The days the music died

For Don McLean, it was February 3, 1959.

For me, it was January 23, 1978.

For my friend Kenny Davis, it was February 4, 2016.

For all of us, those were "the days the music died," because it was the day that a musician/musicians that had had a profound impact on our lives died. 

February 3, 1959 - Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, JP "The Big Bopper" Richardson.

There's not much that I can say that hasn't already been said about Don McLean's magnum opus "American Pie," eight minutes and 42 seconds of music and lyrics possibly alluding to the Vietnam War, the Kennedy assassination, musical acts of the 1960's, and other events, always circling back to the phrase, "the day the music died". 

While folding newspapers for his paper route on February 4th, a 13-year-old McLean read of a crash of a Beechcraft Bonanza plane not far from Clear Lake, Iowa.  Four people died, the pilot, Roger Peterson, and three names that hit McLean hard:  22-year-old Buddy Holly, 17-year-old Ritchie Valens, and 28-year-old JP Richardson, known by his stage name of "The Big Bopper".

Already, by the time of his death, Holly had established himself as a pioneer of the music we know as rock and roll. Bob Dylan and the Beatles both cite him as a major musical influence. If you've heard "Peggy Sue", "That'll Be the Day", "Oh, Boy!", or other Holly songs, you may hear a raw, restless energy that defined the early days of rock and roll. 

Richardson had just hit the airways with "Chantilly Lace," with its distinctive, "Hel-loo, baaby!" beginning. 

Valens, though only 17, had "Come On, Let's Go", ""Donna," (written for his real-life girlfriend), and "La Bamba" to his credit. 

As Don McLean would later write, something touched him deep inside. 

I don't know if he originated the phrase "the day the music died", but "American Pie" keeps coming back to that phrase, as if all of history hinged on that fatal night in an Iowa cornfield, or at least, all of musical history. 

And perhaps it did.  Because who knows what else Buddy Holly would have created, what other hits would have flowed from JP Richardson, what contributions Ritchie Valens would have made, what songs we'd be singing/humming/karaoking to today if they had not died. When someone dies with what seems to be unfulfilled potential, the question "what if?" always lingers in the air.

McLean, in a interview posted at loudersound.com, described "American Pie" as a song "about an America that was coming apart at the seams." And in the late '60's - early '70's, with the US neck-deep in Vietnam and social mores everywhere being questioned, he was probably right. 

About his lyrics, he said, "There are many interpretations of my lyrics, but none by me.  It was really funny to me that after the song became famous, people started becoming so interested in the lyrics. I was trying to write about America, not Elvis or The Beatles. They were missing the point, really, by trying to say who's this and who's that in the song."

Today, February 3, 2023, is the 64th anniversary of that fatal plane crash that killed three musicians and their music with them. 

Don McLean is now 77, and on the day he dies; on the day his music dies, the headline will probably read, "'American Pie' composer dies." Whatever his lyrics ultimately mean, they all lead back to the unfulfilled dreams of three talented men.

January 23, 1978 - Terry Kath

On Tuesday morning, January 24, 1978, around 5:30 a.m., I lay under the covers in a dark bedroom in St. Petersburg, Florida.  I suspect that the sounds of my sister getting ready for school woke me up. We had double sessions at our high school; she was a senior going in the morning and I was a freshman going in the afternoon. 

So I turned on my bedroom radio, tuned to Y95, WYNF, Tampa/St. Petersburg, Florida. They had a news broadcast at the top and bottom of the hour and I just happened to catch the bottom of the hour news. 

I don't remember the day's headlines. I do remember that there was a commercial break, and when the break was over, the person reading the news began with their next story.

"One of the members of the group Chicago --"

Oh, cool, Chicago, my favorite group!  I anticipated the next part of the story with a smile.

"-- has accidentally killed himself."

NO!

"Thirty-one-year-old -- "

I hit the knob that changed the station. I thought, "Not Terry. Not Peter. Not Bobby.  Please!" 

I didn't want to know. And yet I had to know. 

So I turned the dial down to Q105, another pop/rock station in Tampa/St. Petersburg. I knew they had news on at 45 minutes to the hour, and this time, I was not going to change the dial. 

I heard the story . . . and realized, "It was Terry."

The 31-year-old Terry Kath was the lead guitarist of the rock group Chicago. His is the soulful roar you hear on "Introduction," the lead-off song on "Chicago Transit Authority," the first album put out by the original six members of Chicago. It's also the soothing vocal you hear on "Colour My World," from Chicago's second album. His fingers play the opening riff of "25 or 6 to 4" and, in a 1971 concert at Boston's Tanglewood Music Center, delivered a blistering mid-song guitar solo where he did everything except destroy the guitar. (My son's nonchalant response to that performance was, "Boy, that band sure was loud.")

I was 14 years old.  And I was devastated. 

One of my childhood daydreams was to be part of a rock band who solved mysteries. Anyone who watched Josie and the Pussycats in the early 1970's will know where that daydream came from. As years went by, my imagination developed, and after seeing a 1974 TV special starring Chicago titled, "Chicago: Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch", I incorporated "singing in a rock band and meeting Chicago" into my daydreams. Every time I went to the library, I checked the magazine index to see if there was anything new about Chicago. 

So Terry's death dealt a blow to one of my vivid daydreams. 

I told no one how I felt. I kept a diary during that time and couldn't even write there, "One of my favorite musicians died." These days, I look back on that teenager and I want to hug her and tell her, "I'm so sorry he died."

As an adult, I've learned more about Kath's final, troubled months, his problems with drugs, and finally, his death. He accidentally shot himself with a gun he didn't think was loaded. According to this article from Premier Guitar, Kath had a collection of guns and on the evening of January 23, 1978, began playing around with his collection. Don Johnson, one of Chicago's keyboard technicians, warned him about playing with his weapons. Kath held up a gun and asked, "What do you think I'm going to do? Blow my brains out?" He swung the gun near his head.  While the clip was not in the gun, there was a bullet left in the chamber. I don't know if he deliberately pulled the trigger or not, but somehow, the gun fired. That single bullet killed the person called "the heart and soul of Chicago."

While the band -- to their credit -- kept going, many fans believe that Chicago was never the same after Terry Kath's death. 

Terry left behind a wife, Camilla, and a baby daughter, Michelle. In 2017, a grown-up Michelle Kath Sinclair released a documentary, "Chicago: The Terry Kath Experience," in which the participants spoke of her father and his musical brilliance. 

The original members of Chicago were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2016. Michelle, in honor of the father she didn't remember and the musician she learned about, accepted Terry's award on his behalf.

As for me, I've long since given up my daydream of singing with a rock and roll band and touring with Chicago. And I am no longer devastated by the loss of Terry Kath, just sad that drugs and carelessness robbed us of a great, gifted man of music. 

And I can look back on a time when I heard his voice on the radio, or on a record, and it -- to borrow a title of an early Chicago hit -- made me smile.

February 4, 2016 - Maurice White

Every year on September 21, my Facebook friend and fellow blogger Kenny Davis celebrates Earth, Wind and Fire day, in honor of the legendary 1970's rock/R&B group. He chose September 21st because of the opening line of the song, "September," (Do you remember / The 21st night of September?")  

Kenny is a connoisseur of good music, good cooking, Black culture, and photography, the last because he is a professional photographer. 

When on February 4, 2016, he received a barrage of texts asking, "Is it true about Maurice White?" he realized that, as much as he might want to deny it, the 74-year-old White was dead. 

He went home in silence. He reached home, went upstairs, and then texted his wife. "Maurice White died. I don't want to be bothered."

His wife understood, and for the next four to five hours, allowed Kenny to grieve the man he knew as "his musical father." 

Unlike Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, JP Richardson, and Terry Kath, Maurice White died of natural causes, a battle with Parkinson's disease.   

In doing some quick and dirty research, I'm embarrassed to learn that not only was Maurice White, along with Philip Bailey, one of the talented voices of Earth, Wind and Fire, he produced artists such as Barbra Streisand, The Emotions, Denise Williams, Neil Diamond, jazz artist Ramsey Lewis (who White also performed with early in his career) and a host of others. Behind the flamboyant outfits lay a mind that not only could compose and sing and make his own band sound excellent, but who could also listen to other artists and make them sound excellent as well. He gave a great deal to the music world, and received the adulation and appreciation of fans and peers.  

Earth, Wind and Fire's website explains how the band got its name:  earth, wind, and fire are the three elements in Maurice White's astrological chart. (I can no longer remember the sitcom -- it may have been the '70's version of One Day At a Time -- but when a character opened her front door to a person dressed in a colorful, theatrical outfit similar to ones Maurice White wore, she questioned, "Are you Earth, Wind, or Fire?")

Like Kenny, I grew up hearing Earth, Wind and Fire (I owned the album "Greatest Hits, Vol. I). Their music ranged from the contemplative, "That's The Way of the World," to the optimistic "Shining Star", to the explosive "Getaway", and the upbeat, wonderful "September". "September", in 2018, was added to the Library of Congress' National Recording Registry, a list of sound recordings considered "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant". 

And like Chicago did with me, like Buddy Holly did with Don McLean, something in the music of Maurice White and Earth, Wind, and Fire grabbed hold of Kenny.  So much so that when Maurice died, Kenny could grieve a man he never met but who had influenced his life.  

Kenny, in his blog entry celebrating Maurice White, wrote, " . . . I'd be lying if I said this day doesn't hurt and hurt deep.  On this day, I lost the friend I've known all of my life, but never embraced.  Never spoke to.  Never got a chance to say 'Thank you'."

Tomorrow, February 4, 2023, will mark seven years since Kenny looked at his phone and learned that Maurice White was gone. 

How many of us, like Kenny, see our favorite musician as friends we've known all our lives but never got a chance to speak to them and say "thank you"? Thank you for the music. Thank you for the memories it brings. Thank you for being part of the soundtrack of my life. Thank you for helping me process grief, joy, anger, and other emotions. Thank you for helping to celebrate my wedding, the births of my children, the times with my family and my friends. 

Maybe that's why Don McLean and others look at the loss of Buddy Holly, JP Richardson, and Ritchie Valens as "the day the music died."

It's definitely why Kenny Davis and myself can be devastated at the loss of a Maurice White and a Terry Kath.

For us, these were the days the music died.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.