The jester stole his thorny crown.
The courtroom was adjourned;
No verdict was returned.
And while lennon read a book of marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.
We were singing,
"Bye-bye, Miss American Pie."
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye
And singin', "This'll be the day that I die.
"This'll be the day that I die."
Fifty years ago, today.
ETA: NPR story on the fifty-year anniversary of the deaths of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and J.P. Richardson. And, we presume, probably a pilot too.
I used to work for a guy, Johnna Yurcic, who had been Waylon Jenning's road manager, so I had Waylon's part of the story at secondhand, with real people in it rather than media constructs.
Funny how knowing a guy who knows a guy changes everything. We have a tendency to treat well-known people as fictional, as constructs we can use any way we like. But these days, every time I'm tempted to do that, I remember Johnna talking about Waylon's survivor's guilt, and it reminds me to think of four guys flipping coins on a cold night with the weather threatening snow, not knowing that three of them would be dead soon.
It reminds me to compassion. We're fragile creatures, and there's still enough pain to go around.
And of course, Waylon and Johnna are both gone now, too.