Remembering The Day The Music Died

He died before I was born, but Buddy Holly's music has been part of the soundtrack of my life, just like it has been part of so many people's lives for generations.

When Holly, Ritchie Valens and the J.P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson were killed in a plane crash on Feb. 3, 1959, it became known as The Day the Music Died.

Of course music lived on, as did the music of Holly, Valens, and even The Big Bopper. But losing those talented people at the peak of their creativity and fame must have been a crushing blow to their fans.

The day the music died for me came more than 30 years later, on Aug. 27, 1990 when Stevie Ray Vaughan died under similar circumstances, in a helicopter crash following a concert. My roommate at my first newspaper job had introduced me to Vaughan's music less than a year before. His blues-infused guitar captivated me. And just after I found it, found him, he was gone. And I felt an emptiness and loss as sure as if a friend or family member had died.

I still love and listen to Vaughan's music. It still moves me. But there is no sense of sadness when I listen to the energy and power of Vaughan's distinctive sound. I feel happy. It makes me feel energized.

I can't help but wonder what more Vaughan could have done musically if he had lived. But his music lives on. As does the music of Buddy Holly, who was only 22 when he died. So much music lost.

I bought some Buddy Holly music today. It was an obvious gap in my music library. Rest easy Mr. Holly, you and your music did "Not Fade Away".

And in spite of Don McLean's iconic tribute, "American Pie," that day 50 years ago was not The Day the Music Died. It was a day a generation -- several generations -- learned to love and appreciate the music and all those who made it and left the stage far too soon.

Healey's passing leaves guitars weeping again

Canadian guitarist Jeff Healey could make a guitar weep, or roar. His unconventional playing style, holding the guitar across his lap, allowed him to make one instrument sound like many. But sadly, now that guitar is silent.

Jeff Healey died Sunday in Toronto at age 41.

I can't claim to be an expert on music, or even Healey's music, but I am proud to be a fan of his blues/rock. I got to see Healey perform once, years ago, in Medford, Ore. My roommate at the time, Logan, and I ventured across the mountains from Klamath Falls to see the Jeff Healey Band perform at some forgotten venue in Medford.

I don't remember when, or where, I first heard Healey's music. It was probably in college. But Logan converted me into a fan of Stevie Ray Vaughan, another blues/rock guitar virtuoso. Vaughan, who was also taken the world far too soon, dies shortly shortly after Logan introduced me to his music. Now, Healey's passing has reminding me a friend from long ago I haven't seen in many years. But that's the magic of music. It's the ultimate time machine.



My early Healey music collection was on cassette tapes, now gathering dust in a back room. But I have added some of my favorite Healey song onto my digital music collection. I'd like to find some of his jazz work to see if I enjoy that as much as his blues sound. It's amazing how music with so much energy and vitality can still sound so sad an mournful at the same time.

Since I heard of Healey's passing earlier today, the refrains of his cover of George Harrison's "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," have been running through my head. Today, guitars all over the world are weeping, because Jeff Healey won't be around to make them sing as only he could.

R.I.P. Jeff, and thanks for sharing your special talent and the music of others who came to it through your love for music of earlier generations.