prematurely grey

You know it’s going to be a good day when you hear Buddy Holly’s original “Not Fade Away” before 8 a.m.I don’t have much time right now, but here goes a five minute exploration of why I love Not Fade Away:

Buddy Holly is from Texas (Lubbock).
I live in Texas. Buddy Holly is one of those things you can point to and say to anyone who wants to put down Texas and say, “well, Buddy Holly is from Texas, so you don’t really know shit.” That’s pretty important when you’re not from Texas but Texas wants you anyway and you move back despite your borderline pinko politics and pantheistic Christianity.
I loved “The Buddy Holly Story.” Plus, I still love Gary Busey.
I believe I heard “Not Fade Away” at that first Dead show I wrote about a couple of weeks ago.
It reminds me of “She’s the One.” I was wondering if I could somehow manipulate “She’s the One” into SOTD instead of “Not Fade Away” because there was this interview with Bruce Springsteen on Fresh Air the day before and I was trying to make “Jungleland” or “Kitty’s Back” or “She’s the One” SOTD instead of “Feel Good Inc” (this is the backstory on “Feel Good Inc.” I guess) just becauses I heard little pieces of them and they were in my head. I decided that that was crossing the DJ line and that the perfect timing factor on “Feel Good Inc.” superseded any “Bruce reverb” in my head.
I’m going to play “She’s the One” right now.
It’s a great song.

There’s no “She’s the One” without “Not Fade Away.”
There’s really no rock and roll without “Not Fade Away.”
I have two minutes until I have to leave my computer, which now squeaks whenever I hit the space bar, so it’s getting to be a musical instrument in its own right. Two minutes to put into words what hearing simple songs played to huge effect means to me. It means everything to me.

And let’s talk about Bo Diddley. Bo Diddley. Diddley Diddley Daddy come bring it on home. Bo Diddley drums and Buddy Holly’s changes. Let’s talk about lyrics. Let’s talk about Cadillacs. My love is bigger than a Cadillac. Nothing is bigger than a Cadillac.

Except the sound of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band playing “She’s the One” at Madison Square Garden when you’re fourteen years old and you’re about to see the Buddy Holly Story and you know that your life has already been saved by rock and roll because you got to see Bruce Springsteen instead of the generally preferred Jackson Browne and James Taylor at No Nukes. You’ve been to what was deemed an inferior show and you’ve just seen Tom Petty for the first time, for whom you will burn the rest of your life, a sole blonde in a sea of brunette crushes, a reason for Florida, Peter Tosh, the beauty of your future husband’s affection for reggae explained at fourteen, Bonni Raitt, a woman playing guitar–A WOMAN PLAYING GUITAR–and then the New Jersey tainted, non-sensitive, working class, no fucking acoustic guitar in sight Bruce Springsteen laying down and pretending to be dead, only to be resurrected by Clarence.

OK. That may be a stretch from “Not Fade Away.” But that’s what I hear. I hear the future of rock and roll. I hear it all. At 7:48 on a cold Wednesday morning, there’s hope.