Ray Anthony (left), John Mueller (center), and T. J. Dawson (right, filling in for Jay Richardson during his recovery from heart surgery), getting ready to go on stage for another fabulous show. Author
It was a hot day in Columbus, Ohio, and John Mueller’s “Winter Dance Party” was on the grounds performing that evening with the Columbus Symphony at their “Picnic with the Pops” concert. I checked the Weather Channel app on my iPhone: 95 degrees, with a severe heat advisory all day. Great.
I flew into Columbus that morning with enough time to catch the last half of the rehearsal but the band cut it off early because of the intense heat. I hailed a cab and headed to the Chemical Abstract Services (CAS) facility at 2450 Olentangy River Road. The summer concert series was on the beautiful lawn of the CAS building. I didn’t know who CAS was or what they did, but trying to get into the building to meet John was like trying to get into the Pentagon. (I say this as if I have ever tried to get into the Pentagon, which I have not.) Regardless, security was high. Eventually I produced enough ID and signed enough forms to give the reference from John himself sufficient credence to secure me an escort to the cafeteria to meet him and his band for the first time.
John Mueller had been living in my head next to Buddy for nearly six months. I’d seen his show, watched him on YouTube, and listened to his voice in my car each day singing “Hey, Buddy.” We had exchanged countless emails and spoken on the phone. I felt as though I knew him fairly well. Still, seeing him in the flesh the first time felt a bit strange.
Ray Anthony (left), John Mueller (center), and T. J. Dawson (right, filling in for Jay Richardson during his recovery from heart surgery), getting ready to go on stage for another fabulous show. Author
John was gracious with his time and introduced me to his band and to Ray Anthony, who portrays Ritchie Valens. Jay Richardson, The Big Bopper’s son, was home recovering from open heart surgery so T. J. Dawson was performing in his place. Everyone was friendly and relaxed. As we made small talk I realized that many of the questions I had prepared to ask were not really that useful, so I decided to just sit back and let the chatter sweep us along at its own pace.
The group told me of the immense heat on stage during their rehearsal, what traveling and life on the road was like, and a host of other things. I caught a ride with them back to their hotel and John and Ray set aside some time to talk with me. The hotel was across from the Ohio State University football stadium on the campus of OSU. I’m not an OSU fan but my friend Tim Duggan is a University of Michigan alumnus. The Ohio State Buckeyes and the University of Michigan Wolverines are bitter rivals, so I quickly snapped a picture of the OSU stadium and sent it to him as a text message under the title, “Where Wolverines Come to Die.” I smiled and mumbled to the doorman, “That’ll irritate him all day.”
We walked into the plush Blackwell Hotel, found a secluded area of the lobby complete with overstuffed leather chairs and dark wood accents, and made ourselves comfortable. Suddenly I felt awkward, almost silly for wasting their time just because I had developed an interest—or an obsession—in Buddy Holly. “Thank you so much for your time,” I began. “I don’t want to be in the way today. If you don’t mind, I’d like to just hang out and see what you do for show prep and maybe ask a few questions and talk about anything that comes to mind. Anything you think is helpful for me to know, you tell me. Is that okay?”
“Sure, no problem,” John responded with a smile.
When I told Ray how much I enjoyed his performance in Cedar Falls, his eyes brightened. “I love what I do for a living, and portraying Ritchie is a privilege,” he answered enthusiastically. I learned that he communicates often with Ritchie’s family and finds it an honor to keep his music alive. There was real emotion in his eyes. He meant every word.
When I casually mentioned that he had performed Ritchie’s music hundreds, maybe thousands of times more than Ritchie Valens, Ray’s mouth fell open. He looked at me, then John, and then back at me, “Wow. That had never occurred to me. I guess I have.”
John smiled knowingly. “Gary said that same thing to me several months ago and it really made me think,” he said. “It certainly puts what we do in a different perspective.”
John and Ray are a different kind of performer than Jay and his understudy for the night, T.J., and I think it is this longevity that sets them apart. Jay is The Big Bopper’s son and he is carrying on a family tradition of sorts. I suspect Jay’s motivation is different than the others. John and Ray hold onto the traditions of Buddy and Ritchie, but I think they interpret more than they imitate. I shared this idea with John and Ray and they agreed.
“I think we stopped trying to be carbon copy imitators years ago,” replied John. “We work hard to keep the music alive and introduce it to a new audience, but with our own twists, with our own personalities.” John paused before adding, “I think you’re right, Gary. Tonight we are performing with the Columbus Symphony. When they are not playing old time Rock & Roll with us, they are playing Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach. Are they Beethoven imitators?”
“No,” I responded. “They are performing and interpreting the works of a great composer who is no longer with us.”
“Aren’t we doing the same thing?” John asked.
“I never thought of it in that light,” Ray chimed in. “I do my best to stay true to the music and keep it moving for generations to come but yes, I like that. We interpret. I think that’s right.”
Ray began interpreting Ritchie Valens as part of the Legends performance in Las Vegas. A friend told him about John Mueller and he called and asked John to be part of the show. John agreed and the two have been performing together since 2001.
“How long do you want to keep interpreting Ritchie?” I asked Ray.
John and Ray looked at each other and laughed. “Every year, we say it is almost over. We’re getting older, but every year the demand grows,” explained Ray.
“It does indeed,” added John. “The phone keeps ringing. There seems to be an increasing demand for this show. We’re not complaining. We love doing this, but we also know the day will come where we’ll turn it over to some younger guys who can be as passionate as we are.”
“But you are younger guys!” I responded.
“Well, Ritchie was only seventeen when he died and Buddy was just twenty-two,” John replied. “We are well past those ages.”
“So I guess part of your interpretation might be what Ritchie and Buddy would have been like had they lived a few years longer,” I suggested. “But from the audience’s perspective, you do twenty-two and seventeen perfectly. Trust me. I’ve seen it.” We all laughed.
“Let me ask you a different question. Do you ever have identity confusion?” I wasn’t sure if they would understand the point of my inquiry. They did.
“No, not really,” John responded with a shake of the head. “Former Cricket Nikki Sullivan gave me some great advice when I was getting started. He said, ‘Don’t let the glasses consume you.’ I understood what he was saying and took it to heart. Besides, I’m an actor and a musician. I play the music of others, as well as compose and perform my own music. I’m also an actor and do other roles and personalities.”
The conversation continued and after a while I could see John’s eyes beginning to narrow and his head nodding slightly. He and his band had traveled the night before and had just finished a shortened but intense rehearsal under a hot sun. “I’ll let you guys get some rest and catch you tonight at the venue.”
* * *
About 5:30 p.m. I decided to leave the hotel early and walk the mile or so to the concert site. I needed the exercise and it would be fun to watch the band and crew prepare for the show.
I wondered how many people would turn out for an outside concert in this heat. The concert was billed as a symphony event called “Picnic with the Pops.” John and his entourage were performing with the Columbus Symphony Orchestra, so I expected an older crowd and, with this heat, a smaller one at that. I was still hundreds of yards away from the venue when I noticed cars backed up in every direction and people standing in line at every entrance.
And then it dawned on me. The security was tight and the good folks at the venue did not give me the promised ID before I left. Shoot! Would they let me in? I had been there this afternoon, so I could talk my way in, right?
There were several entrances and the line closest to the building stretched about as far as the eye could see. I moved to the front and found a young woman with short hair and “Carla” printed in big letters on her name tag.
“Hi Carla!” I began with my biggest smile. “I’m with the band.” That was fun to say, but it sounded silly and we both knew it.
“I bet you are,” Carla responded slowly. “But they’ll just have to go on without you tonight unless you can produce the proper badge.”
“Badges? We don’t need no stinking badges!” I laughed.
She didn’t. Instead, she crossed her arms and said, “Actually, a stinking badge is necessary if you think you’re going in there.” She unfolded her arms and lifted one hand with her thumb pointing over her left shoulder.
“Carla, do I look like I am up to no good?” I replied, my wide smile still in place. “I don’t even know what they do in that building.”
“Let me get Marsha,” Carla said, “But don’t make a move toward the building or I’ll drop you like a sack of potatoes.” I started to laugh but the look on her face told me she was deadly serious. She returned a minute later with another woman about the same age with blonde hair and deep brown eyes. “Marsha, this guy says he’s with the band,” Carla offered in a skeptical voice. Marsha didn’t say a word. Instead, she just looked at me and smiled. And kept smiling.
I cleared my throat and began. “Hi Marsha. My name is Gary W. Moore. I’m an author and John Mueller invited me to hang out and view things from backstage tonight.” I handed Marsha my business card, which prominently features the cover of my first book, Playing with the Enemy. “I’m writing about Buddy Holly’s enduring impact and how John Mueller and his Winter Dance Party are keeping his music alive.”
Marsha looked at the card and then back up at me. “You wrote this book?” she asked, pointing to the cover art on the back of my card. “I know who you are. My son slept with this book for a month.”
I let out an audible sigh. “Yes, I’m the author of that book.” I wanted to stick my tongue out at Carla but managed to resist the urge. “I’m delighted your son enjoyed it. Have you read it?” I asked.
“No, sorry. But I’ll take you in the building if you’ll sign this card for my son,” Marsha offered as she took my arm and began escorting me toward the door.
“Deal!” I answered, unable to resist the urge to look back at Carla and smile. “Why is security so high here, Marsha?” I asked, turning back to look at my escort.
“Ah, this is the Chemical Abstract Services building,” she responded with raised eyebrows.
“Yes, but what do they do here and what are they protecting?” I asked.
“This building houses more detailed information on chemicals than any other site in the world. If it’s a chemical, they have detailed information and formulas here.”
“Oh, so they’re afraid someone’s going to steal the recipe for making Lysol?” I laughed. Marsha did not. None of these people seemed to have a sense of humor.
“I think they are concerned that something more harmful could fall into the wrong hands,” she replied with deadly earnest. “I’m sure you understand. The world is a dangerous place today and some of what they store here might be of interest to those who wish to do us harm.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “That was my feeble attempt at humor.”
“Mission accomplished,” she answered—and then broke into laughter. “It was feeble.” We both laughed at that.
We walked into the building and Marsha guided me to security, where they took down all my information before handing me a badge. “I’m official now?” I asked Marsha.
“You are as official as you are going to get.” She changed gears and asked me about the new project. After I explained why I was researching and writing it, she responded with a shrug. “I really don’t know much about Buddy Holly, but you really are with the band. Have fun!” Marsha walked a few steps and then turned back to face me. “If I can get my son down here with his book, would you sign it?”
“I would be delighted, Marsha. I’ll be hanging around the stage tonight so just look me up.”
No one was in the dressing area or green room yet, but I could see a crowd gathering outside. I estimated the number at 3,000 and it was still quite early. As much as I hated to leave the air conditioning, it made sense to walk outside and talk to some folks to see why they were there.
The first person to cross my path was a woman with two teenagers carrying a picnic basket and lawn chairs. “Excuse me,” I said. “What brings you out to the concert tonight?”
The crowd begins to gather for the Columbus show. Author
“What do you mean?” asked the mother.
“My name is Gary and I’m working on a Buddy Holly book. I’m curious as to why you took your time to come out tonight?”
According to the thirty-something mom, her son was a big fan of Buddy Holly’s music. “In the process of playing it all night, every night in his room, we’ve all become fans,” she explained.
Her son stood beside her in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” he replied, shaking the dark hair out of his eyes. “I play the guitar and like to play Buddy’s songs.” His smile revealed a set of blue braces.
I pointed to his T-shirt. “They’re a long way from Buddy.”
“Not really,” he responded. “You find a little Buddy in most Rock & Roll and these guys loved Buddy.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I replied as I jotted down his words. “What’s your favorite Buddy song?”
“‘Not Fade Away,’” he answered without a moment’s hesitation.
“‘Peggy Sue,’” said his younger teenaged sister.
I looked at Mom and raised my eyebrows. “‘That’ll Be the Day!’ Is my song,” she said as she laughed and put her arm around her son’s shoulders. “He’s got us all hooked.”
“You know what I think? Anything a parent and her children can enjoy and discuss together is a very healthy thing to be hooked on.” I paused, again taking notes. “Have you seen this show before?”
“No,” the young man answered. “But I’ve seen John Mueller on YouTube and he’s the best.”
That really got my attention. “Have you heard his song or seen his tribute video entitled ‘Hey, Buddy?’” I asked.
“Oh yeah, that’s my favorite. I cried the first time I listened to the words,” admitted Mom.
“Me, too,” I mumbled.
Mom and I exchanged knowing glances as I thanked them for their time and input and headed back inside to see if I could find John, Ray, T.J. and some air conditioning.
John is a very generous man and allowed me complete access backstage. As I knew it would be, the concert was outstanding. The crowd loved the music and showmanship. The evening could not have been more perfect. Just as he had in Cedar Falls, Iowa, near the end of the show John announced that he would conclude the evening with a song he had written as a tribute to Buddy. As much as I wanted to watch John perform his tribute song, I was there to watch the audience and register their reaction to the song. Was I the only one struck by the lyrics and music of this special tune?
“Hey, Buddy . . . Look at me . . . I’m just sitting here reminiscing . . .”
There is still something hypnotic about that song no matter how many times (or where) I hear it. I forced myself to turn away from the stage and focus on the faces in the crowd.
The audience had been dialed in all evening, and nothing changed when John started playing his own original music. I did see something very interesting, however. A group of about thirty audience members off on the side of the stage had been dancing non-stop for the entire show. A few measures into “Hey, Buddy” they stopped—almost as one—and began swaying back and forth, their eyes riveted on John as they listened to the song. In an odd sort of way I was looking backward in time. Something about it had captured me, and now it was capturing them. In a way I felt like a voyeur, watching and listening to John sing not to us, but to Buddy. Wait. That’s not really right. John did speak to us: “Listen to me . . .” “Look at me . . .” I found it struck a perfect chord with my emotions and those of the audience.
John Mueller performing in Columbus. Author
“Hey Buddy . . . I’ll see you . . . on down the line.”
The haunting words faded away, the melody came to an end, and the audience fell silent—and for a brief moment my heart skipped a beat: Was something wrong?—before erupting into enthusiastic applause.
The audience cheered as John, Ray, T. J., the Winter Dance Party Band, and the Columbus Symphony Orchestra took the stage to bow together to a rousing standing ovation. The evening was an unqualified success. John and entourage made for the souvenir-autograph table, where hundreds of people poured themselves into a chattering line to acquire a CD, a signed photo—anything to help keep alive this thoroughly memorable evening. I assumed a position a few feet off to the side of the table area in hopes of catching a few conversations.
“I’ve been coming to these summer events since they began,” said Bill, a tall 65-year-old recent retiree with the thickest head of white hair I had ever seen. “Your performance tonight was incredible!” he told John as he leaned over and shook his hand. “I never miss one of these picnic concerts and tonight’s was the best of all.”
I corralled Bill for a few moments, explained my presence and purpose, and asked him to describe his musical tastes for me. He thought for a moment and then replied, “Let’s put it this way. I was not a Buddy fan, but I am now!”
A middle-aged woman named Candy, who purchased a CD of John’s music, attended that night with her 20-year-old son and his friend. The excitement written across their faces was obvious. When they began moving away from the table I walked up with my notepad and pen in hand and said, “Excuse me. May I have a moment of your time?”
“Sure,” smiled Candy. “Are you with the newspaper?”
“No. Actually, I’m writing a book on the impact of Buddy’s life. Are you a fan?” I asked.
She looked at me as if to say, “Are you crazy?” and then started bobbing her head up and down. “I am! Isn’t everyone?”
“How about you?” I asked, looking at her son.
“Yeah. I listen to his music all the time,” he replied.
“How did you become a fan?” I asked. This subject really interests me. The young man looked at his mom and smiled. “My mom listens to him and as I listened, I became hooked. Really hooked.”
Mom shot a proud look at her boy, slipped her arm around his shoulder, and pulled him close. This was the second time tonight I had seen a mom and son embrace because of Buddy Holly. She was proud they shared a similar love for the same musician. This music brings families together. And yet, the music that followed Buddy in the 1960s pulled families apart. What was the difference?
Listening to John was wonderful, and talking to fans was insightful and encouraging, but what was it like to have seen Buddy in person? I really needed to find someone who was there and heard Buddy Holly live. Even better than that would be finding someone who was at The Surf for the last show on the last night.
I determined to begin that journey soon. But on that night I was in Columbus, Ohio, with 6,000 other people enjoying Buddy, Ritchie, and The Big Bopper live on through John, Ray, and T. J. As I witnessed firsthand on this very hot and muggy summer evening, even though the physical bodies are gone, the music raves on. Just as impressively, it is enjoyed and appreciated across generations. The energy that exists for Buddy and his music more than five decades after his physical life was extinguished leaves me in awe.