Forty-five years ago today, after completing a performance at the Surf Ballroom in Clearlake, Iowa, Buddy Holly boarded a private plane that he had chartered to take him to Moorhead, Minnesota, the next stop on the Winter Party Tour. He had chartered the plane because it was a cold night, and the heater on the tour bus was not working properly. He was looking forward to getting a bit of extra rest before the next performance. Accompanying Buddy Holly in the single-engine plane were Ritchie Valens (who “won” the seat on the plane on a coin toss), the seventeen-year old singing sensation, and the Big Bopper, a well-known radio disc jockey from Beaumont, Texas who turned “singer” with his hit record “Chantilly Lace.”

Shortly after taking off in the early morning hours of February 3, 1959, the plane crashed, killing all three performers as well as the pilot, Roger Petersen. Thanks to the brilliance of Don McLean, February 3, 1959 will always be remembered as “The Day the Music Died.”

Buddy Holly, of Lubbock, Texas was born “Charles Hardin Holley” (the spelling of his name as “Holly” arose from a mistake on a contract). He studied guitar, violin and piano, and also learned how to play banjo and violin. By the age of twelve he had formed a bluegrass duo and was performing on a local radio station. In 1955, he recorded “That’ll Be The Day,” which was ultimately released in 1957. Link

Shortly after the record’s release, Buddy Holly (sporting his geeky, thick glasses) and his band made very successful appearances before largely black audiences at the Apollo Theater in New York and the Howard Theater in Washington, D.C. “That’ll Be the Day” rose to number 1 the same year. In 1957, the group recorded other hits, such as “”Words Of Love”, “Maybe Baby” (Tony Soprano, if you recall, sang bits of this tune one in at least one episode.), “Not Fade Away”, “Every Day” and “Peggy Sue.” Link

His music was an inspiration to the Beatles, and his songs have been covered by scores of artists. He was one of the original inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of fame in 1986. He is buried in Lubbock, Texas.

Ritchie Valens, born Richard Steven Valenzuela, in 1941 grew up in a small town north of Los Angeles. Like Holly, Ritchie Valens learned to play guitar at an early age. While still in his teens, he was discovered by Bob Keene, the president of Del Fi Records, who gave him the name “Ritchie Valens” and a record contract. His first song, “Come On, Let’s Go” was a hit, selling 750,000 records. Link Thereafter, in 1958, he wrote and recorded “Donna,” a song about his then-girlfriend, Donna Ludwig. On the flip side of the record, he recorded “La Bamba,” a tune he had learned as a boy. “La Bamba” is perhaps the song he is best known for today.

He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2001. He is buried in Mission Hills, California.

The Big Bopper was born Jiles Perry Richardson a/k/a J.P. Richardson, in 1930 in Sabine Pass, Texas. Before and after military service, he was a disc jockey, and at one point remained on the air for 122 hours non-stop, thereby setting a record. He took to writing songs for himself and others, and in 1958, he recorded the novelty song “Chantilly Lace.”

He is buried in Beaumont, Texas.

I was just shy of being a teenager when that plane crashed in Iowa. I knew all of Buddy Holly’s hits, and I was absolutely captivated by Ritchie Valens’ “La Bamba.” And, virtually every pre-teen I knew, our hormones making their initial surge, could sing all the lyrics to “Chantilly Lace,” including the refrain, “Oh baby, you KNOW what I like.” I was devastated by the news bulletins about the plane crash that appeared on our black and white television set. Seeing the photos of the plane’s wreckage in the local newspaper the next day made it all the more real.

Don McLean got it exactly right.

Check out “You Don’t Smell Like Flowers Anymore.” Put your drink down. Turn your speakers up.

Thanks to Da Chef of da Future, one of the Usual Suspects. He can core a apple. Zip, zip zip.

I am, at very best, a very casual football fan. In fact, I wonder if it is even fair to identify myself as any kind of football fan, casual or otherwise. I assume that a basic minimum requisite for “fanhood,” is making some effort to regularly watch football games. In that regard, I fail miserably. Given a choice between watching the History Channel or a football game, the History Channel wins every time.

If pressed as to which is my favorite team, I would say the “Giants,” even though I’m not very happy that the team permits itself to be called the “New York Giants,” (don’t give me that “Football Giants” baloney), even though the team practices and plays all its games in New Jersey. That preference is really a carryover from my boyhood, when I really was a Giants fan, and the Jets didn’t yet exist.

However, my lack of much interest in football notwithstanding, I, like zillions of others, will be watching the Super Bowl later today. The reason I will be watching it, as opposed to the History Channel, is that the Legion Post does a Super Bowl Party each year, and it is something I like to support. Besides, I usually spend Sundays at the Post with the Usual Suspects anyway, so what the hell.

A couple brothers who are post members put the party together. For a single price, the bar is open and the food (heavily Italian, with the mandatory kielbasa) is catered. Only men turn out for this event (the women Usual Suspects go as a pack to a movie and dinner), so the fare is “manly” rather than pretty. The salad hardly ever goes. The room is noisy, smoky (cigar smoking is allowed), and raucous as hell. There are pools for each quarter and a pool for the final score. They are the kinds of pools I like because winning is a matter of blind luck.

The other day, my daughter asked me which teams were playing this year, and I responded, “The Patriots – I don’t remember if they are called the ‘New England Patriots,’ or the ‘Boston Patriots’ – and a team from South Carolina named after a large cat.” So much for my “fanhood.”

It should be a fun day anyway.