Last week marked the 45th anniversary of Buddy Holly’s death (along with Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper and the 20-year-old “pilot” who thought he could take off in a snowstorm). Several weeks ago, I picked up The Buddy Holly Story on DVD at Wallyworld for $5.50.
The last time I saw the film was in the summer of ’83, while on a tour of Tennessee with the youth choir of my church. It is significant for a couple of reasons. Members of the congregation of the churches in which we performed offered places for us to stay at night. Another tenor and myself ended up at the home of an elderly woman. She was flipping the channels and happened upon the movie. I got very excited and she kept the channel where it was. Noting my interest, she asked me if Buddy Holly had invented rock ‘n’ roll. I smiled and explained very nicely that rock ‘n’roll’s invention was not the work of any individual, but rather a result of many parties. “But he was one of the main ones, wasn’t he?”
I was very pleased that she held such an interest, and was happy to talk about one of my favorite subjects. “Yes, ma’am, he certainly was.”
She frowned. “Poor thing’s probably still burning for it.”
The next day, while the choir was spending time at Opryland, the tour bus packed with all of our belongings (including my glasses and Dramamine tablets) was stolen from the parking lot. The Opryland-powers-that-be refused to allow us back into the park, and we had to spend the rest of the day sitting on the asphalt until our director was able to find us transport back to the church. For these reasons, I have always been wary of Nashville.
I only made it part way through the movie last night.
Grave historical inaccuracies aside, was it too much to ask for them to get the damn lyrics right? Geez.
