/When I read about his widowed bride/But something touched me deep inside/The day the music died”
“American Pie” by Don McLean
At approximately 12:30 a.m. one frigid February morning in 1959, a small red and white single-engine Beech Bonanza plane carrying four passengers took off from Mason City, Iowa. Its destination — Fargo, North Dakota.
The pilot, a 21-year-old local named Roger Peterson, was called in for this charter fatigued after an already exhausting 17-hour workday. Having no idea who his passengers were, he simply accepted his flight assignment with dutiful adherence.
As crowds gathered on the tarmac of the Mason City Municipal Airport, spilling over from a concert that had just ended a half hour prior in nearby Clear Lake, it dawned on Peterson who his charter could be. Fans crushed up against a security fence, screaming, crying, waving and begging for autographs as three figures emerged next to the plane. Then climbing aboard, all three young men greeted Peterson with the geniality of an old friend.
The sky was clear on that bitterly cold night. The winds swept hard across the runway as the plane taxied and began its take-off after Peterson received the all-clear from the control tower. Peterson could do nothing but smile at his luck as the plane took off, ascending into the star-speckled skies.
Luck soon stepped aside for the spoils of destiny as Peterson received neither of the two weather advisories warning of an oncoming blizzard. His plane never reached its destination. And his life, and the lives of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. Richardson (“The Big Bopper”) were forever cut short in the dark predawn hours of February 3, 1959.
The day the music died…
“Ritchie, you were just starting to realize your dreams/Everyone calls me a kid, but you were only seventeen/Now Almighty God has called you, from oh-so far away/Maybe it's to save some boy or girl/Who might have gone astray/And with your star shining through the dark and lonely night/To light the path and show the way, the way that's right” — “Three Stars” by Eddie Cochran
Ritchie Valens was only 17-years-old — his recording career lasting a scant eight months. Valens, rock and roll’s first Latino idol, released only three singles (“La Bamba,” “Donna” and “Come On, Let’s Go”), but anyone would be seriously hard-pressed to name another recording artist of any era who has made such an impact on the American music scene with such a slight body of work. Valens blazed a trail that has since been followed by many; a promising star with the raw and engaging talent poised to build on his sudden and overnight success.
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“I see a stout man, the Big Bopper's your name/God called you to heaven, maybe for new fortune and fame/Keep wearing that big Stetson hat and ramble up to the mic/And don't forget those wonderful words, you know what I like” — “Three Stars” by Eddie Cochran
Jilas P. Richardson, affectionately known to fans as “The Big Bopper,” was only 29-years-old — at the time basking in the glory of recording one of 1958s biggest international smash hit singles, “Chantilly Lace.” Lacking the physique of your average rock and roll star, Richardson was a rather burly man with boundless energy and a talent for crafting hijinks and fun into kooky jingles. A Texas disc jockey, his flair for entertaining listeners on Beaumont’s KTRM radio station spawned his bigger-than-life alter ego, The Big Bopper.
While the boisterous and fun-loving Big Bopper embodied rock ‘n’ roll’s unhinged spirit, it was J.P.’s more conventional songwriting efforts that revealed a far more sensitive and romantic artist’s soul.
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“Buddy, I can still see you, with that shy grin on your face/Seems like your hair was always a little messed up/And kinda outta place/Now, not many people actually knew you or understood how you felt/But just a song, just a song from you/Could make the coldest heart melt/Well you're singing for God now, in his chorus in the sky/Buddy Holly, I'll always remember you with tears in my eyes” — “Three Stars” by Eddie Cochran
Buddy Holly was just 22-years-old. But it was the inexplicable grasp of his musical talents that became instrumental in elevating rock and roll as not only an art form, but as a vehicle for personal expression. Holly was a compelling performer with a distinct style all his own; a sonic architect of raw rock music and tender lullabies. He was a strong-willed artist with a clear-eyed musical vision and an unshakable determination to do things his own way. Holly was the first rock star of his era with the commercial clout to gain artistic control of his recordings, something unheard of in that era.
At the time of his death, Buddy Holly was preparing to embark upon an ambitious new phase of his career — music producing and helping nurture the talents of other young artists while continuing to expand the range of his own musical ingenuity.
How destiny found it to place these three individuals in the same plane this dark, frigid night is a simple, albeit tragically haunting story.
THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED
If you go by the numbers, Buddy Holly's career — which lasted a year-and-a-half with only one number one single — hardly seems the stuff of legend. He only accepted top billing on the 24-day, 24-town Winter Dance Party tour alongside the Big Bopper and Richie Valens as a way to dig himself out of bankruptcy. And yet his influence on early rock 'n' roll is almost unmatched.
Holly was barely 18 when he opened for Elvis Presley in 1955. He popularized the two guitar, one bass, one drum lineup that so many bands like The Beatles, The Kinks and Talking Heads would later adopt. When Roy Orbison saw Holly's black rimmed glasses and slim jim ties, he decided not to let his own homely looks hinder his singing career. Holly wrote his own songs and had the unique talents to move seamlessly between country, R&B and rockabilly.
Buddy Holly performing with fellow Crickets band members: bassist Joe B. Mauldin and drummer Jerry Allison circa 1957
1958 was a year of growing lows for Buddy Holly. 1956-1957 saw peak sales of his records with hits like “That’ll Be The Day,” “Oh Boy” and “Peggy Sue.” The following year, however, Holly’s fan base began a noticeable drift towards newer musicians who had hit the airwaves, resulting in slackening record sales. And it was his departure from The Crickets that put him in bitter contract disputes with former band manager Norman Petty, who punished Holly by putting a freeze on all royalties owed him, leaving the musician in serious financial straits. With a pregnant wife at home and no settlement in sight from Petty, Holly decided to earn some quick money by signing onto the Winter Dance Party package tour of the American Midwest.
Performing in concert was very profitable, and Buddy Holly needed the money it provided. The Winter Dance Party tour was scheduled for 24 cities in a short three-week time frame (January 23 - February 15), with Holly as its biggest headliner. Waylon Jennings — a friend from Lubbock, Texas — and Tommy Allsup signed on as backup musicians.
Holly (center) performs on the Winter Dance Party Tour in Montevideo, Minnesota's Fiesta Ballroom with Waylon Jennings (left) and Tommy Allsup
On February 2, 1959, Holly and his tour mates were on the last leg of their Winter Dance Party tour that traversed across the frigid snow-covered Midwest. 1,100 teenagers crammed into Clear Lake, Iowa's Surf Ballroom for two sold out shows. The audience screamed for 17-year-old Ritchie Valens, whose single "Donna" was about to go gold. Between sets, Holly solicited people to join him on the airplane he'd chartered to fly to the next show in Moorhead, Minnesota. The musicians had been traveling by bus for over a week, which had already broken down once and, with no heat, resulted in Holly’s original tour drummer, Carl Bunch, suffering frostbite on one of his toes.
They were exhausted, hadn't been paid yet and all of their clothes were dirty. So much, in fact, that guitarist Tommy Allsup would joke that their grimy stage attire was now able to stand and perform each night on their own — “let our outfits play for us so we musicians can take a nap,” Allsup would often quip. With the airplane, Holly could arrive early, do everyone's laundry and catch up on some rest.
Buddy Holly's final photograph, a haunting image captured by audience member Mary Haukoos at Clear Lake, Iowa's Surf Ballroom. Holly, Valens, Richardson and pilot Roger Peterson's single-engine Beech Bonanza crashed approximately two hours later.
The second show ended at midnight. The musicians packed up their instruments and finalized the flight arrangements. Holly's bass player, Waylon Jennings, was scheduled to fly on the plane, but gave his seat to J.P. Richardson who was suffering from a bout of flu that nearly made him pass out onstage during his second set that evening. Ritchie Valens, still on an adrenaline high from that night’s performances, finagled Holly's guitarist Tommy Allsup into agreeing to flip a coin for the remaining seat. Valens won.
Upon takeoff, the single-engine plane stayed in the sky for only a few minutes. At that point, not much can be proven on what exactly went wrong. Airplane malfunction? Pilot error? The likeliest scenario is that Peterson flew directly into the blizzard, lost visual reference and accidentally flew down instead of up. The aircraft plowed into a nearby cornfield at a speed of over 170-miles-per-hour, flipping over on itself as it violently ejected all three passengers. The bodies of Holly, Richardson and Valens lay in the frozen fields yards away from the wreckage. Peterson’s mangled body was still pinned within the crumpled Beech Bonanza craft.
And it was there all four remained for the next ten hours. Due to the severity of the storm, nobody could reach the crash site until the morning.
Coroners’ reports stated bodily damage to all four was so severe, particularly to the head, they mercifully died instantaneously. Carroll Anderson, manager of the Surf Ballroom who had driven the musicians to the Mason City Airport less than twelve hours earlier, was called to the crash site to identify the bodies. Stunned why Mason City authorities would contact him about a plane crash he knew nothing about, it wasn’t until Anderson reached the site that he realized what — and who — he was looking at.
The news of this tragedy was devastating to young music fans around the world. The first to report the tragedy was a young disc jockey for KRIB radio named Bob Hale, later of WLS, WFLD and WMAQ radio and television fame in Chicago, who had emceed the Surf Ballroom shows the previous evening. Devastated himself by Anderson’s call a minute earlier, Hale made the tragic announcement on the air and then immediately contacted United Press International in Des Moines. From there the news spread rapidly and proved a torrential blow to young rock ‘n’ roll fans worldwide.
But the news didn’t hit anyone harder than it did the families of Holly, Valens and Richardson. Holly’s wife, Maria Elena, in Greenwich Village was so traumatized, she suffered a miscarriage. Back in Lubbock, Texas, Holly’s mother received a call from former Crickets guitarist Niki Sullivan asking if the rumors of Buddy’s death were true. Unaware of anything, she asked what rumors he was asking about. A second later, a neighbor ran into the Holly home telling her to turn on the radio. And this was how Holly’s devastated mother found out about the death of her son.
In the months following the crash, authorities adopted a policy against releasing victims' names until after the families had been notified.
SMILING DOWN FROM ROCK & ROLL HEAVEN
Despite the shock, despite the heartbreak, despite the grief, the show had to go on. And the Winter Dance Party tour continued, with Waylon Jennings singing Holly's songs and other teen idols, including 18-year-old Frankie Avalon, were recruited to finish the tour. Buddy Holly's body was shipped back home to Lubbock, Texas. His Baptist family never approved of his music and none of his songs were played at his funeral.
It was at this same time a mixed blessing seemed to occur. Holly's last single, "It Doesn't Matter Anymore," had endured weak sales in the weeks prior to the plane crash. The music industry had not yet discovered the commercial allure of untimely deaths, and record executives were shocked to see the song shoot up to number 13 on the charts just one week after the tragedy.
And it didn’t end there.
Months went by and Holly's albums continued to sell. Decca rushed out a greatest hits album, which floated on and off the Billboard charts for another seven years. Britain devoured Holly’s albums faster than the record company could produce them. Demo tapes, B-sides and previously unreleased recording sessions rocketed up the UK charts and turned Holly into one of the forefathers of the British Invasion that would strike America five years later. Both John Lennon and George Harrison learned to play guitar in part by listening to Buddy Holly records. The first Rolling Stones single released in the U.S. was a cover of Holly's "Not Fade Away."
And it didn’t take long for their peers to dedicate songs of their own to their three lost comrades in rock — the first being Eddie Cochran's "Three Stars,” recorded just one day after the plane crash. Cochran achieved his own claim of rock star status between 1956 and 1960 with smash hits like “Summertime Blues,” “C’mon Everybody” and “Somethin’ Else.”
In an unfortunate twist of fate, Cochran’s life was cut short in a car accident on April 16, 1960 while on tour in the United Kingdom. He was only 21-years-old.
AMERICAN PIE
The next 10 years would be the death and ironic rebirth of rock ‘n’ roll. Dozens of teen idols were bred by record companies in a frantic attempt to represent the one who would eventually take over the throne left by the likes of Holly, Valens and Richardson. Not to mention Elvis Presley after he’d been drafted into military service. A deep, dark void was left gaping with an endless barrage of one-hit wonders coming and going. A lot was thrown to the wall, but nothing seemed to stick. Then came the British Invasion with the likes of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones breaking barriers and reminding America how it was done; all highly-influenced by Buddy Holly.
As the 1960s progressed, rock and roll seemed to suffer, stifled by the wave of controversy, greed, deceit, death, war and destruction that was tearing the heart out of American innocence in the latter part of the decade. Rock music had transformed itself into something else entirely. A different sound was emerging. One of free-spirit, peace and harmony that was rising from the ashes to cleanse the souls of lost youth in a dark time and redefining the common ground of an otherwise close-minded nation numbed by a war whose devastation they could now see from their dinner tables on the evening news.
Inevitably, the music of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, J.P. Richardson, and even Eddie Cochran seemed to be forgotten.
Until someone remembered…
It wasn’t until Don McLean's 1971 single "American Pie" turned the February 1959 plane crash into a metaphor for the moment. It told the world that redemption and, in a way, acceptance seemed within reach. McLean envisioned that last Buddy Holly concert in Clear Lake, Iowa — teenagers in pink carnations and pick-up trucks, dancing and falling in love. McLean has never admitted, even to this writer when I interviewed him in 1991, that “American Pie” is an outright tribute to Buddy Holly. But he will accept those that listen and see it as a death sentence on rock ‘n’ roll that came after Holly’s demise. Its intentions of pointing out the end of rock music in the turbulent 1960s are clearly prevalent. The song’s interpretations are endless and up to the individual listener to decipher for themselves.
The music did not die. It lived. And it thrived. Even today one can hear Buddy, Ritchie and Bopper’s music, their influence, their unique style in every song.
No one will dispute Buddy Holly’s status as a definitive pioneer of rock ‘n’ roll. The same can be said about Ritchie Valens and J.P. Richardson. Every single day some kid in a garage band will pick up a guitar and strum a chord — Buddy Holly’s right there.
The steadily increasing influence of Latino artists in today’s music industry — Ritchie Valens is right there.
When someone just wants to get outright bonkers with the music they play and have a great time doing it — The Big Bopper is right there.
Three artists. Three influences. For a time it seemed a day did exist when the music died.
Yet, it survived, resurrecting itself to greater potentials and grander plateaus so few could have imagined.
