If you drive across the country on I-80 and detour north at Des Moines, just under two hours later you will be standing in front of the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake, Iowa, where Buddy Holly played his final concert. I know this because I did it last summer. Something had drawn me to Clear Lake even before I found out that this week would be the 50th anniversary of the plane crash that killed Buddy.
The Surf Ballroom still looks pretty much as it did on the evening of Feb. 2, 1959, when the Winter Dance Party arrived in Clear Lake, stumbling off the bus on the second week of its miserable tour through the frozen Northern Plains. Featuring a faux-tropical decor, the ballroom has a dance floor large enough to handle the 1,300 fans who had driven across icy roads in four states to greet the stars. Here were Buddy Holly and his cobbled-together backup band—reduced to Waylon Jennings and Tommy Allsup after drummer Carl Bunch had been hospitalized with frostbite suffered on a bus with a broken heater. The other headliners included the 17-year-old Latino sensation Ritchie Valens and a DJ-turned-singer, J.P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson, who had a novelty hit called “Chantilly Lace.”
At the concert, Buddy ran his Fender Stratocaster through a playlist of hits—“That’ll Be the Day,” “Peggy Sue,” “Oh Boy,” “Maybe, Baby”—from his brief, astonishing burst of nine top-10 releases in just 18 months. For the finale, he joined Valens and the Big Bopper onstage for a rousing ensemble of Ritchie’s “La Bamba.” Then the makeshift trio headed for the nearby Mason City airport and climbed into a chartered red-and-white Beechcraft Bonanza bound for Fargo, N.D.
The pilot, Roger Peterson, was a 21-year-old who a few months earlier had failed his instrument flight exam. Shortly after takeoff, he apparently became disoriented in the darkness and a gathering blizzard. At about 1 a.m., the plane cartwheeled at 170 mph into a snow-covered field of stubble five miles north of the airport. The wreck and the four frozen bodies were not found for another eight hours. Buddy was just 22.
A half-century later, those sad events still resonate … but are tempered with—how else to say it?—a kind of bittersweet joy. This week the Surf Ballroom is hosting a “Fifty Winters Later” festival complete with art exhibits, dance lessons, scholarly panels, tours to the crash site, and visits by the survivors of the 1959 Winter Dance Party. At the inaugural concert for President Obama last month, Garth Brooks sang Don McLean’s 1971 elegy to Buddy, “American Pie,” with its encomium to the music that “used to make me smile.” When Bob Dylan won an Album of the Year Grammy in 1998, he recalled seeing Buddy and the Winter Dance Party perform in Duluth, Minn., on Jan. 31, 1959—three days before the crash—and thanked Holly for being “with us all the time we were making this record.”
Why does Buddy make us feel this way? Why does his name keep coming back 50 years later?
The answer is that the place Buddy Holly holds in American memory is all about authenticity and loss.
The first loss, of course, was that of a single enormously influential individual, gone like Milton’s Lycidas, “ere his prime.” Buddy was the first pop star to die young. He was the first to write and record his songs with his own backup group—later commonplace but then rare outside the R&B circuit. After Buddy and the Crickets toured England in 1958, Paul McCartney and John Lennon named their new group for another bug, and their first recording was a cover of “That’ll Be the Day.” The rights to Holly’s song catalog are currently owned by McCartney. As for the Rolling Stones, Mick Jagger was so struck by seeing Buddy perform the Bo Diddley-influenced “Not Fade Away” during the same tour that the Stones made it the first track on their first U.S. album.
Patricia Larese’s moment to change her life came by chance. She was attending a movie screening for older adults in Hadley, Mass., when the president of a chorus based in nearby Northampton paid a recruiting visit.
“You don’t have a bad voice. Why don’t you try it?” a friend urged Larese, a widow who had recently taken early retirement.
Larese, who previously had sung only in her high school glee club and church choir, remembers her low-pressure introduction to the group when she went to her first rehearsal. “I really was very lucky because I was singing along with everybody,” she says. Chorus director Bob Cilman asked the woman next to her, “ ‘How does she sound?’ And she said, ‘Pretty good.’ ”
Fifteen years later, Larese, 77, is president and treasurer of the lively Young@Heart Chorus, whose members, in their 70s and 80s, belt out punk, rock and R&B tunes by artists ranging from James Brown to the Clash. Their love of singing, life and one another is celebrated in the new documentaryYoung@Heart, now playing in theaters in New York and Los Angeles, later nationwide. The film promises to vault the chorus, founded by Cilman in 1982 at a senior center, to a new level of celebrity.
“When people come to see us, they think we’re going to stand there and sing,” says Larese. “It’s not like that.” The songs are arranged into original shows with titles such as “Road to Heaven” and “Road to Nowhere.” “We play parts,” Larese says. “Each man in his time plays many parts, right?”
Larese’s earlier real-life roles included secretary, wife and mother of four. She lost a 19-year-old daughter to Hodgkin’s disease and helped nurse a son with the same deadly form of cancer through a bone marrow transplant that saved his life.
“In the chorus, everyone has had tragedies. They’ve lived a lot of years,” she says. “But we put it behind us for this. This is something very cheerful to do.” Larese suffers from a painful nerve condition, “but I find when I’m at rehearsal it doesn’t hurt at all.”
The chorus has supplied Larese with close companions and an opportunity to travel across Europe. The group has performed for the king and queen of Norway, and with David Byrne of Talking Heads.
“I think it gives you a little bit more confidence—that you have something to do, you have a purpose,” Larese says.
The documentary details how the chorus periodically—both individually and collectively—has to deal with illness and death. “But people just overcome and carry on,” Larese says, “because you can’t just stop.”
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