Overshadowed Valens remains a true rock titan

Sometimes I am struck by an urgent sense of wanderlust that prods and cajoles me into taking impulsive, spur-of-the-moment road trips to God-knows-where. Such a spontaneous desire struck me about a month ago after my hopeful plans for a weekend date fell through. I was left to face yet another dismal, self-pity-filled weekend. \nAt around 1 a.m. Saturday morning, I decided to drive to Iowa -- northern Iowa, to be precise. I set out for Clear Lake, a small town near the Iowa-Minnesota state line that, on Feb. 3, 1959, fell into a singular but tragic place in rock and roll history when a small plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. "Big Bopper" Richardson crashed into a cornfield just north of the town.\nI had wanted to make the pilgrimage to Clear Lake since I took IU Music Professor Glenn Gass' rock history course way back in 1992. For me and for countless other fans, that cornfield near Clear Lake is almost hallowed ground, the place where rock and roll innocence died. But while many people remember "the day the music died" as the event that took Buddy Holly's life, I wanted to make the trek because of Ritchie Valens. Over the last few years I have gradually become a huge fan of the Mexican-American rocker and trailblazer. For me, his rags-to-riches story, his struggles with family problems, poverty and racism, drew me to him.\nI made it to Clear Lake in about 10 hours. I checked into a hotel around noon on Saturday and immediately set out for the crash site. I found directions in a local tourist guide and followed them to a dusty crossroads nestled within endless cornfields. I parked and started to walk the muddy half-mile to the site. Located on private property, the site is marked by a small memorial, featuring three silver circles engraved with titles of the three stars' biggest hits: Holly's "Peggy Sue," Richardson's "Chantilly Lace," and Valens' "Donna." \nAs I stood in the soggy soil in silence, chill winds wrapped around my body. A sudden and powerful burst of melancholia shot through my body. Lying scattered around the memorial were small piles of personal effects, trinkets and mementos left by fellow pilgrims. I quickly noticed that most of the items were placed there in honor of Valens, including several from Mexico. I was not, it seemed, the only one who had been moved by Ritchie's music, his story and his soul.\nOf all the first-generation rockers, Ritchie played the rawest, most energetic form of the nascent musical genre. He channeled his frustration and boundless energy through his voice and guitar. In fact, it could be argued that the tradition of punk and garage-rock can be traced back to Valens, and that songs like "Ooh! My Head" and "Come On, Let's Go" were the earliest appearances of grunge. Of course, Ritchie wasn't just raucous; he could be equally doleful and tender. It is the plaintive and aching "Donna," not Elvis's syrupy "Love Me Tender," that was the first great rock love ballad, and "Bluebirds over the Mountain" is almost as somber.\nStarting in July 1958, Valens, under the tutelage and guidance of agent and producer Bob Keane, started recording sides for Del-Fi Records. Seven months later, at the age of 17, Ritchie was dead. But within that painfully short time span, Ritchie packed in so much raw emotion and kinetic musicianship that he became, in many people's minds, a rock and roll giant, a legend who has unfortunately been overshadowed by Holly and the other great '50s rockers. And, to this day, he remains, with the possible exception of Carlos Santana and the members of Los Lobos, the most important and influential Latino in rock history.