Love, Lungs and Link Wray

 

Originally Published for the

Holmes County Bargain Hunter



 

I love Link Wray. I am hopelessly, unceasingly, pulse pounding in my throat, head over heels in love with Link Wray… well, with his music, anyway.

For years, my knowledge of the guitar virtuoso had been limited to his biggest hit, 1958’s “Rumble”, a gritty, slinky tune filled with frantic bursts from Wray’s guitar and band mate Shorty Horton’s walking bass line. The song always conjured images of leather clad, switchblade wielding, James Dean-styled juvenile delinquents circling one another on some desolate, rain-soaked street. “Rumble” peaked at number 16 on Billboard’s Hot 100 singles chart, and surely would have climbed higher, had it not been banned from rotation in several radio markets, including New York City. Apparently, Wray’s “Rumble” was too sexy; too suggestive for music consumers to hear, reasoning that seems laughable by today’s relaxed music standards. Logic made all the more ridiculous by the fact that “Rumble” had no lyrics; it was entirely instrumental.

Listening to “Rumble”, included on several rockabilly compilation albums that I owned, moved me to obtain more of Wray’s work. I picked up a greatest hits CD from an area record shop, unsure of what to expect. Link Wray and the Wraymen — or Raymen, after a minor name change — were, primarily, an instrumental group; I feared that their catalog would be filled with formulaic tunes that would make me regret plunking down 15 of my hard-earned dollars.

My apprehension was unfounded, as I heard a collection of one innovative, brow raising track after another. When it came to creating music, Link Wray was a master. I delighted in rediscovering Wray’s 1959 “Rumble” follow-up, “Raw-Hide”, a bouncy romp steamrolled along by older brother Vernon’s pumping piano and the aforementioned Horton’s thumping bass. In an effort to capitalize on the success of competing guitar instrumentalist, Duane Eddy — and to smooth out their charge’s nonconformist edges — Epic Records encouraged Wray to record some less boisterous music. One result was “Dixie-Doodle”, a mashup of the Confederate anthem “Dixie” and “Yankee Doodle”, and the B-side to “Raw-Hide”. “Raw-Hide” — not be confused with the television show of the same name — became a hit, peaking at number 23, somewhat of a vindication for Wray.

There was a version of the oft-covered “Ace of Spades”, one of several recorded by Wray and the Raymen, and the Doug Wray drum heavy “Deuces Wild”, a rowdy foot stomper which quickly earned a place amongst my most favorite tunes. Link Wray had become as familiar and welcoming to me as an old friend — you know, the one your parents didn’t like because he was a little too wild.

Wray was a rock ‘n’ roll pioneer, utilizing techniques and sounds that were generally foreign to rock music at the time. He made the power chord a rock ‘n’ roll standard, and laid the foundation for the music of Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin and the countless rockers that followed. He punched pencil holes into the speakers of his amplifier to achieve the double tracked fuzzy effect on “Rumble”. Wray attained the echo tone heard on “Jack the Ripper” — a galloping number named not for the famed serial killer, but for a racy dance — by recording his amp at the end of a staircase.

But it was his occasional foray into singing that made Link Wray’s talent and influence all the more prevalent. 1960’s bluesy “Ain’t That Lovin’ You Babe”, a cover of the Jimmy Reed tune, dripped with raunch, as if Wray’s voice had been immersed in sin, wrung out, then soaked again, for added measure. Wray’s 1965 version of “Good Rockin’ Tonight” became a staple in my car stereo, while his rollicking rendition of Willie Dixon’s “Hidden Charms” was the perfect head bopping, hip swaying, raucous antidote to whatever ailed me. I began to wonder why Wray’s instrumental songs far outnumbered his vocal ones. Yes, his voice was rough, as if he’d gargled with gravel, but it was the 1960s. If Mick Jagger and Bob Dylan could make careers out of singing, why couldn’t Link Wray?

The answer was an unexpected one: Wray had only one lung. A tuberculosis infection, contracted sometime during the early 1950s while serving a two-year Army stint in Germany and Korea, went undetected until it was too late. Wray’s destroyed lung was removed, and he was instructed to leave the singing to someone else. Thankfully, Wray gave a halfhearted listen to the advice, and his single lung-powered voice became a second instrument, as ragged and nuanced as his guitar playing.

Wray was the embodiment of cool; a guitar wizard steeped in blues — thanks to an African-American man named Hambone, who taught Wray how to play.

His music is timeless, as fresh-sounding and exhilarating today as it was 50 some years ago. He was ahead of his time, too, playing surf music prior to the Ventures, and punk before the Ramones and body piercings were cool. He developed an independent musician’s ethos, and frequently released singles and albums on homegrown or smallish record labels. He often declined interview requests, lending an aura of mystery to his defiant image. Although Wray’s manager, Milt Grant, frequently received a co-writer credit — as did, oddly enough, Link’s father, Fred — Link composed much of his own material. His skills as a musician have earned him a place alongside influential guitar gods Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry — Pete Townshend of the Who credits Wray’s “Rumble” with inspiring him to pick up a guitar. He recorded with numerous notables, including rockabilly musician Robert Gordon and the Grateful Dead’s Jerry Garcia, and eventually moved to Denmark. Wray continued to tour and record music, and released his final album, Barbed Wire, a mix of unreleased tracks and live performances, in 2000 at the age of 71… and no, that’s not a typo.
 



The late, great, incredible Link Wray. Photo courtesy of Lastfm.es.





 

Link Wray passed away on Nov. 5, 2005, and, while Link Wray, the person, may be gone, his lengthy list of contributions to music continues to impact rock ‘n’ roll today. You can hear it in the use of every power chord and in each reworking of “Ace of Spades”. So, why does Link Wray’s extensive resume continue to be overlooked? Why hasn’t he been inducted into Cleveland’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Why does the Rock Hall continue to ignore him?

Maybe that’s the way Link Wray would have liked it. After all, he was a rebel.

It's No Surprise: Annita & the Starbombers Deliver with It'd Surprise You

Anticipation can be an unwelcome burden; the proverbial double-edged sword. One moment, you’re overwhelmed with excitement, bursting with the need to see, hear; know. The next, you’re awash in disappointment, the lofty expectations you held ruined by the cold light of reality. It’s been said that the feeling of anticipation one experiences exceeds the actual event. While I’ve found that to be true in some instances, It’d Surprise You, the latest offering from Annita & the Starbombers, isn’t one of them.

The overdue follow-up to 2002’s What Good’ll It Do Me, It’d Surprise You is an almost pitch perfect example of what Dutch songbird Annita is capable of. Annita and her longtime backing band, the Starbombers—lead guitarist K.C. Byrd, Jeroen Haagedoorn (aka Larry Tulip) on the upright bass, rhythm guitarist J.J. Slijk and drummer Rutger Berends—take listeners on a smooth ride through soft country ballads, twangy honkytonkers and silky swing songs. The disc kicks off with the group’s flawless take on Bob Weldon’s “Mr. Fly-By-Night”. Annita’s bouncy vocal and the Starbombers’ solid guitar work weave effortlessly together into one of the record’s finest tunes.

K.C. Byrd shares singing duties with Annita on a handful of numbers, including country two-stepper “Which One is to Blame” and the Clyde McPhatter-Ruth Brown collaboration, “I Gotta Have You”. The pair elevates the album with “Not Anymore”, a velvety country toe tapper. The moment Annita and K.C. Byrd’s sweetly blended “Leave me…” pours from the speakers, you know you’re in for something special. The pair’s honeyed vocals of love and loss wrap around you, as soothing and inviting as a fleece-lined cloak on a blustery winter day.

Annita delivers on the album’s title track, proving herself to be equally adept at belting out this Jan Smith classic as she is with the early Sun Records rockabilly-flavored soundalike, “Stop”. Hank Thompson’s “I’ll Keep on Loving You” is on the receiving end of a rockabilly redo, thanks to the adept guitarmanship of the Starbombers, and is a fine showcase of the group’s musical proficiency.

Sandwiched between “Columbus G.A.”, a fun country swing romp, and a powerful version of Ann Jones’ “You Won’t Find Me Singing the Blues for You” is “Burn That Candle”. Annita & the Starbombers’ rendition of the song popularized by Bill Haley & His Comets is a solid example of the vocalist’s versatility and ability to blur the edges between music genres, spinning this 50s-era rock and roller into an almost Rosemary Clooney-esque standard.

It’d Surprise You is saturated with some of Annita’s biggest musical influences—Charline Arthur, Rose Maddox and Kay Starr are among those who receive a tip of the hat from the singer—but it’s country music queen Patsy Cline’s “Strange” that truly receives Annita’s royal treatment. “Strange” is the perfect vehicle for Annita’s multi-faceted voice. Haunting and ethereal, the tune is filled with bold, soaring notes and lilting tones. Patsy Cline has some large musical shoes to fill, and Annita does so nicely.

The album closes with “I Hear You Talking”, a bonus track performed by the Starbombers’ alter ego, popular European western swing band the Barnstompers. Upbeat and mellow, the number is the cherry on top of an already tasty sundae.

While a devastating 2002 car accident took its toll—for a time—on Annita’s health, the singer’s immense talent remains undiminished. Annita, alongside the Starbombers, has re-

emerged as an in demand act within both American and European rockabilly circles.

So, what is it that makes It’d Surprise You such an unsurprisingly good listen? Is it the country duets? The blues tunes? The rockabilly, jazz or swing numbers? It’s all of these…and more. As Annita shared with me in a 2010 interview for Blue Suede News magazine, “I don’t really think in genres, but whether I like a song or not. To me, a song has to have either emotions, swing, a story to tell or just kick ass.”

It’d Surprise You does just that.

 

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman on Skates: The Strange (But True) History of Roller Derby

A Note from Your Blogger: This piece, which I’ve updated, was initially posted a few years ago on the now defunct website, Atomic Kulture Magazine. Since then, Melissa “Melicious” Joulwan has retired from the flat track and dedicated herself to healthy living. Her cookbook, Well Fed: Paleo Recipes for People Who Love to Eat, has just been released.

I’ve never been an athletic individual. Sure, I enjoyed playing kickball, like every other red-blooded American first grader. My mother always had the badminton net set up on our lawn each summer, and my older brother would take delight in swatting the shuttlecock towards me, usually aiming for my head. Gym class allowed me to display my awkwardness and lack of coordination in all of its glory. No, becoming the star pitcher on my high school’s softball team or a free throw queen was not in the cards for me. 

Watching sports—two, in particular—was another story.

My stepfather, Charlie, and I never had much in common. Charlie was a broad, husky man with a rare, booming laugh who enjoyed the outdoors and tinkering with cars; I was a shy, underweight kid who always had her nose in a book, her tiny clock radio turned up too loudly or her pen furiously scribbling a new story onto pieces of scrap paper. We were polar opposites in every way, night and day, yet Charlie and I always came together on two occasions: one was to watch NWA World Championship Wrestling every Saturday night; the other was for roller derby.

I remember sitting next to Charlie on our couch as we gathered around the television, my brother’s lanky frame splayed across the living room floor. The Los Angeles Thunderbirds, or “T-Birds”, were our team. We would shout encouragement at Ralphie Valladares as he scurried around the track on his skates, attempting to score points for his team as he weaved through a flock of skaters. We loved the excitement, the drama and, yes, the violence. In some households, family togetherness occurs over dinner or a school play performance; in my home, it was roller derby.

Leo Seltzer. Photo courtesy of bankedtrackinfo.com

Although roller derby is as popular as ever, the sport has a long and rocky history, dating back to the Great Depression. Leo Seltzer was a businessman who made a decent living off of promoting marathon-style events. Pole-sitting, walkathons—nothing was too bizarre for Leo or too offbeat for cash-strapped Americans desperate for affordable entertainment. Seltzer was savvy enough to realize that such unusual performances wouldn’t inspire repeat business. In 1933, he relocated his operation to Chicago. The roller skating trend of the time proved to be an inspiration to Leo and, on August 13, 1935, with an astounding 20,000 people in attendance, the first Transcontinental Derby was held. The derby consisted of 25 boy-girl couples who attempted to outlast each other as they skated the approximate distance from New York to California around a banked track. With eighteen laps the equivalent of one mile and skaters on the track fourteen hours a day, seven days a week for seven consecutive weeks, the contest was grueling. The participants’ progress was charted on a light-up map of Route 66, and spectators enthusiastically cheered for their favorite team. 

The genesis of roller derby, as we know it today, isn’t entirely clear, but the widely accepted version has the sport beginning as an accident. According to the story, during a 1937 derby in Miami, a larger male skater elbowed his smaller counterparts—whether it was a deliberate act or accidental has never been established. When the derby’s referees penalized the skater, they were soundly booed by the audience. Damon Runyon, a writer who happened to be in attendance at that evening’s derby, had an idea. He suggested to Leo Seltzer that the shoving and fighting be integrated into the sport, and the pair composed the new rules for roller derby that night. The new version of the derby called for two teams, comprised of both male and female squads, to square off against each other. Each team would be allowed one “jammer” at a time on the track. Teams were also permitted three blockers, whose goal was to prevent the jammer from passing them, and a pivot, to skate in front of and control the speed of the pack. The jammer’s objective was to navigate through the squad from their starting position at the rear of the pack, circle the track, then pass the opposing team’s blockers to score as many points as possible during the designated period of the “jam”. The whole process would continue until the end of the game, when the team with the most points scored would be declared the winner.

Throughout the 1930s and well into the ‘40s—save for a few years during the World War II era, when the majority of the sport’s skaters enlisted or were drafted into the military—roller derby thrived. A new medium known as television capitalized on the roller derby boom and broadcast several hours of action each week. Derby stars, such as Billy Bogash and Charlie O’Connell, captured the spotlight and the attentions of roller derby fans. However, no skater was as colorful or as charismatic as the woman whom many a Rollergirl would fashion herself after, Ann Calvello.

Ann Calvello skated her first derby bout in 1948, and quickly became the woman that roller derby enthusiasts loved to hate. Known as the “Queen of the Penalty Box” for her roughhouse style, Ann was ahead of her time. Calvello would take liberties with her appearance, wearing wild glasses and hacking off the sleeves and neckline of her uniform in order to expose just a little more skin. “Ann was a rabble rouser and was definitely the role model for the modern Rollergirls, with [her] “Easter egg-colored hair and larger-than-life attitude,” commented Melissa “Melicious” Joulwan, skater for the Austin-based Texas Rollergirls’ team, Hotrod Honeys, and author of Rollergirl: Totally True Tales from the Track.

While Ann Calvello was roller derby’s residing bad girl, Joanie Weston, aka the “Blond Bomber”, was the sugar to Ann’s spice. “Joanie was so lovely and had such integrity when she played,” Melicious remarked. It’s a sentiment held by many a derby follower. Buxom and muscular, Joanie played the pivot position for the Oakland Bombers, and also served as the team’s longtime captain. During her tenure with the Bombers, the team became the league’s most profitable; when Joanie made the switch to the Midwest Pioneers later in her career, the money followed. It was a testament to Joanie’s star quality.

Joanie Weston battles Ann Calvello. Photo: rollerderbyhalloffame.com

By the mid-1950s, roller derby fever had reached its peak, and the sport began to lose its grip on the nation. Leo Seltzer and his son, Jerry, who began to oversee operations of the roller derby business, were also facing the emergence of rival leagues. In 1961, Bill Griffiths, Sr. and Jerry Hill founded Roller Games, the West Coast-based league responsible for the formation of my beloved L.A. T-Birds. Although the organization would eventually fold, the Seltzers had been dealt some heavy blows to the wallet, including the loss of several star skaters to their rivals. It would be the 1970s before roller derby enjoyed the level of success that it had in the early days of television.

Although roller derby faded from view, it never really went away. After its 1970s comeback waned, the sport enjoyed another surge in popularity during the ‘80s. The old Roller Games league was revived on T.V. in the decade’s latter years, with skaters navigating a banked figure-eight track, complete with a jump of several feet. It wasn’t long before Roller Games took a page from the book of pro wrestling and began to develop lackluster storylines for its players. When the league added an alligator pit to the track, the writing for the company appeared to be on the wall, and Roller Games folded within a few short years.

Another attempt to bring roller derby onto the airwaves—and into the 21^st century—came in the late 1990s, in the form of the World Skating League’s “RollerJam”. “I’ve watched a few episodes of ‘RollerJam’, and it’s really too bad it didn’t do better in the ratings,” Melicious began. “They seemed to start with the right ingredients: talented athletes; high production values. One of the problems, I think, was the ugly uniforms and the inline skates. It was very spandexy….I think the retro aspects of roller derby and quad skates appeal to people, and ‘RollerJam’ didn’t have that. And then, they interjected wrestling-like storylines in a way that overshadowed the skating. With the new wave of roller derby, we’ve put the sport in the spotlight and use the fun stuff—personas, rivalries, other entertainment aspects—as a cherry on top of the sundae.” 

That ideology would be roller derby’s saving grace. At the beginning of the century, “RollerJam” was floundering, but roller derby was about to be resurrected in a big way. “The Bad Girl Good Woman league, which was comprised of Texas Rollergirls skaters, was the beginning of the modern roller derby revolution,” Melicious explained. “Many members of the Texas Rollergirls were at the initial meeting [in 2000], at a bar on Sixth Street in Austin, where the idea was hatched.”  

Melicious, herself, became bitten by the roller derby bug after attending the first BGGW derby match-up. “I think the most honest answer is that I was searching,” she confided when I inquired about her decision to become a Rollergirl. “I’d just left a very ‘grown-up’ job in San Francisco and was trying to decide not only what I wanted to do with my life, but what kind of person I wanted to be. I spent most of my young adulthood being a ‘pleaser’. I was never very rebellious, then suddenly, I wanted to be more adventurous and fearless, but I also wanted to find good friends and live my life with truth and integrity. It sounds corny, I know, and I’m sure it seems wacky that roller derby, of all things, was the catalyst that helped me become more like the person I wanted to be. Playing at being Melicious allowed other parts of my personality to emerge, and my confidence soared.

“So, that’s the long, psychobabble answer,” concluded Melicious. “The other, short answer is that roller derby looked like a whole lot of fun and a big challenge. I really like to try to do things I’m not sure I can do, and I was definitely not sure I was tough enough to play roller derby.”

Other women who have laced up the skates seem to have similar reasons for doing so. “I think a lot of women join to get some exercise and make new friends,” Melicious observed. “Then, they get bitten by the competition bug and find that they love the sport. It’s energizing and confidence-building in ways I don’t think you can understand until you’ve played. It’s very empowering.”

Melicious had been adept on roller skates for years, but she still had a lot to learn before stepping onto the track as a full-fledged Rollergirl. “Because I’d never played team sports, I felt like I had a pretty steep learning curve,” she recalled. “I had great cardiovascular endurance when I joined, and I was stable on my skates from years of being a skate rat back in Pennsylvania, but game strategy and team politics were foreign to me. It took me about six months until I could watch a pack of skaters and really see what was going on—to know if someone was playing well—and to learn how to deconstruct what they were doing so I could do it, too.”

Following the division of Bad Girl Good Woman Productions into two Rollergirl leagues, the Texas Rollergirls and the TXRD Lonestar Rollergirls, the Lonestar Rollergirls began utilizing a banked track for bouts, while the Texas Rollergirls favored the flat track. Purchasing a banked track can be costly, to the tune of thousands of dollars, yet flat track derby can be played virtually anywhere. It also enables the fans to have an in-your-face view of the action. 

Flat Track derby has other advantages, too, as Melicious pointed out. “In terms of the rules, it’s also made for more dynamic play. On the banked track, the momentum forces skaters toward the infield, but on the flat track, skaters can have much more lateral movement, so there’s a lot of dynamism in the pack. Skaters can move side to side while the whole pack is moving very quickly forward. I think the flat track makes the game more interesting, because the jammers have a lot of choice about how to try to snake through the pack—and the blockers have more options for how to stop them.”

Flat Track roller derby has eclipsed banked track derby in terms of prevalence, and even has its own governing body, the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association.  The WFTDA enforces the rules of the game and holds annual tournaments, through which Melicious has met, and learned from, many a talented skater. “In Flat Track, the skaters I admire are the ones who excel both at the sport and at being good women. It’s tough to be a hardcore competitor and be committed to your principles but, over and over, I see Rollergirls who deliver in both arenas,” Melicious began. “It sounds clichéd, but I’ve learned from every member of the Texas Rollergirls. And, in other leagues, Crackerjack from [Madison, Wisconsin’s] the Mad Rollin’ Dolls [as of this revision, skating with the Texas Rollergirls], Sheriff Shutyerpaio from Arizona Roller Derby [as of 2012, skating with ARD affiliate, Tucson Roller Derby, as Helen Wheels]—they’re incredible athletes, and they just have so much fun on the track.”

One such athlete that Melicious has been a scholar of is fellow Texas Rollergirl, Hydra. “She was involved in the derby revolution from the very beginning, and was a guiding force in developing the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association,” Melicious commented. “She’s smart, motivated, kind and considerate—but never a pushover—and always a fierce, clean competitor. She is the modern pinnacle of being a Rollergirl.”

Recently, the A&E television network jumped on the reality T.V. bandwagon with “Rollergirls”, a weekly show that focused on the personal lives and match-ups of the TXRD Lonestar Rollergirls. Observers seemed to enjoy the new twist to an old favorite: entrance music and sexier uniforms, yet the same vivid personalities and emphasis on actual skating. Although the show lasted for only one season, it was a catalyst in roller derby’s return to the mainstream. Melicious agreed. “I think that the A&E show did a great job of introducing women around the world to the idea of roller derby, and when they went online to learn more, they found all of the Flat Track leagues around the country—and the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association—and they realized they could do it, too. No track necessary. No permission from anyone needed. Just get some gear, some skates, some women willing to play and you’re ready to go.”

With over 130 Rollergirl-owned and operated leagues in the United States, roller derby appears to have, once again, risen from the dead. The women may have made a triumphant return to the track, but what about the men? Why aren’t male derby leagues, despite their existence, enjoying the same attentions as their female counterparts? Melicious offered an explanation. “All women become beautiful Amazons on skates. ALL women. Men want to watch women skate, and women want to watch women skate. I’m as straight as a ruler, and I have zero interest in watching a man skate—even if he’s super hot. I’d much rather watch a woman rolling around out there. I haven’t been able to decipher the mystique, but it’s there, and it’s irresistible.”

So, what is the allure of roller derby? Is it the sexing up of the sport, the athleticism, or something else? Why do fans—including myself—keep coming back for more? Perhaps Melicious said it best. “One of the best things about roller derby is that it’s just pure fun. Sure, there’s strategy involved in playing the game well…but it can’t be taken too seriously, and I think there’s huge appeal in that. Plus, there’s the delicious possibility that a pretty girl is going to fall down.

“On a more serious note, I think part of the appeal of the modern Flat Track leagues is the punk rock ethos of the leagues being skater-owned and operated. I’ve heard a lot of positive feedback on that aspect of the business in my travels. It’s inspiring to people that the athletes are playing on their own terms and controlling their own destinies. Rollergirls play for the love of the game and each other, and people find that compelling.”

For more information about Melissa “Melicious” Joulwan, check out her website—and her new cookbook—at www.theclothesmakethegirl.com

For more information on the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association, log onto www.wftda.com

Two For the Road, OR, How to Dust off a Pair of Aces

Never an idle moment. Never a regret. Never a wasted word. My life's philosophy, my mantra, is equally applicable to my writing career. Some time ago, in bursts of inspiration, I snatched up a pen and my favorite beat up notebook and scrawled down my thoughts on an album--and then another--whose songs seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside of my brain. In a year filled with top-notch rockabilly-flavored releases, the Legendary Shack Shakers' Agri-dustrial and Wanda Jackson's return to musical prominence, The Party Ain't Over, are, handily, two of the most well-rounded and enjoyable records my ears have had the pleasure of hearing over the past 365 days. Although the former was released in early 2010, my first listen-to didn't occur until the year's tail end; the latter, on my list of eagerly anticipated "gotta-have-its", was procured before its official release date. 

Never one to write without a purpose, I'm putting those pushed aside ramblings to some use and sharing them here. Need some musical motivation to start off your week? Here's the perfect pair of discs to give your case of the Mondays a kick in the pants.

  Legendary Shack Shakers Rock On with Agri-dustrial

They’ve topped the bill of rockabilly festivals, yet are equally adept at picking up a banjo and plucking out a bluegrass tune…or a gospel-themed, harmonica-heavy blues number. So, how do you fit the square-pegged, musically schizophrenic Legendary Shack Shakers into the very round hole of music classification?

You don’t. Simply pop a copy of the group’s latest offering, Agri-dustrial, into your CD player, turn up the volume, and enjoy the ride.

In typical Legendary Shack Shakers fashion, Agri-dustrial is filled with songs placing a modern spin on traditional Old South storytelling. Frontman Colonel J.D. Wilkes barrels, full tilt, through the raucous “Sin Eater” before paying homage to his southern roots with the bluegrass-tinged traditional, “Sugar Baby”. Psychobilly number “Dixie Iron Fist”, a contemporary tale of American disparity, is the recipient of Jesus Lizard alum—and recent Legendary Shack Shakers addition—Duane Denison’s guitar work, providing the already sharp band with an even sharper edge. The mournful bluegrass number “The Lost Cause” eloquently describes a war fought and lost, while “The Hills of Hell” gives a harsh elbow poke to the conscience for another reason.

Disturbing, yet simultaneously fascinating—a car wreck of a song that you know you shouldn’t listen to, yet can’t help but do so—“The Hills of Hell” cites incidences detailed in Keven McQueen’s true crime novel, The Kentucky Book of the Dead. A narration of unfathomable acts of cruelty is backed by J.D. Wilkes’ woeful harmonica, woven into the thumping drumbeat of Brett Whitacre. The combination of dark lyrics and equally gloomy music makes for a memorably eerie tune.

If you’re a pure rockabilly enthusiast, you may find Agri-dustrial a disappointment. Compared to the band’s early albums, longtime fans might believe the limited psychobilly offerings to be a bit meager, but the Legendary Shack Shakers have proven to be more than just another neo-rockabilly group. They’re a blues band, a bluegrass band, a folk quartet, a gospel group…and everything in-between. The Legendary Shack Shakers continue to offer an eclectic blend of well-written numbers covering the entire Americana spectrum, something for virtually every music lover. Agri-dustrial is a fine example of just what the Legendary Shack Shakers are capable of.

 Party on with The Queen of Rockabilly

You know the feeling you get when you’re browsing in your local used bookstore, and you discover that one book by your favorite author that you’ve never been able to find…and it’s on sale? Or, you’re attending a family get together. It’s the first time in years that you’ve been in the same room with your mother and older brother. You laugh; you swap stories of childhood antics and adult-era tragedies. Your level of happiness is at its zenith. Life can’t possibly get any better. Just then, your mother emerges from the kitchen. In her hands is a platter of your favorite cookies, freshly baked. Somehow, the perfect moment has been made even better. It’s that feeling of improving the already flawless that makes Wanda Jackson’s latest album, The Party Ain’t Over, an unexpected gem inside of an anticipated delight.

With the White Stripes’ Jack White seated in the producer’s chair, Wanda’s roots-based sound receives a rowdy, brassed-up facelift that makes what would have been another great effort from “The Queen of Rockabilly” even better. From the opening salvo of horns on “Shakin’ All Over” to her brassy versions of the rockabilly classics “Nervous Breakdown” and “Rip It Up”, Wanda proves that she can still rock…and can still shape each song distinctly into her own.

As with many of Wanda’s previous albums, The Party Ain’t Over is a jigsaw puzzle of musical genres and sounds. “Busted”, a horns-heavy, tale-of-financial-woe honkytonker that’s the perfect accompaniment to a bottle of Jack Daniels, sounds just as good as her rollicking version of Bob Dylan’s “Thunder on the Mountain”.

Wanda sweetens the proverbial musical pot with a pair of offbeat cover songs. “Rum and Coca-Cola”, an island-themed calypso ditty made famous by the Andrews Sisters, is flavored with Wanda’s lilting voice and punctuated with guitar licks and bright blasts from the horn section. Starkly contrasting this quintessential soak-up-the-sun tune is the singer’s rendition of Amy Winehouse’s “You Know I’m No Good”. Wanda’s seductive, almost obscene vocal is the perfect compliment to this sinner’s song, and makes for one of the most memorable tracks on the disc.

Bookending the raucous “Shakin’ All Over” is the soft, record-closing “Blue Yodel #6”. Stripped of the album’s brass accompaniment, the tune features Wanda at her finest. The song’s slower pace and minimal musical backing highlight her versatility—and, as the title suggests, Wanda does, indeed, yodel.

If you’re looking for a straight up, bare bones, no frills rockabilly record to add to your collection, keep searching. On the other hand, if you’re appreciative of Wanda Jackson’s musical adaptability, her talent for meshing finger snapping rockabilly into twang-filled country into old time gospel, then The Party Ain’t Over is for you. Wanda may be a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee, but her continual blurring of music’s boundaries makes her much more than just rockabilly’s reigning queen. It’s that coloring outside of the stylistic lines that chalks up this album as a must have.

Just like my mother’s almond crescent cookies.

 

The Forgotten

Someone died, and nobody cares.

Those words raced through my frenzied brain in the aftermath of my stepfather’s death, an overstatement endlessly replaying itself inside of my skull. Even then, with all of the tears and the seemingly bottomless well of heartbreak that I didn’t think I would ever fill, I knew that Charlie was loved; people really did care. Friends and family, former co-workers and a smattering of people barely acquainted with the man—they all attended Charlie’s low-key funeral. But it wasn’t enough. Not for me. Life would return to normal for just about everybody the following day—work and grandkids and the endless string of thankless tasks one needs to accomplish over the course of a day—and Charlie would, all too soon, be forgotten, relegated to a gravestone, a drawer filled with memories and “what a nice man he was” platitudes.

No one, outside of his closest circle of family and confidants, would know of the unique happenstances that shaped Charlie’s character: how a broken leg dashed any expectations of a career playing for the National Football League, or how he had once belonged to a motorcycle gang; how he had attended the ultimate rock and roll concert, Woodstock, yet somehow missed seeing Jimi Hendrix’s iconic performance. No magazine or website detailed Charlie’s life. No television news crew covered his death. Yes, the world continued to spin, completely oblivious to the hole left in my family and to the hollow ache buried within me.

Someone died, and nobody cares…and that made me very, very angry.

That anger was reborn when I learned of the passing of one of the rockabilly genre’s forgotten heroes, Jumpin’ Jack Neal.

*   *   *  

“Who the hell is Jumpin’ Jack Neal?”

Those were the first words out of my husband’s mouth when I informed him of Jack’s death on September 22^nd. I knew that Jumpin’ Jack was an original member of rockabilly idol Gene Vincent’s backing band, the Blue Caps; that his work on the doghouse bass helped to shape the distinctive Blue Caps sound that would become a template for an endless succession of rockabilly-based musicians. But what did I really know about Jumpin’ Jack Neal? How did the bassist meet Gene Vincent? How did he come to join the Blue Caps? What became of him after his sudden departure from the group in late 1956?

As intrigued as I was with the mystery of Jack Neal’s life, I was discouraged—and disgusted—by the lack of media coverage of his death. I wasn’t delusional. I didn’t think that CNN, MTV or VH-1 would devote lengthy segments to Neal’s legacy, but I did expect something: a ten-second mention or a blurb contained within the ticker at the bottom of MSNBC’s telecast; a short piece featured on Rolling Stone magazine’s website. Over the next few days, I slogged through pages of internet searches, poking around for any tidbit, any video clip, any thing about the former Blue Cap’s death. I located a few mentions on Facebook—where I had received the news—and on a handful of rockabilly-themed and guitar enthusiast message boards There was a brief, skeletal blog post and Jack’s obituary, printed in a Virginia Beach, Virginia-area newspaper. CNN’s website? Nothing. MTV? More of the same. Rolling Stone or Entertainment Weekly? Nada. While the latest Dancing with the Stars episode was dissected ad nauseam, not a single news or entertainment media outlet deemed Jumpin’ Jack Neal’s death noteworthy. The old all-consuming anger I had felt when my stepfather, the only genuine father figure I’d had in my life, had died was back.

Someone died, and nobody cares.

It’s difficult not to care about a man whose star burned so brightly for such a brief time—just one year—before fading into the “whatever happened to…?” file. So, back to my desk I went, fingers clacking on computer keyboard, pen skittering across paper as I attempted to paste together the pieces of Jack’s life. Jack was born on November 7^th, 1930 to Jenny and Dixie B. Neal, Sr., in St. Brides, Virginia. Two of his five siblings, a pair of older brothers, educated Jack musically, utilizing their guitar and steel guitar playing experience to teach the younger Neal. Jack’s musicianship grew and, at age 15, he was playing in a band alongside his brothers. It was during a gig at TT’s Place, an area venue, that a female bassist, performing with another group, taught Jack how to play the upright bass. Around 1952, Jack purchased a Kay five-string bass. Unsure what to do with the additional string—standup basses typically have just four of them—Jack removed it…and never missed a beat.

I can’t say if Jumpin’ Jack Neal’s investment in that modified Kay bass was the catalyst to his music career, but the ensuing four years were a boon for the bassist. While working at a Ford assembly plant by day, Jack joined a musician’s union and spent his evenings as a guitarist for semi-hire, playing whatever bookings—paying or otherwise—he managed to snare. It wasn’t long before Norfolk, Virginia country radio station WCMS expressed an interest in Jack’s talent and recruited him for the Virginians, the station’s resident backing band. The Virginians performed with numerous name acts touring the area, including Marvin Rainwater—who would find fame with the smash “Gonna Find Me a Bluebird”—and future country hitmaker, Ferlin Husky. The Virginians was the breeding ground for what would become the Blue Caps: Galloping Cliff Gallup, the man who would achieve fame as Gene Vincent’s revered guitarist; Wee Willie Williams, Gene’s soon-to-be rhythm guitarist, and future Vincent drummer Dickie “Be-Bop” Harrell were members of the Virginians, too.

Sometime around 1955, Jumpin’ Jack met Gene Vincent, another Virginia native attempting to establish himself in the music biz. Gene, backed by the Virginians, performed on WCMS’s Country Showtime program, and the rest…well, you know. Host “Sheriff” Tex Davis expressed an interest in Gene’s career and became instrumental to the singer’s early success. Although his possible co-writer credit for “Be-Bop-a-Lula”, Vincent’s most recognizable number, continues to be in dispute—no one seems sure of the song’s exact origin—Davis’ influence on Gene’s early career, and on the formation of the Blue Caps, is not. With the Blue Caps name—courtesy of Dickie Harrell, by most accounts—and line-up cemented, the quintet recorded a demo containing “Be-Bop-a-Lula”, rockabilly anthem “Race with the Devil”, and the silky ballad “I Sure Miss You” for Capitol Records.

The following months were filled with recording sessions, tours, television appearances and more recording sessions. Capitol Records liked what Gene Vincent and his newly formed Blue Caps had to offer and, on May 4^th, 1956, the group entered Owen Bradley Studios in Nashville, Tennessee and recorded a handful of Gene’s best known tunes: “Be-Bop-a-Lula”, “Race with the Devil” and “I Sure Miss You”, along with the slinky “Woman Love”. As “Be-Bop-a-Lula” began to ascend the music charts—it was actually the flip side of “Woman Love”, the song originally intended for radio airplay—Gene, Jumpin’ Jack and the rest of the Blue Caps re-entered the studio to record 16 songs, many of which would appear on Vincent’s inaugural album, Bluejean Bop!. Included in the session were the energetic “Who Slapped John?”, “Well I Knocked Bim Bam” and “Gonna Back Up Baby”, a slower tempo number laced with Jumpin’ Jack’s powerful, thumping bass line.

“Be-Bop-a-Lula” was a hit. By the end of June, the single had sold a jaw dropping 200,000 copies. With the impending release of Bluejean Bop!, on July 20^th, Gene, Jumpin’ Jack and the rest of the Blue Caps embarked on their first tour. The boys were sharing the bill with trombone playing rocker Lillian Briggs and a boisterous group that would become a prototype for numerous rock and rollers, the Johnny Burnette Trio. On July 28^th, Gene and the Blue Caps performed “Be-Bop-a-Lula” on The Perry Como Show, a popular variety TV program. Jumpin’ Jack even appeared in a sketch as a waiter, made memorable when he handed guest host Julius LaRosa a menu…upside down…on live television. An August performance on rock and roll kingpin Alan Freed’s WINS radio show was followed by a brief appearance in the Jayne Mansfield bombshell-cum-rock-and-roll-star vehicle, The Girl Can’t Help It. Upon completion of their scene, Jack and his bandmates shipped their instruments home to Virginia…but that didn’t prevent Gene and the Blue Caps’ overseers from booking the band for a smattering of shows—after all, Gene and company had some free time, and time is money, right?  The group reportedly borrowed instruments to fulfill their gigs and, according to rockabilly legend, during a particularly frenetic show, Jumpin’ Jack broke his loaner bass.

Mid-October saw Jack and the boys making music once more at Owen Bradley Studios. From October 15^th through October 18^th, Vincent and the Blue Caps recorded 15 tracks, including rockabilly standards “Cruisin’” and “Double Talkin’ Baby”, the beguiling “Cat Man” and “Hold Me, Hug Me, Rock Me”, a wild, frantic romp featuring Gene and the Blue Caps at their very best. Twelve tunes would land on the group’s sophomore effort, the acclaimed Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps, which would not be released until 1957, well after several of the Blue Caps had bowed out of the band…including Jumpin’ Jack Neal.

Gene and the Blue Caps' second album

A string of shows at Las Vegas’ Sands Hotel were Jumpin’ Jack’s final appearances as a Blue Cap. Three weeks into the month-long engagement, Gene canceled the band’s remaining dates to seek treatment for his severely reinjured leg. Jack, weary of life on the road and longing to be with his family, left the Blue Caps and returned home to Norfolk. Once again, Jumpin’ Jack assumed the double life of a starving artist, repairing railroad cars by day; performing with any band in need of a bassist by night. During the mid-1960s, after tiring of too many late nights spent onstage, Jumpin’ Jack Neal walked away from the music business. The blue cap he’d worn as a member Gene Vincent’s band had, long ago, been put away; the upright bass was sold.

But then what? Whatever happened to Jumpin’ Jack Neal? The pieces I gathered were far flung, just the beginnings of what appears to be a vague snapshot of Jack’s remaining years. Around the time Jack said goodbye to his career as a bassist, he began working for Virginia Beach City Schools—first, as a plumber’s helper, then, until his retirement in 1993, as a plumber. Although performing music was no longer a part of his life, Jack certainly wasn’t idle. He worked part-time as a driver for Ceramic Arts Dental Lab. He was a member of Virginia Beach’s Salem United Methodist Church. He had been married for 61 years. He was a father; a grandfather—yet the musical flame within Jack wasn’t completely extinguished. On September 1^st, 2001, after a month spent practicing on a rented bass, Jumpin’ Jack performed at London’s Tennessee Club, his first time on a stage in over 30 years. Paired with Graham Fenton, the eerily Vincent-sounding frontman for popular British rockabilly group, Matchbox, and an assortment of musicians, Jack performed a successful show that included plenty of Gene/Blue Caps tunes and a rousing Cliff Gallop-esque number titled, appropriately, “Cliff’s Gallop”. This one-off gig appears to have been Jumpin’ Jack Neal’s last.

It’s hard to believe that one scant year could encapsulate such an abundance of music, of songs and sound that continues to inspire scores of rockabilly musicians and music lovers alike. Jumpin’ Jack Neal’s body of work includes a pair of tunes for Phil Gray and the Go Boys, the single “Bluest Boy in Town” and its B side, “Pepper Hot Baby”, as well as 35 songs recorded with Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps—some of Vincent’s rockinest, most memorable tracks. It’s a legacy that, regardless of time or memory, won’t ever—not entirely—be forgotten…not as long as turntables continue to play “Be-Bop-a-Lula” or digital copies of “Gonna Back Up Baby” exist.

“We have lost one of the very great ones,” Levi Dexter, known for his work with ‘80s rockabilly juggernaut, the Rockats, shared in a September 23^rd posting on his Facebook page. “Jumpin’ Jack Neal, bass player of Gene Vincent’s Bluecaps [sic] passed away of natural causes this morning!!! I’m devastated!” Others shared the sentiment, leaving a trail of comments and heartfelt remembrances.

It’s mid-October, now. The 40^th anniversary of Gene Vincent’s death has passed. It almost seems fitting that another bassist from another generation of Blue Caps, Bill Mack, died on October 5^th. Another Blue Cap gone…and another session of TV channel surfing and trawling the internet, mostly in vain. Sigh.

But that’s another story.

Somebody died…and I care.

I’m not alone.

HeadCat Rocks with Walk the Walk...OR, How Strange Bedfellows Make Great Music

HeadCat promotional photo, courtesy of Danny B. Harvey

The music gods have been a benevolent lot this year. With rockabilly’s reigning queen, Wanda Jackson, popular Irish songbird Imelda May, and the venerable Brian Setzer among those who’ve released new discs--not to mention two Buddy Holly tribute albums and Jeff Beck’s 

rockabilly-infused homage to the grandfather of the electric guitar, Les Paul--fans of the genre have had plenty of reasons to pay their favorite music purveyor a visit.

Here’s another.

Walk the Walk…Talk the Talk is a feel-good, car windows down, crank-up-the-volume-to-eleven rocker. Steeped in rockabilly--the essence of rock and roll--and blues, Walk the Walk… is the latest offering from HeadCat, a most unlikely trio. Comprised of Stray Cats drummer Slim Jim Phantom, versatile guitar slinger and movie soundtrack composer Danny B. Harvey, and Lemmy Kilmister, lead vocalist of metal band Motorhead--yes, that Motorhead--HeadCat has taken its wealth of individual musical experiences and seamlessly meshed them into an album that’s a can’t miss. Harvey’s pedigree is well known in rockabilly circles: guitarist for The Rockats, a member--with HeadCat bandmate Slim Jim Phantom--of rockabilly supergroup 13 Cats, one-half of the acclaimed duo Lonesome Spurs…and that’s just a snapshot of Danny’s resume. Harvey’s fine guitarmanship is the perfect accompaniment to Phantom’s merciless beat and Lemmy Kilmister’s unique singing skills. Kilmister sounds as if his throat were laced with gravel, his voice rough, yet startlingly soulful. 

Unlikely? Yes. Surprisingly good? Definitely.

A follow-up to the Buddy Holly covers-heavy Fool’s Paradise, Walk the Walk…Talk the Talk continues the HeadCat tradition of making what was once old new again. Interspersed with rockin’ takes on Eddie Cochran, Jerry Lee Lewis, Gene Vincent, and The Beatles is a smattering of HeadCat originals. The album kicks off with “American Beat”, an infectious HeadCat compilation that’s one of the record’s shining stars. Slim Jim Phantom’s driving drumbeat sets the tone for this toe tapper, while Danny B. Harvey pulls double duty, adding a jangling piano line to his usual top-notch guitar work. If “American Beat” doesn’t cause your fingers to snap or your body to sway, then you don’t have a rock and roll heart.

Fiery versions of Gene Vincent’s “Say Mama” and Chuck Berry’s “Let It Rock” are sandwiched amongst a rowdy version of the Eddie Cochran standard, “Something Else”, and the Webb Pierce/Mel Tillis-penned “I Ain’t Never”. Although initially a country number, “I Ain’t Never” is one of those songs that has bridged the musical divide. Co-writer Tillis, country sweetheart Patsy Cline, and rock and roller Dave Edmunds are just a few of the artists to have recorded the tune. HeadCat eases their usual frenetic tempo just a notch, making this version of the song a nice addition to the album.

HeadCat also gives the re-do treatment to the Johnny Kidd & The Pirates classic, “Shakin’ All Over”. Harvey’s blistering guitar and Lemmy’s rocky voice lend the number just enough raunch to nag at your conscience.

“The Eagle Flies on Friday”, another original, is an example of what HeadCat is capable of. The song begins like a slow burn: Slim Jim’s subtle percussion supplementing Kilmister’s soft crooning, before crescendoing into a blast of bluesy guitar riffs from Danny. From opening lyric--“Well, if you wanna see the

reason why all the world is crying out…”--to closing note, “The Eagle Flies on Friday” is spot on.

A pair of lesser known Beatles tunes, “Bad Boy” and “You Can’t Do That”, are unexpectedly good vehicles for Lemmy’s distinctive tone. You may not think that a man synonymous with the metal subculture of rock and roll could sing a Beatles song…rather, sing one well. You’d be wrong. The former is an almost whimsical tale of a ne’er do well transplant to the neighborhood; the latter, one of the record’s best tracks.

Blues legend Robert Johnson may have relinquished his soul to the devil in exchange for improved guitar prowess--or so the Johnson mythology tells us--but the devil apparently saw fit to bestow his influence upon HeadCat’s rollicking version of “Crossroads”, the album’s closer. More similar in style to Eric Clapton’s rendition than to Johnson’s original “Cross Road Blues”, HeadCat spins the song into a tornado of raucous guitar, thumping bass, and pounding drums. Wanna know why Danny B. Harvey is such a respected member of guitar player society? Take a listen to “Crossroads”. You’ll hear the answer.

In an era when rock and roll has seemingly morphed into an overly-mixed, corporate influenced, focus 
group-approved bland stew, it’s a relief to know that HeadCat is around to keep roots-based rock alive and thriving. “When the three of us play rock ‘n’ roll songs, it’s completely different from any of our other bands,” Danny B. Harvey told me in a 2008 interview for Blue Suede News magazine (available at http://www.bluesuedenews.com/84cover.html). “It’s always a pleasure to be on stage with those two [Lemmy Kilmister and Slim Jim Phantom] and look around and see us all excited about the music we’re making.”

With Walk the Walk…Talk the Talk, it shows.

Why Buddy Holly Matters

I was only six years old when I fell in love for the first time. It wasn’t the heart wrenching, pulse racing, butterflies-in-the-stomach cliché regurgitated in every mass market paperback romance. It was real. It was with a sound. A moment. A story so wonderful and so tragic that one would think Dickens or Steinbeck had conceived it. It was with Buddy Holly.

*   *   *  

I’m sure my mother never realized just how that Emerson stereo would affect my life. Around 1980, after years of suffering from my father’s misdeeds, she filed for divorce. With bills to pay, a lawyer to retain, and mouths to feed, my mother abandoned her stay-at-home mom position and re-entered the work force, accepting a second shift job cleaning offices. With her newfound freedom and additional responsibilities came a sense of accomplishment; of pride. In honor of such, Mom made a purchase that was, in our penny pinching household, considered to be both an event and an extravagance: she bought a stereo. Procured from Fingerhut--the mail order version of your local rent-to-own establishment--our new Emerson stereo was the apex of state-of-the-art. Complete with a turntable, eight track deck, and a fairly recent innovation called a cassette tape player, the stereo--save its towering speakers--was gleaming silver, trimmed with faux wood, and resided on a matching stand. One ground rule regarding the new stereo was quickly established: don’t touch it. At all. Ever. But the cassette deck’s protruding, inch-long control buttons always seemed to beckon to my six year-old fingers…so shiny and rectangular and long and WHAT DID I SAY? IS YOUR NAME MOM? DON’T TOUCH!

My mother began to amass a small record collection to accompany her new acquisition. Albums by Top 40 acts like Air Supply and Linda Ronstadt were displayed alongside those of good ol’ boy crooners Johnny Lee and John Conlee. A patchwork of music styles flooded our living room. The lighthearted sun-and-fun sounds of the Beach Boys shared the turntable with progressive arena rockers, Styx. Christopher Cross’s lush vocals blended with those of musical storyteller Jim Croce. The local oldies station that my mother always had the stereo’s radio dial tuned to introduced me to quintessential rockabilly flag bearers Eddie Cochran and Gene Vincent. Not even “Summertime Blues” or “Be-Bop-a-Lula” could capture my ears--or my heart--in quite the manner a certain bespectacled musician from Lubbock, Texas would. It was two black vinyl discs, spinning at 33 revolutions per minute, that would trigger an obsession that continues to thrive some 30 years later.

The album cover

I don’t recall the exact moment that my mother placed Buddy Holly: A Rock & Roll Collection on the turntable. I can’t tell you what I was doing or to whom I was speaking with. The world didn’t come to a sudden stop, as it seemed to do on September 11^th, 2001, or when President Kennedy was assassinated all of those Novembers ago. All I remember is the sound, the roiling drumbeat of “Peggy Sue” flooding out of those seemingly gigantic speakers, forever tattooing itself upon my brain…how I had the distinct feeling that I was hearing something new and wonderful; something special. My six year-old universe--my kiddom--as trite as it may sound, was never quite the same.

Liner notes

A greatest hits compilation released in 1980, Buddy Holly: A Rock & Roll Collection was much more to me than just another album stashed below my mother’s stereo. It was a work of art, as arresting visually as it was to the ears. I would perch in front of the stereo, the opening guitar notes of “That’ll Be the Day” spilling into the room as I pored over the double album’s liner notes. The jacket folded open, revealing the details behind Buddy’s rapid rise to music superstar status; the seemingly star-crossed circumstances behind his death. Over and over, I read of the notorious Winter Dance Party tour: how Buddy trekked across the frozen Midwest in one broken down, refurbished school bus after another; the lack of sleep he and the other artists on the bill endured. I read of the Big Bopper’s bout with the flu and the coin toss that entrenched Ritchie Valens into rock and roll history. I read about the plane crash that claimed four young lives--including that of Roger Peterson, Flight N3794N’s 21 year-old pilot--and irreversibly altered the rock music genre. My horror at the passing of such young talents was paired with an overwhelming curiosity over the mystery of it all: the to-this-day elusive cause of the crash, the miscarriage Buddy’s wife, Maria Elena, reportedly suffered shortly afterward; the philosophical struggle between life and too young for death. It was all too much for the brain of a child to absorb. Perhaps that’s why those same questions continue to flit through my mind three decades later.

Maybe it’s a part of why Buddy Holly’s music continues to resonate with me. But it’s only a small part. As I grew older and my musical tastes expanded and matured, so did my appreciation for Buddy’s eclectic catalog. The old vinyl records still retained their home near my mother’s aging stereo, while I amassed a trove of Buddy Holly tunes that reflected this deeper love. Holly staples such as “Oh Boy!” and “Rave On” were replaced by the exuberant “Rock Around with Ollie Vee” and the simplistic toe tapper, “Down the Line”, an early duet with friend Bob Montgomery that displayed a glimpse of the greatness that was to come. Holly’s songs touched upon those “every man” emotions of love and loss; hope and heartbreak. From the sweeping, orchestral “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” to his mournful wail in the melancholy “Mailman, Bring Me No More Blues”, Buddy could take that central theme and spin each song into a unique masterpiece.

Buddy Holly was a musician’s musician. He wrote much of his own material--producer Norman Petty was often given a co-writing credit, as was standard practice in the music business at the time. Although double tracking had been utilized by guitar great Les Paul and Mary Ford since the early 1950s, it was first used for vocal duplication on “Words of Love”. The effect was soothing: Buddy Holly and his clone, singing simultaneously. He was a fashion icon, his dark-framed eyewear synonymous with the Buddy Holly name, and with Weezer’s 1994 alt rock tune called--what else?--“Buddy Holly”. While living in New York City’s Greenwich Village, he frequented jazz and blues clubs, and also learned the intricacies of flamenco music. Preliminary preparations for the formation of his own record label were made. Yes, Buddy truly was a musical renaissance man.

It’s been over fifty years since the day the music died, as Don McLean dubbed it in “American Pie”, his epic ode to Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper. Yet Buddy’s influence on music, on movies, on culture, is indelible. His songs have been an inspiration to a plethora of artists. One of the Rolling Stones’ earliest singles was a rendition of “Not Fade Away”. The Hollies, of “Long Cool Woman (in a Black Dress)” fame, named their group thusly in homage to Buddy. Four young men from Liverpool, England would become one of--if not the--most prolific, successful group in the history of rock and roll. The quartet, in a nod to Buddy and his fellow Crickets, christened themselves The Beatles. Country honkytonker Waylon Jennings cut his teeth in the music business as Holly’s bassist on the ill-fated Winter Dance Party tour. From troubadour James Taylor to rockabilly revivalists the Stray Cats to Motorhead frontman Lemmy Kilmister’s side project, HeadCat, artists from all points of the musical spectrum have tweaked a Buddy Holly song or two into their own. The musical mainstream has gotten into the tribute act, too, with pop acts Cee Lo Green, the Black Keys, and Florence + The Machine amongst those featured on Rave On Buddy Holly, an album of reworked Holly classics released earlier in the summer; a second album of Buddy covers, Listen to Me: Buddy Holly, hits store shelves this week. The Buddy Holly Guitar Foundation’s mission is to raise money for school music programs. How is this accomplished? By loaning Rick Turner-built guitars, each fashioned with an original fret from Holly’s 1943 Gibson J-45, to worthy musicians. You can thank Buddy Holly for some damn good music.

There are scores of Buddy Holly biographies, including a children’s picture book. There’s Buddy Holly phone cards and Buddy biopics--The Buddy Holly Story achieved a level of renown for its over the top dramatization and its fast and loose use of facts. Director Robert Rugan is slated to begin filming Buddy Holly is Alive and Well on Ganymede, a comedy/sci fi romp based on the Bradley Denton novel, this fall. Just in time for what would have been his 75^th birthday, on September 7^th, Buddy will have his own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Buddy’s tunes have appeared in various commercials, so if you’ve recently obtained a Visa check card or switched your phone service provider to A T & T, well, you can thank Buddy Holly for that, too.

My mother’s stereo has been silenced. After a string of relocations and several trips to repair shops, the shiny Emerson with the faux wood paneling, the object of my affection for most of my childhood, finally gave up the ghost a few years ago. That Buddy Holly album--that touchstone to not only my youth, but to innocence, to wonder, to unbridled joy--is now mine, a gift this past Christmas. I carefully placed it in my carry-on luggage for the return trip home, nearly 900 miles by train, to another frozen Midwestern state. Conversation with my husband was punctuated with a frantic “Where’s the Buddy Holly record?” or “Don’t step on my Buddy Holly album!” If not for the train’s darkened interior, I’m sure I would have seen my hubby roll his eyes at me more than once. The album retains a place of honor, resting in front of my own collection of vinyl, near my own record player. My eyes land on Buddy’s smiling face, and I’m reminded of how, despite my diverse musical palate, rockabilly--and Buddy Holly--have always been a constant.

The Brevoort, Greenwich Village, New York City

So, what makes Buddy Holly so important? What enables this man--this man gone for over half a century--to have such impact on so many? On me? Maybe it’s the loss of someone so young at the apex of his life and abilities, or the wondering of what might have been. It’s the reason I tramped through Greenwich Village to the Brevoort--the apartment high rise Buddy lived in at the end of his life--and braved the doorman’s evil eye, just to take a few snapshots. It’s why I encounter some Buddy Holly relic in the most unlikely places: a framed photo at a Gone With the Wind-themed bed and breakfast in Pennsylvania; a Crickets 45 in a window display at the local high school’s alumni building. Maybe it’s the sweet loveliness of “Dearest” that causes me to believe it would have made the perfect song for my wedding, or why I sing along to “Modern Don Juan”. It could be why my foot always taps to the gospel-flavored “Early in the Morning”, or the reason I pause whatever I’m doing to listen to Buddy’s cover of The Coasters’ “Smokey Joe’s Café”. Maybe it’s the reason I turn up the volume on my stereo when “Well…All Right” is playing, or why Buddy’s hiccupping “Go baby, go baby…” in “Baby Won’t You Come Out Tonight” raises goosebumps on my arms. The tangible, the visceral--it’s all the same. It isn’t any one thing that makes Buddy Holly important. It’s all of them. Buddy Holly means something just because.

And that’s why Buddy Holly matters.