At long last a LiveJournal by Jeri Smith-Ready

I just had one of those, "Wow, my mom and dad were once young" moments.

I was doing research for Spencer the vampire DJ's short story and read about the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and J.P. ("The Big Bopper") Richardson on February 3, 1959.  Folk singer Don McLean later referred to this incident as "The Day the Music Died" in his song, "American Pie." 

It was the first time that rock 'n' roll had lost a young star to an untimely death, and to lose three at once--it was a tragedy of epic proportions.  So much talent wasted, so many records the world would never hear.  It's hard for us young'uns to imagine, after the parade of dead rock stars like Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, etc.--all of whom died at the age of 27. 

What made it even worse was that the stream of great hits that had flooded the radio in 1956-57 had slowed to a trickle.  Elvis was joining the Army, Chuck Berry was in jail, and Jerry Lee Lewis--well, there was that little thing about marrying his 13-year-old cousin. 

The point is, music was getting tame again--the powers that be were fighting back against the racial integration and "moral depravity" that rock 'n' roll represented.  Buddy Holly and Richie Valens were the only guys who could save America from Death by Pat Boone.  And then they were gone, and music pretty much did die until four boys from Liverpool resuscitated it.

Anyway, I always knew that my parents had named my older sister Donna after a song by the same name that was out that year, but I never knew until last night that it had been performed by Richie Valens, who died in that crash at age 17, a few months before Donna was born.  Yeah, 17--that's not a typo.  (People my age might recognize Valens as the guy Lou Diamond Phillips played in the movie La Bamba.)

It made me realize that my folks were really touched by this tragedy, as much as if not more than I was affected by the death of Kurt Cobain.  It was the equivalent of me having a kid in 1994 and naming her "Polly."  (But can you imagine her growing up and listening to that Nirvana song?  She'd think I was insane.)

I wish my dad were still around to ask about it, but I'm going to call my mom and find out what it was like to get the "bad news on the doorstep."  And one of these days I'll turn this into a blog post by Spencer for the WVMP Radio website.  His version will no doubt be more eloquent.

(Speaking of Spencer, I've redone his playlist--added some more familiar tunes and rearranged them all to flow better.  And Nitro by Dick Dale?  The earliest punk song ever.  Go listen and tell me if it doesn't sound like it.)

How about you?  Ever have one of those "Holy cow, my parents are not aliens" moments?

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