It was 50 years ago today that the plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J.P. Richardson (The Big Bopper) crashed in an Iowa cornfield, killing all three of the musicians and the pilot.
Buddy Holly’s death, of course, occurred well before I was born, but anyone born and raised in Lubbock, Texas — as I was — has an innate connection to him. To Lubbock, he is more than a famous musician, he is a patron saint. And just as any Baby Boomer can instantly recall where they were when Kennedy died, any Lubbock-born Boomer can say the same about their native son.
My education in the music of Buddy Holly and The Crickets began early in my childhood, and even though I haven’t lived in West Texas for over 20 years, I still listen to the old songs every so often. And each time I do, they evoke strong and familiar memories of my old home. I remember sitting on the floor in front of my dad’s stereo, flipping through all of his old vinyl record albums as “Peggy Sue” played through the huge speakers that sat on either side. And hearing my mom talk about all the people she grew up with that had some kind of connection to The Crickets.
And so for me, today’s anniversary isn’t so much about honoring a man whose music would influence every single Rock ‘n Roll and Country musician who came after him. Instead, it’s more personal, a reminder of those brief childhood moments that still make me smile after all these years.

Previously:
Peggy Sue cashes in