Mr. Holly, haven’t you heard? There’s a lot goin’ on down here.  You may have died in ‘59, but you’re still around in more ways than one.  We sure miss you, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper.

Folks call that awful plane crash “the day the music died”—don’t worry, Buddy, it’s only a figure of speech.

Buddy Holly, you were the first of many things.  You were the first artist to produce his own music, the first white act to play the Apollo.  You were the first eminent player of the Fender Stratocaster.  And it wasn’t until you wrote violins into your rock songs that other bands followed suit—boy, those violinists you hired must have thought you were crazy.

John Lennon and Paul McCartney have both cited you as a large influence.  Wouldn’t you know it, they even named their band The Beatles in honor of Buddy Holly and the Crickets. (Good thing you didn’t call yourselves Buddy Holly and the Beetles like you originally planned, huh?) You helped make it popular to have a four and three-piece band. In fact, that’s what you’ll find most of nowadays; not too many rockers play in front of orchestras anymore.

Though you’d be saddened to know that record labels are pretty much the same—sucking bands into bad deals and taking creative control. Yes, the snakes of the music industry are alive and well (not to mention profiting).

So many bands have followed your footsteps. So many musicians, concertgoers, and club owners have no idea how much is owed to you.

I know it was hard; Bebop-Rock wasn’t popular at first. Despite hearing everything from “devil music” to “not country enough,” you kept truckin’.  Because of that, rock is alive and well, and Lubbock, Texas, will always be the hometown of Buddy Holly.

So Mr. Holly, if you’re listening from rock ‘n’ roll heaven, I just want to say thank you.