Waylon Read online

  The waitress came back. She was real gruff. “All right, I know you don’t like that. I’m going to give you another sandwich, and I’ll just charge you for half.” Buddy suggested I get some corned beef. I had never had corned beef either. “Now there,” she said, “eat that.”

  I took a bite and it was worse than the liverwurst. I thought she’d kill me if I left it over, so like any good, red-blooded, macho, bigger-than-life Texas hombre, I did the manly thing. I put it in my pocket.

  I was starving to death. The steaks weren’t any better. I was a beans-and-potato boy, and in Texas we cook our beef till it stops wriggling on the plate. In Manhattan, you’d order it well done and they’d tell you you were ruining a perfectly good piece of meat. You’d get a hamburger, and half of it was raw. To a Southern boy, that’s a sacrilege. I think maybe if those New York people ever saw a side of beef being butchered, they’d never order rare again.

  We didn’t stay in New York too long, enough for maybe a rehearsal and to buy some clothes. Buddy bought me a jacket and an ascot, along with two or three shirts. Goose and I bought long trenchcoats and hats, just like the gangsters.

  We were so friendly, it was easy to forget how big a star Buddy was. But one afternoon we went up to where Irving Feld, who booked the tour, had his General Artists Corporation (GAC) office. Everybody on the tour was supposed to meet there, and Buddy said he’d be back in a minute. He went into the office. I waited out in the lobby.

  Dion came in. The secretary introduced me. “Where’s Buddy?” he asked, and went looking for him.

  The Big Bopper slid through the door. “Where’s Buddy? Is Buddy here yet?” I don’t think Ritchie Valens was due in for another day. Everybody was looking to find Buddy.

  Buddy never asked if they were there at all. That’s when I knew how big a star he was. He was the one that everybody wanted to be around.

  Right before we left, Buddy recorded a bunch of songs in his apartment. He’d just gotten a new Gibson guitar, and Petty had sold him the tape machine he recorded his biggest hits on. He was always thinking music and trying new ideas. He was musical all the time.

  He sang “Peggy Sue Got Married” and “Love Is Strange.” He thought the world of Mickey and Sylvia. One of the things he did was a version of Little Richard’s “Slippin’ and Slidin’.” That was supposed to be a Chipmunks-type song. They had just had a hit over Christmas, and Buddy thought those high, squeaky voices were the coolest thing. So he performed it real slow, figuring he could speed it up when he was done. Later on they released that, him singing half-time. They just didn’t get it.

  Flash! We’re in a photo booth at Grand Central Station, Buddy and I, smoking cigarettes. He has his glasses on; I’m in my sunglasses and trenchcoat.

  I smoked Salems. Buddy was trying to quit smoking, but he liked to bum them off me. “Waylum, you gotta Salem?” he’d ask, and I’d flip him one over.

  The Winter Dance Party was about to head out of town. “Stars in Person” read the ads: Buddy Holly and the Crickets (though that upset Buddy, since the Crickets were back in Lubbock), the Big Bopper, Dion and the Belmonts, Ritchie Valens, and Frankie Sardo. In that order.

  Opening night was at George Devine’s Ballroom in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, on January 23, and the tour would run for twenty-five straight shows to wind up in Springfield, Illinois, on February 15. There wasn’t a night off to be had, crisscrossing the upper midwest in a bus in the middle of winter. I know Buddy wouldn’t have taken that tour if Norman hadn’t tied up his money, but he had to work, and besides, “I Guess It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” had stalled in the charts. Maybe it was the plucked strings, or maybe his career needed a quick boost in the here today, gone tomorrow world of Top Forty music. And he was used to playing live; he’d come off an eighty-date Alan Freed tour the year before, as well as traveling overseas. Buddy loved to perform. He’d even done a remote with K-triple-L at Morris Fruit and Vegetable when he’d been home in December! I think he was ready to hit the trail.

  We were taking the train at Grand Central to Chicago to meet up with the rest of the troupe, stopping in the photo booth to document the moment. There’s one picture where Buddy is giving the finger in front of my face. Looking at the shades-and-cigarette shots, grinning and foreheads touching, even today you can tell that we were happy to be with each other. He was watching over me. We were Buddys.

  All the other musicians but one were hot at that time, having hit records and representing their geographic area of the country. Dion and the Belmonts were from New York, a doo-wop group made good. They were little Bronx neighborhood street toughs, Dion DiMucci and Carlo Mastrangelo and Freddy Milano. The fourth Belmont, Angelo, was in the army. Dion introduced me to pizza and chocolate milk. I still think of Dion every time I smell parmesan cheese.

  Ritchie Valens was the youngest, not even eighteen, and he’d come out of the Barrio in East Los Angeles with a Spanish-language rock ’n’ roll. I could relate to that, since there was a lot of Mexican music in Buddy’s strumming rhythms. The Big Bopper, J. P. Richardson, was a good ol’ boy disc jockey from Beaumont, Texas, taking time off from his radio job to go on tour. I could relate to that too.

  The “but one” was Frankie Sardo. It was rumored his family had, uh, connections, and he was the worst singer you ever heard in your life. His dad came to see us in Chicago with two big goons on each side of him. Frankie was Italian all the way. He had Tommy Sands—looking hair and wiggle, but it was all movements and no rhythm. He wouldn’t have been able to cut a record. He’d sing so far off the beat that it might’ve been a different song; still, he was the funniest human being you ever heard.

  Frankie missed his calling. He could make us roll in the aisles of the bus that carted us around from town to town. He was always on, always going. The night we froze up, stuck by the side of the road, he did a whole routine that had us in tears, talking about Mary and Joseph and Little Jesus, who he kept referring to as the Little Bastard. I always wondered if that had anything to do with the heat on the bus quitting.

  The jokes helped take our mind off the wretched conditions we were traveling in. The musicians would be telling stories about other tours they’d been on, about LaVern Baker, who they said was wild as all get out; and Jack Scott, who was supposed to be really jealous of his wife, and when they’d start ribbing him he’d get to thinking about it and stop the bus and catch a plane home. They’d imitate the guy from the Coasters whose lips would flop when he talked: “Hey Bwuuudddy, Bwuuudddy,” sounding like an outboard motor.

  Fred of the Belmonts was another wild man. He bought a gun along the way. He was so happy with it. We had a black driver and he was always pointing it toward the front. Finally, the driver stopped and came back toward him. “Either you put that gun up or I’m getting off this bus right now. Never point that at me.”

  “But I love my gun,” Freddy protested. “I can’t wait till I get home and shoot one of my friends.” That was Freddy.

  I was just all ears, taking it in, listening to stories until late at night when we’d fall asleep in our seats. It was so cold on the bus that we’d have to wear all our clothes, coats and everything. My feet were constantly frozen.

  I couldn’t believe how cold it was. I wasn’t used to that. When we got to a show, I’d run off the bus, holding my breath because it would freeze my lungs. We’d change in the dressing room, go on, get all sweated up, and then run back to the bus. We tried to hang our wrinkled suits in the aisle, and after a while, it got kind of ripe in there. We smelled like goats.

  I didn’t mind, though. It was just like the movies to me. When we got to Milwaukee to start the tour, I looked out at the snow, and those houses with the short lawns in front, and it was like the movie “The Best Years of Our Lives.” For me, it was. I couldn’t believe that I was on a rock-and-roll tour. Not only did we back up Buddy, but we played behind the Big Bopper, Ritchie, and Dion. There were other guys who worked with us, a piano player who kept talking about this gir
l who was a “bull dagger,” maybe a horn player; but we were the house band, and when Buddy was on, we were the only ones accompanying him.

  It was a fast-paced show, a dollar in advance or a buck and a quarter at the door. I’ve seen a series of photos taken at the KWMT Teen Hop in the Laramar Ballroom in Fort Dodge, Iowa, on January 30, which shows a clock in the background. By 9:30 Frankie would be on stage; fifteen minutes later, J.P., dressed in a full-length leopard-skin coat that stretched to his knees, hit the spotlight. The Big Bopper had a country show more than anything, which you might expect of someone who wrote “White Lightning” for George Jones. The Belmonts were grouped trio-style around an old Shure microphone when the clock struck four minutes of ten, and they were still there at three minutes past. Ritchie came on next, doing his “Donna” and “La Bamba” hits: 10:10. Buddy would close the show, and we’d play close to an hour, including all his biggest songs and some others, like “Salty Dog Blues” and “Gotta Travel On.” That night he had on a red ascot with white polka dots. He’s looking over at me. I had a gold one, flashing a big smile.

  He held a definite charisma on that stage. The audiences might start off dancing, but by the end they’d be all jammed in front, shouting his name, rockin’ and screaming their heads off. It would pump up the adrenaline. You couldn’t help but think a part of it was for you. Sometimes I couldn’t even hear him. I had the damn bass so loud, he’d keep turning around and saying something and I couldn’t make out a word. Finally he’d grab the microphone and yell: “Turn that damn bass down!” I busted both speakers right out of that piggyback amp.

  The Goose was the funniest drummer to watch. He had owl glasses just like Buddy, and on the paradiddles in “Peggy Sue,” he’d be playing and reaching to push the glasses up his nose, and they’d start sliding down and he’d reach and push them back again and turn the beat around. It would stay around till they’d start sliding, and he’d push them back and we’d be in the pocket once more.

  The shows drew great crowds, a thousand or more at each stopover. We’d pull up in the bus and there would be a line for two blocks, waiting in the cold to get in. We wandered back and forth between Wisconsin and Minnesota, Kenosha to Kankato to Eau Claire to Montevideo to St. Paul. Frankie Yankovic’s polka band was either just before or after us at the stops; he must have had a similar booking agent. On January 29 and 30, we played two shows in Iowa, in Davenport and Fort Dodge, before heading back to Duluth on the shores of Lake Superior on the last day of January.

  It was forty below that night. Making our way through northern Wisconsin, the old Flex bus we were traveling in just quit by the side of the road. Goose’s feet froze, and we had to leave him in Hurley at a hospital to thaw out. Ritchie Valens stepped in, playing drums for us that night.

  The tour was starting to get to Buddy. He was having trouble with Norman. We stopped somewhere once and he went to a pay phone. That’s the one time I saw him really mad. He got back on the bus and was cussing. And I think he was missing Maria. He was really dedicated to her. There was some wildness going on; Dion lost his contact lens in the back of the bus with a girl one morning. Buddy had almost had enough of being true blue. He was about to start looking for a girl. I remember one morning we were both bitching about the local sheriff closing down the whorehouses and gambling places in a wide open town the night before we got there.

  We didn’t really have time to do much of anything. We’d sit on the bus and sing old bluegrass songs. Dion would just go crazy; he’d almost be crying. We taught him “Be Careful of Stones That You Throw.” Mostly they treated us like animals. They sent a road manager out on the road with us, but his job was to make sure GAC got their money. After the original bus froze up, they got us a converted school bus to travel in. They really didn’t care.

  One morning, Buddy shook me awake. “Do you want to go to England?” he wondered while I got ready for breakfast.

  Did I? From West Texas to New York was more than I could imagine, but England?

  Buddy started walking around. “Don’t tell Tommy,” he said, “’cause he’s not going. And don’t tell Goose, ’cause he won’t be going either. Don’t say anything to either one of them.

  “I’m going to ask J.I. and Joe B. We’re all going to get back together.”

  I thought, well, what am I going to do? I’m the bass player, and if Joe B. comes back, I’ll be out of a job. “We can have some fun,” added Buddy, as if he knew what I was thinking. “We’ll go over there, and I’m going to have you open the shows.” As usual, he was looking out for me; I was his protégé. He told me he would be calling the Crickets in the next couple of days to let them know the good news and work out the details.

  That would have been a relief to J.I. and Joe B. Relations between the Crickets, who now included Sonny Curtis, and Norman Petty were wearing thin. As far as Norman was concerned, Sonny was sort of a bastard child. By the beginning of February, the Crickets were trying to reach Buddy on the road by phone, hoping to make peace.

  I’ve often wondered what Buddy saw in me. He really liked me, I could tell. Toward the end I was probably closer to him than anybody. I was green as a gourd. I hadn’t been anywhere. As a bass player, I must’ve been terrible. I was a good harmony singer, but people didn’t come to see Buddy for the backing vocals.

  He talked to me all the time about music, and I think maybe it was like he was looking in a mirror, reminding himself of the things he had learned along the way. Maybe he could see how hungry I was, and how much I cared about being a singer. “Waylon,” he’d say, “you don’t ever have to be restricted as a country artist, ’cause you can cut rock records and pop records if you ever want to.” He’d tell me about not getting locked in, and developing a style. I learned so damn much from him, about rhythms, and not overstaying your welcome, and not compromising.

  Don’t ever let them tell you what to do, he’d emphasize. If people ask, say you’re pop. That gives you room to move; don’t say rock ’n’ roll, don’t say country. He’d had a dose of Nashville, where they wouldn’t let him sing it the way he heard it and wouldn’t let him play his own guitar parts. Can’t do this, can’t do that. Don’t ever let people tell you you can’t do something, he’d say, and never put limits on yourself. Don’t back up.

  It was all in the singer and the song. That was it. Buddy would talk about getting a groove and keeping it going. If the music was right, the song will take care of itself. The whole thing is getting the rhythm to where you can feel it. That was the difference between rock ’n’ roll, country, and pop.

  Years later, I’d be in the studio, and the track would really get in the pocket and feel good, and I’d hear those Nashville producers saying scornfully, “Man, that sounds like a pop hit.” And I’d remember Buddy talking to me, telling me they thought he was crazy, as that freezing bus moved down the highway from Green Bay, Wisconsin, to Clear Lake, Iowa.

  The Surf Ballroom was packed, fifteen hundred strong. Even though that February 3 was a Monday night, it seemed like half the town’s teenagers had turned out to “Rock Around with Ollie Vee.”

  We opened with “Gotta Travel On,” Billy Grammer’s Top Ten smash of the past month, and then blazed through “our” hits: “That’ll Be the Day,” “Maybe Baby,” “Rave On.” The show had been scheduled to start at eight, and we didn’t get off the bus until six that evening. We were so cramped it was almost a relief to get on stage and shake our bodies loose.

  The next night we were due in Moorhead, Minnesota, over four hundred miles northwest. We’d be “traveling on” through the night. If we were lucky, and the bus didn’t break down again, we might get there by tomorrow afternoon. Buddy was exhausted, and we didn’t have a clean shirt among us. He asked me and Tommy if we would like to go with him on a charter flight to fly ahead of the troupe to Minnesota, so we could hopefully get some sleep and do laundry before the next night’s show at the Moorhead Armory.

  We agreed, and the dance hall manager made the arrange
ments with Dwyer’s Flying Service at the Mason City airport, to fly to Fargo, North Dakota, across the Red River from Moorhead. A young pilot named Roger Peterson signed on for the flight, with take-off time set for after the show, at 12:30 A.M.

  In between acts, the Big Bopper came up to me. He was a large man, at least two hundred and fifty pounds, and he could hardly fit, much less sleep, on the seats of the bus. He had been sick with the flu. “Buddy’s chartered a plane for you,” he told me. “Waylon, would you mind letting me have your seat?”

  Heck, I was skinnier’n a rail and could sleep anywhere. I was excited to be on the bus with the other performers. I said sure, “but you have to talk with Buddy. If it’s okay with Buddy, it’s okay with me.”

  Across the room, about the same time, Ritchie Valens and Tommy Allsup were flipping a coin to see whether Ritchie might take Tommy’s seat on the plane. Tommy called tails and lost.

  The next thing I know, Buddy sends me over to get a couple of hot dogs. He’s sitting there in a cane-bottomed chair, and he’s leaned back against the wall. And he’s laughing.

  “Ah,” he said. “You’re not going with me tonight, huh? Did you chicken out?”

  I said no, I wasn’t scared. The Big Bopper just wanted to go.

  “Well,” he said, grinning, “I hope your damned bus freezes up again.”

  I said, “Well, I hope your ol’ plane crashes.”

  That took me a lot of years to get over. I was just a kid, barely twenty-one. I was about halfway superstitious, like all Southern people, scared of the devil and scared of God equally.

  I was afraid somebody was going to find out I said that, and blame me. I knew I said that. I remember Buddy laughing and then heading out for the airport after the show. I was certain I caused it.

  The next morning was sunshine, and kind of warm. It was a little after ten when we pulled into Moorhead. I had been in the back of the bus sleeping all night long. We were parked in front of the hotel. The tour manager went in and hurried back out. He said, “Waylon, come here. I’ve got to talk to you.”