My good buddy Pat stopped by today and asked how the CD moratorium was going. I immediately got busy with something else, but I'm pretty sure I told him my streak was still intact. If I didn't, Pat, I apologize. Seven days and counting today. I'm feeling good about the whole thing so far.
In my remaining 23 days, kind reader, I'd like to talk a little bit about the artists and the albums that got me hooked on music. Yeah, that's right -- albums. The format can change, but I'm gonna keep on calling them albums. What's the sense of being from the last vinyl generation if you can't keep clinging to it?
The first album I want to talk about is the first one that made a real impression on me. It's called "The Great Buddy Holly," and to the best of my recollection it's the first album
I bought with my own allowance at the ripe old age of 9. I could be off by a year or so, but I'm pretty sure. It definitely came from the Bradlee's department store in my hometown of Lewiston, Maine. Bradlee's has been gone for years, but I still have "The Great Buddy Holly." I'm listening to it right now, glorious scratches and all. The recordings are almost 50 years old, but still sound as fresh to me as when I was in the fifth grade.
I got to hear a lot of music around the house when I was a kid. Dad would play albums in the evening, sometimes he would put a few on the changer when he and mom turned in and let them play late into the night. I seemed to wake up a lot during the night, or stayed up later than I should, so many nights I feel asleep to the sounds of my parents' stereo. Dad leaned toward the folkies, so I got a steady diet of Tom Rush, Phil Ochs, Eric Andersen, Bob Dylan, Jim Croce and Gordon Lightfoot, with the occasional Don Williams country album thrown in. I liked that stuff, and I still do, but as I was nearing 10 it was time for me to forge a musical identity of my own. Along came "The Buddy Holly Story."
For those of you who aren't familiar with the 1978 film, it starred Gary Busey as Holly, who was killed along with Ritchie Valens and J.P. Richardson ("The Big Bopper") in a plane crash on Feb. 3, 1959 in Clear Lake, Iowa after a show at the Surf Ballroom. I watched it with my folks one night on TV, which undoubtedly meant staying up past my bedtime. I was fascinated by Holly's rise from Lubbock, Texas, to become one of the luminaries of rock 'n' roll's early years. Years later, I would learn that some of the material in the movie was Hollywoodized. For instance, Holly did not write his own charts for the backing string sections. It's generally acknowledged that he couldn't read music. I was utterly mesmerized by this figure nonetheless, and the Academy must have been, too; Busey received an Oscar nomination for the role.
Sometime after this viewing, I was with my mother and sister in Bradlee's and set the precedent for what has become a lifetime of discovery through recorded music. I spied "The Great Buddy Holly" on the shelf. If I hadn't seen the movie, the cover art might have lured me in. Looking at it now, it looks like everything that's fun about music. Holly's got a great big smile on his face. I have no doubt that he's grinning because he's playing a Fender Stratocaster, still the sexiest rock 'n' roll machine with six strings more than 50 years after its invention.
What I found inside the sleeve was even better. Busey performed most of the music in the movie, so it was an even greater revelation to hear the man himself. The album contains Holly's signature song, "That'll Be The Day," a song you probably know even if you don't know Buddy Holly. I also didn't find out until later that the version of "That'll Be The Day" on "The Great Buddy Holly" is the version recorded in 1956, not the version that became a hit in 1957. I loved it anyway. This record has on it two songs that are still favorites of mine: "Blue Days, Black Nights" "I'm Changing All Those Changes" and "Rock Around With Ollie Vee."
"The Great Buddy Holly" started my love affair with rock 'n' roll and rockabilly, still two of my favorites today. But Holly's sphere of influence extended well beyond a kid in Lewiston, Maine. He and his band, The Crickets, were among the first self-contained, guitar-driven bands to perform their own material in addition to the songs of others. A couple of bands you might have heard of, The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, also fell under Holly's spell. The Stones' first U.S. single was a cover of Holly's "Not Fade Away." The Beatles covered Holly's "Words of Love" on the "Beatles For Sale" album. Paul McCartney was such a devoted fan (and shrewd businessman) that he bought the publishing rights to to Holly's music.
I don't have Macca's cash, so I have to settle for the music. When the change to compact discs came in the '80s, the first CD I bought was Holly's "From The Original Master Tapes." In case you haven't gathered by now, this post is an endorsement of Buddy Holly's music. If you have even the slightest interest in early rock 'n' roll, this is a good place to start. I'd argue that he's closer to the true King of Rock 'n' Roll than Elvis ever thought of being. Truth be told, such a title probably best describes Chuck Berry, but that's a post for another day.
Holly's music has always been important to me. It even factored into important decision. I pretty much knew Sharon and I would get married (if she'd have me) after she presented me with two tickets to see the musical "Buddy!" Individual results may vary, but you too could be blessed with a fantastic spouse via the power of rock 'n' roll.
One of the most elegant tributes to Holly is Don McLean's "American Pie," which calls Holly's final day, "the day the music died." It's a touching tribute, but the music never really died. I hope it never does.
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