Apotheosis of The Big Bopper
Zack Rogow
The day he died—February 3, 1959—was “The Day the Music Died,” or so claimed Don McLean in his eponymous hit record. But The Big Bopper, born
Jiles
Perry
Richardson
Jr.
did not lead a life that was the stuff of feature films, unlike the legends of the other passengers on that star-marked airplane: Buddy Holly, Richie Valens.
No, The Big Bopper did not have the high tragic scaffolding of his companions on the Winter Dance Party tour. The fans who saw the concerts before the crash must have told that story over and over at dark bars in small towns on the Great Plains where snow drifts like buffalo ghosts.
He was not larger than life, The Big Bopper. Just a guy from Beaumont, Texas, with a wife named Adrianne Joy, and a daughter, Debra Joy.
He earned his bread as a DJ spinning sides during the late-night shift they call the Dishwasher’s Serenade. In 1957 he set the record for the longest show ever by a disc jockey: five days, two hours, eight minutes.
Afterwards he slept twenty hours straight.
He had only a few records. “Teenage Moon”:
It’s a teenage moon
In a rock ‘n’ roll world.
And what about “Strange Kisses”?
A few strange kisses was all that I wanted.
But his biggest by far, the song that still makes his reputation today, is “Chantilly Lace,” where he yakkety-yaks to his girlfriend on the phone:
Oh honey, you know what I like!
Chantilly lace, and a pretty face,
and a ponytail
hangin’ down.
The Bopper had a demonic laugh that put The Joker to shame: Yes, this is The Big Bopper speaking. Hahahaha. But with so much gusto, as if he’d just discovered a new way to drink water.
In the YouTube of him singing on American Bandstand you can still read the lips of a bobbysoxer purring to her neighbor, “He’s cute,” as the Bopper’s lamé jacket flashes like the shower of gold that Zeus became when he wooed Danaë.
The Big Bopper died at twenty-eight—he didn’t even plan to board the small plane that coughed and helixed to the ground that night. He pleaded for another rocker’s seat because he had a terrible cold and wanted to rest before the next gig. But isn’t that the mark of true tragedy, that stamp of the inevitable, as if the gods had guided his step?
Rest in peace, Bopper. Your son was born eighty-four days after you died. He toured your songs in those same prairie towns, performing as The Big Bopper Jr.
Zack Rogow is the author, editor, or translator of more than twenty books or plays. His memoir, Hugging My Father’s Ghost, was released by Spuyten Duyvil Publishing in 2024. Zack’s ninth book of poems, Irreverent Litanies, was published by Regal House. His most recent play, Colette Uncensored, had its first staged reading at the Kennedy Center in Washington DC, and ran in London, Indonesia, Catalonia, San Francisco, and Portland. Zack’s blog, Advice for Writers, features more than 280 posts on topics of interest to writers. www.zackrogow.com
