Fifty years ago today: The day the music died

Today (February 3) marks the fiftieth anniversary of the death of Buddy Holly, a giant of rock’n’roll and one of America’s most influential musicians.

I figured I’d try writing something about the anniversary without referring to “American Pie”, but it wound up being pretty much impossible.

Don McLean’s ballad, ostensibly about the plane crash that killed Buddy (but for all intents and purposes a reflection on the maelstrom of the 1960s) has become so ingrained in the Holly myth that it’s become difficult to mention one without the other.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it’s for good reason. Sure, Buddy was a great musician, and wrote some of the greatest rock’n’roll songs ever written, but he’s also an Eisenhower-era symbol of innocence and America at its zenith. Don McLean realized that early on and really nailed it in his 1971 recording of “American Pie”.

When we mourn for Buddy, we’re also longing for the comfort and illusion of the 1950s. And, since we never had to see Buddy setting his Stratocaster afire at Woodstock, or paunchily playing Vegas in a sequined Aztec sun calendar jumpsuit, we can still look back at him as the sweet kid next door who could play a guitar like no-one’s business.

About twenty years ago, during a cross-country road trip, I stopped in Clear Lake, Iowa, and saw the Surf Ballroom where Buddy played his last show. I also saw the cornfield where his plane went down. It was sad and sobering, but it was also nice to see that the town remembered too, and named a street after Buddy.

Even though Buddy is longgone, we can take comfort in the fact that Buddy’s music has survived. While the songs have gone from acetate to vinyl and on to compact discs and MP3s, they’re still the same great three-chord stompers they’ve always been.

And that’s one hell of a legacy.