The 500 - #89 - Dusty In Memphis - Dusty Springfield

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album #: 89

Album Title: Dusty In Memphis

Artist: Dusty Springfield

Genre:  Pop, R&B,  Blue Eyed Soul

Recorded: American Sound, Memphis, Tennessee

Released: March, 1969

My age at release: 3

How familiar was I with it before this week: One Song

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #83 - rising 6 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Son of a Preacher Man

Like some people of from my generation (perhaps many), my introduction to Dusty Springfield came in 1994 when I saw Quentin Tarantino’s modern masterpiece, Pulp Fiction. Springfield’s Son of a Preacher Man plays as a very stoned Vincent Vega, John Travolta’s effortlessly cool hitman. Vega is assigned by his boss, Marsellus Wallace, to take Mrs. Wallace, out for dinner while he is away. But this is Pulp Fiction, and Vega, and the audience, know there is nothing simple about spending an evening alone with the boss’s wife, Mia.

A heroin-buzzed Vega (Travolta) arrives at the home of his
boss, Marsellus Wallace, in Pulp Fiction.

The movie is classic Tarantino who has always expertly woven perfectly matching songs into his films. From Dick Dale’s frantic surf guitar Misirlou blasting over the opening credits of Pulp Fiction to David Bowie’s haunting Cat People that accompanies one of the many suspenseful sequences in Inglourious Basterds, Tarantino doesn’t only use songs as background music. He uses them almost like characters, forever attaching them to the scenes in which we hear them. I will certainly never hear Stealers Wheel’s Stuck in the Middle with You the same way after seeing Reservoir Dogs in 1992. What had been an impossibly catchy piece of early ’70s pop suddenly became the soundtrack to one of the most disturbing scenes in cinema.

Mr. Blonde (Michael Madsen) menaces a bound police
officer (Freddie Newandyke) in Reservoir Dogs.

Tarantino is famously obsessive about music, but Martin Scorsese has been doing something similar for even longer -- loading movies with songs that forever become identified with particular scenes. I started thinking about all the music I had discovered, or rediscovered, through the two movie giants and remembered a hypothetical question I once saw posted on social media.

Imagine you’ve been given the chance to inherit one of two record collections. There’s just one catch: you have to choose. Do you take Quentin Tarantino’s collection or Martin Scorsese’s?

Tarantino’s collection would be the more unpredictable of the two. I imagine crates filled with ’60s and ’70s soul and R&B, surf rock, garage rock, funk, psychedelia, country, rockabilly and forgotten pop singles, alongside shelves of old movie soundtracks and strange curiosities picked up in record stores over the years. There would be plenty of recognizable names, but the real fun would be digging through the records with unfamiliar titles. Tarantino is clearly drawn to songs that have slipped out of the cultural conversation, only to give them a remarkable second life by dropping them into exactly the right scene. His collection wouldn’t simply be a history of popular music. It would be a history of the weird corners and forgotten side roads of music history.

Scorsese’s collection, on the other hand, would be enormous and deeply rooted in the history of American music. I also imagine it meticulously sorted and on display on well-built shelving units in a large, dust-free room. There would be shelves of blues, early rock and roll, doo-wop, R&B, soul, jazz, folk and country, followed by seemingly endless stretches of the rock music that has populated his films.

Certainly, he would have most of the records on The 500 list, including those by The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, The Band, Van Morrison, Cream and Frank Sinatra. He would even have some Kanye, having used the song Black Skinhead in The Wolf Of Wall Street. But I suspect his collection would extend well beyond rock and roll into classical music, opera, traditional Italian music and old standards. Where Tarantino’s shelves might reward you with some forgotten 45 you never knew existed, digging through Scorsese’s would feel like opening a musical history book, one in which blues leads to rock and roll, rock leads to Dylan and The Stones.

A quick check with artificial intelligence gives Scorsese a convincing lead. Across his 26-film directorial catalogue, he has used music by 32 artists who have at least one album on The 500. Several, including Dylan, The Stones, Beatles and Cream, appear on the list multiple times. Tarantino’s movies feature only 17 such artists, although that comparison demands an asterisk. Scorsese has simply made more movies and filled them with far more music. Put together a playlist of songs from Scorsese films and you would sail past 300 tracks; do the same for Tarantino and you would land somewhere around 127. This isn't counting Scorsese's documentaries or The Last Temptation of Christ, which includes an additional 21 tracks by 500 alumni Peter Gabriel.

My friend Jeff was visiting us at the cottage this weekend and, during a post-dinner walk, he and I arrived at the same conclusion. We would much prefer Tarantino's collection. As Jeff put it:

"Quentin's collection would be so eclectic and filled with obscure records I have never heard of. Sure, Scorsese's would have all the classics, and because he knows the artists he would have some cool rarities and live albums. But, other than those, I have most classic records in my collection already. I would love to dig through Tarantino's crates."

Among them would certainly be Dusty in Memphis. It is exactly the kind of record Jeff and I were talking about, one I probably would never have thought to seek out had Tarantino not introduced me to Dusty Springfield through Pulp Fiction more than 30 years ago. Son of a Preacher Man is a gem, but Dusty in Memphis delivered far more than that signature song.

Dusty in Memphis was the result of Ms. Springfield crossing the Atlantic in search of the music she loved. Already one of Britain’s most successful singers, Springfield travelled to Memphis in September, 1968, to work with legendary Atlantic Records producer Jerry Wexler and the musicians at American Sound Studio. Memphis was one of the beating hearts of American soul, and Springfield wanted to step inside that world rather than simply imitate it from England. What emerged was a remarkable collision of British pop sophistication and Southern soul.

International cover for Dusty In Memphis.

The record was not a big hit when it was released but over time, its popularity grew. This was especially true in the early ‘90s when Tarantino put Son of a Preacher Man on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. It was a delightful listen while preparing for this blog. How much more frequently I would have played it had I actually inherited Tarantino's record collection? Probably not much more often. After all, QT would have gifted me so much to explore, I would likely be overwhelmed (and delighted) for months.

How about you?

Whose collection would you want, and why?

The 500 - #90 - Talking Book - Stevie Wonder

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #90

Album Title: Talking Book

Artist: Stevie Wonder

Genre: Progressive Soul, Funk, Soul, Jazz

Recorded: 4 Studios - New York, Hollywood, Los Angeles, London

Released: October, 1972

My age at release: 7

How familiar was I with it before this week: Fairly

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #112 - dropping 21 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Superstition

There are times when sticking to your principles can be a real pain. Case in point, Stevie Wonder recently announced that he and his band are going on tour, and not just any Stevie Wonder tour. He is celebrating the 50th anniversary of Songs in the Key of Life, with dates in New York, Chicago, and Detroit, a city a mere 200 km from my home. As of now, though, there is no Toronto date. No Montreal date. In fact, no Canadian date at all.

Detroit is tantalizingly close and, under normal circumstances, my friend Terry and I would be checking the calendar and figuring out dinner options in Motown. But these are not normal circumstances.

I've decided that until relations between Canada and the United States improve I'm going to avoid travelling to the U.S. and spending my money there. I don't pretend that missing a Stevie Wonder concert will register as the faintest blip on the American economy. My principled boycott won’t make anybody in Washington lose sleep. It's simply something I feel I need to do.

Let me be really clear: This isn't about Americans generally but their current federal government. Over the decades, I have met many wonderful Americans, some of whom I’m honoured to call friends. Additionally, I love visiting the United States where my godmother has lived for many years. I've crossed the border hundreds of times, attending concerts and sporting events, or just sightseeing and shopping. The accumulated memories of these visits have found their way into more than a few of these blog posts. Heck, my wife and I got married in New York City in 2006 and more than 40 members of our family and friends joined us, some extending their visit for a whole week.

Me and my lovely bride - August 18, 2006 in Battery Park, NYC.

My frustration is with the current American administration and, in particular, the way it has insulted and inflicted economic damage on my country, let alone the harm it has wreaked upon its own population.

Donald Trump has repeatedly floated the idea of Canada becoming the 51st state and mockingly referred to our former prime minister, Justin Trudeau, as a "governor." He has also transferred the slight to our current prime minister, Mark Carney.

More recently, he signed an executive order instructing the American government to refer to Lake Ontario as "Lake America." That one strikes particularly close to home. Ontario isn't merely the name of the province where I live. The name has Indigenous roots and was being used centuries before either Canada or the United States existed.

Lake Ontario Map from 1774, two years before U.S independence.

Then there's the ongoing argument over trade. Trump decided not to renew the USMCA in its current form and has criticized what it sees as shortcomings in the treaty.. How ironic considering the USMCA was negotiated during Trump's first administration and he hailed it as "the best agreement we've ever made."

Trump, flanked by Mexican President Enrique Peña Nieto
and Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, signing
the USMCA agreement in 2018.

Our current prime minister, Mark Carney, recently summed up the problem rather neatly when he said: "We've recognized from the start that America has changed. We recognized that sometimes its signature was written in pencil." When a deal negotiated and celebrated by the same president can suddenly become a deal his administration no longer wants to stand behind, Carney's pencil metaphor seems particularly apt.

So, for now, I'm staying on my side of Lake Ontario and remain hopeful about two things. The first is that relations between our countries thaw, that the anger and insults stop, and that good neighbourly relations are restored to the way they have been for centuries.

At the moment, I'm not terribly optimistic. Yet I wonder whether Stevie’s touring team may look at his schedule and think: “You know what? we haven't scheduled Toronto, Ottawa or Montreal.” Odds are Terry and his wife, Heather, would happily join Angela and me on a road trip if seeing Stevie was in the mix.

And with that, I’ll climb off my political soapbox to reflect on Stevie Wonder’s second record of 1972, Talking Book. The first was Music Of My Mind, which was released earlier that same year.

A second hit record in one calendar year sounds impressive enough. Then I realized that these were his 14th and 15th releases by an artist who was just 22 years old.

Twenty-Two!

When I was 22, I was still living in my parent’s basement. Sure, I was going to University and had a couple part-time jobs, but no one is talking about my creative output and groundbreaking innovations 50 years later…and I have the benefit of sight.

Me at 22, lifeguard by day, Pizza delivery driver by night.

We have actually been here before. Back in December, 2022, when I was still pushing my way through #285 on this decade-long journey through the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, I wrote about Music of My Mind. In that post, I spent some time on Stevie’s remarkable childhood and his emergence as the extravagantly talented “Little Stevie Wonder.” More importantly for what was coming next, I wrote about his discovery of the enormous TONTO synthesizer, created by Malcolm Cecil and Robert Margouleff. Stevie had become fascinated by synthesizers, and Cecil and Margouleff would work with him through some of the most creative years of his career.

Side Note: Margouleff is the guest on the accompanying episode of The 500 Podcast and, while promoting his autobiography, shares his experiences working with Stevie as well as a comprehensive look at that revolutionary technology. For music engineering or synthesizer nerds, it is a rewarding deep dive.

Another mind-blowing realization comes when one remembers that Wonder is not just a singer and piano player. On both of these 1972 records, he wrote the songs, produced the albums and played virtually every instrument himself. The music, the lyrics, the arrangements, the keyboards, the drums, the harmonica and ideas to create those strange new synthesizer sounds were pouring out of a kid.

Wonder in studio recording Talking Book.

There is something almost Mozart-like about him. Not because their processes were necessarily the same, but because I find the idea of all that music existing inside one person's head fascinating. Stevie couldn't sit at a piano with a blank piece of manuscript paper in front of him and casually scribble down an idea in the conventional way. He had to hear it, remember it, build it, play it and communicate it. Melody, harmony, rhythm, words and arrangement could all exist in his imagination before the rest of us ever got to hear them. Thus, the album before Talking Book was aptly named Music Of My Mind.

And, incredibly, Stevie was just getting warmed up.

Music of My Mind and Talking Book kicked off what is now widely referred to as Stevie Wonder's classic period, five critically acclaimed albums released in less than five years.

• Music of My Mind (1972) (#285 on The 500)
• Talking Book (1972) (#90 on The 500)
• Innervisions (1973) (#24 on The 500)
• Fulfillingness' First Finale (1974) (Grammy Award for Album of the year
• Songs in the Key of Life (1976) (#57 on The 500) and Grammy Award for Album of the year
  

That's not merely a good stretch. That's an athlete entering the zone and then somehow staying there for five seasons. Imagine a ballplayer hitting .350, winning the batting title, coming back the next year and doing it again, then looking around and deciding he might as well steal some bases, hit a bunch of home runs and win the league MVP a few times while he's at it. Stevie was on one of those runs, like Gretzky, Woods, Jordan, Williams, Ali or Brady, whose greatness literally became the expectation.

Originally, this was going to be my angle for this blog. I was going to investigate other artists who had enjoyed an incredible run of consecutive releases. In fact, I’ve been researching and mulling it over for a few weeks. Then Stevie announced his tour, without a Canadian date, and my frustration sent me in a different direction. Oh well. I’ll save that topic for either Songs In The Key Of Life or Innervisions, in 2027, which should coincide nicely with the start of the next U.S. presidential primary season. By then, perhaps I’ll have two things to look forward to: Another great Stevie Wonder album to write about and the possibility of a rapprochement in Canada-U.S. relations. And renewed trips across the border.

Help me out if you can?

What is your favourite four- or five-album consecutive run by a musician or band?
It doesn’t need to be critically acclaimed, just your own personal list.

The 500 - #91 - Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #91

Album Title: Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

Artist: Elton John

Genre: Multiple

Recorded: Château d'Hérouville, Hérouville, France 

Released: May, 1973

My age at release: 7

How familiar was I with it before this week: Deeply

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #112 - dropping 21 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding

When it comes to writing about Elton John's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, I find myself paralyzed by the tyranny of choice. I suspect this feeling will happen more frequently, as we head into the final 90 records on this list. These are some of the biggest albums of my lifetime and I am deeply familiar with so many.

When I reflect on the more than 50 years Goodbye Yellow Brick Road has been in my audio orbit, so many ideas come to mind.

• I could write about the Elton John obsession that consumed me in the mid-1980s when I steadily purchased almost every studio album he released during the previous decade.

• I could write about how this particular record dominated my headphones for months at a time when, turning 20, I felt that I was leaving youth behind and figuring out how to navigate a world of greater responsibility. 

• I could write about the powerhouse songs from multiple genres that are packed onto this two-record set – American, Blues, Funk, Country-Western Ballads, Dance Hall Ragtime, Reggae, Gospel and ‘50s Rock and Roll Revival. As well there’s every kind of rock – Hard, Soft, Blues, Pop. Folk and Progressive/Symphonic.

Instead, I'll simply say that Goodbye Yellow Brick Road is my second-favourite Elton John album. Well, it is pretty much tied for first with Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, which I wrote about roughly a year ago.

What Goodbye Yellow Brick Road does contain, however, is my favourite Elton John song. Or perhaps more accurately, my favourite Elton John songs, as the album opens with the instrumental Funeral for a Friend, which flows seamlessly into Love Lies Bleeding. For me, those two tracks have always been inseparable. Together, they create one of the greatest album openings in rock history.

As a teenager, I assumed Funeral for a Friend was simply a cool title. It sounded dramatic, mysterious and epic. Four decades later, it resonates far differently.

The irony wasn't lost on me this weekend as I prepared to write this post. I spent several days revisiting Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, listening to it repeatedly in the mornings before my new class of Grade 7 students arrived. Sadly, I was also mentally preparing to attend the funeral of a friend.

When I first fell in love with this record, funerals belonged to another generation. They were for grandparents, elderly neighbours and distant relatives. Friends weren't people whose funerals you attended; they were events waiting in the future. The older I get, though, the more I realize that funerals for friends will become an increasing facet of my life. A song title that once seemed cool now carries a weight that I once never considered.

The friend I was saying goodbye to was Joe, the father of my wife Angela’s goddaughter, Siobhan. Angela has been friends with Siobhan’s mother, Heather, for more than 30 years. While not her biological father, Joe was part of Siobhan’s life since she was little and built a wonderful relationship with her -- as evidenced by the many pictures of the pair, camping, fishing, playing or dressed for Halloween that are on display around the family household.

Over the last decade, Joe and his family became familiar faces at our Christmas and Thanksgiving gatherings. He was one of those genuinely sweet, gentle people who made every room a little warmer simply by being present. The kind of guy my British cousin would say is “a good bloke”.

The thing I always looked forward to when hanging with Joe was talking hockey and music. We shared a devotion to the London Knights Jr. Hockey Club in our town, and had remarkably similar tastes in the listening habits of our youth. In fact, many of Joe's favourite albums are coming up soon on the Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums list, including Pink Floyd’s The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon. He was also a fan of Rush, so that was an easy connection when we first met.

Some of his favourite CD's were on display at the
funeral home. He and his daughter can be seen
in the photo at the back at her recent high school graduation.

Last Saturday, my wife and I filled a funeral hall with his family and friends. Unsurprisingly, many kind words were shared, reinforcing the things I already knew about Joe – his kindness, his gentle nature, his passion for music and sports and his deep love for his daughter.

When I was 16, Funeral For A Friend seemed like a dramatic title for a rock song. It belonged to a distant future that I could not imagine. Friends were permanent, weren’t they? The people in my orbit would always be there. At least that's how it felt.

Now I understand the title differently. Not because it is about death, but because it is ultimately about the people who make our lives richer while they are here. Joe was one of those people. He was a good bloke, a devoted father, a hockey fan, a music fan, and someone whose company I genuinely enjoyed whenever our paths crossed.

Joe Quigg (Obituary here) 

Rest in Peace, Joe

The 500 - #92 - 20 Golden Greats - Buddy Holly & The Crickets

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #92

Album Title: 20 Golden Greats (aka) Buddy Holly Lives

Artist: Buddy Holly & The Crickets

Genre: Rock and Roll

Recorded: Between 1956 - 1958

Released: February, 1978

My age at release: 12

How familiar was I with it before this week: Quite well

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #166 - dropping 74 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Everyday

In the late 1970s, something strange was happening. Pop culture had fully embraced a revival of the 1950s. From fashion to music to slang expressions, North America was fully embracing an idealized version of Eisenhower-America.

Now, to a 12-year old kid growing up in the small farming and fishing town of Kingsville, Ontario, this seemed entirely normal.  When you are that young, everything is your "normal". You don't have enough life experience to know that the world could be any other way. A child who grows up wealthy assumes everybody takes vacations, flies on airplanes and has a family cottage somewhere. A child raised during the Second World War came to accept blackouts, ration books, bomb shelters, and fathers away in uniform as part of everyday life. The remarkable becomes ordinary when it is all you have ever known.

A young boy wears a ‘Mickey Mouse’ gas mask produced for children
between two and five. The facepiece was red, and the breathing
section was blue and green to make them more friendly.

So, in 1978, I found myself surrounded by a pop-culture filled with greasers, jukeboxes, sock hops, leather jackets, and the ever-present influence of Arthur "Fonzie" Fonzarelli. Somewhere between the  successes of American Graffiti, Happy Days, Laverne & Shirley, and Grease, popular culture of the time collectively decided to take a 20-year step backward.

American Graffiti film (1973), Happy Days
debut (1974), Laverne & Shirley (1976)
Grease (1978).

In the late‘70s, Tuesday nights belonged to Happy Days. If you had any hope of participating in school discussions the next morning, watching was mandatory. Missing an episode meant standing on the sidelines while everyone else debated the latest exploits of Richie Cunningham, his family, friends -- Ralph Malph, Potsie Webber --and, of course, the king of cool, Arthur "The Fonz" Fonzarelli.

Scene from Happy Days, (l) Richie Cunningham (Ron Howard)
with The Fonz (Henry Winkler), outside Arnold's Restaurant.

The '50s nostalgia craze spread everywhere in the '70s. American Graffiti had planted the seed first by introducing audiences to a romanticized vision of the time and the music that accompanied it. By 1978, television had fully embraced the post-war Eisenhower era. Happy Days became a new phenomenon which continued with its first spin-off series, Laverne & Shirley. Looking back, it is remarkable how thoroughly a generation of children became fascinated by a time period we had never actually experienced. From Jukeboxes to Fats Domino, to saddle shoes and poodle skirts -- I think I knew as much about America in the '50s than I did about Canada in 1978.

For elementary school kids in 1978, a Happy Days lunch box 

was practically standard issue.

One of the more baffling examples of 70s nostalgia for the 50s was the emergence of the rock and roll and doo-wop revival group Sha Na Na. The ten piece musical ensemble performed a song-dance and comedy repertoire that featured, and parodied, the music of the 1950s and the era’s New York gang culture. The group’s syndicated television series (1978 - 1981) somehow became appointment viewing, despite being (objectively speaking) generally unfunny.

Sha Na Na - musical group and television show cast.

The humour relied heavily on exaggerated characters, corny catchphrases, slapstick antics and broad mugging for the camera. Even as kids, my friend circle understood the jokes were pretty thin. Still, we watched every week, happily offering our own terrible Bowzer impressions on the playground the next day. The appeal was never really the comedy. It was the energy, the music, and the simple fact that, with only a few TV channels to choose from, a bunch of greasers singing old rock-and-roll hits seemed like perfectly reasonable entertainment.

Jon "Bowzer" Bauman was the 'breakout' character
on the Sha Na Na television series.

Then came the summer of 1978, when Grease seemed to take over the world. The soundtrack was everywhere and songs from the movie dominated the charts. Even if you had not seen the film, you knew the music.

Album cover for the soundtrack to Grease.

1978 also brought the film The Buddy Holly Story starring Gary Busey to audiences. For many people of my generation, this became our introduction to the music of Buddy Holly. Coincidentally, 1978 was also around the time I began spending more time digging through record bins and developing my own musical tastes. I distinctly remember seeing the 20 Golden Greats record with the hastily scrawled Buddy Holly Lives on the cover. I didn’t buy it, but I picked it up more than once, turning it over in my hands and wondering what all the fuss was about. Like so many kids my age, I was beginning to discover older music just as the rest of popular culture seemed determined to rediscover it.

Movie poster for The Buddy Holly Story.

I've written about Buddy Holly before. Back in June, 2020, I wrote about his record, The Chirping Crickets, (#420 on The 500). Four songs from that album appear again on 20 Golden Greats. They are among my favourites, particularly, That'll Be the Day, Not Fade Away, Oh, Boy! and Maybe Baby. If you are looking for Holly's biography and the story of his untimely death, that article covers the details.

Album cover for The Chirping Crickets (#420 on The 500).

This time, I am interested in something different. Why did Buddy Holly become popular again in 1978?

Part of the answer lies in nostalgia, movies, and television. Another part lies in the music itself. Holly's songs are short, direct, energetic, and built around unforgettable hooks. Listening today, they almost feel proto-punk...maybe even proto-proto-punk (if there is such a thing). At the exact moment when punk was exploding and progressive rock's sprawling concept albums and marathon guitar solos were beginning to fade from fashion, Buddy Holly's catalogue suddenly sounded modern again. A teenager starting a garage band in 1978 could find plenty of inspiration in those records.

The similarities between Buddy Holly and The Ramones are striking. Songs including Peggy Sue rely on three basic chords, relentless backbeats, and short track lengths, matching the exact formula of the Ramones' 1976 self-titled debut album (#33 on The 500). Additionally, London punk legends The Clash and 70's San Francisco hardcore punkers The Dead Kennedys famously covered I Fought The Law, a song written by Sonny Curtis of The Crickets. 

Album cover for the single release of I Fought The Law, by The Clash.

So, in 1978, nearly twenty years after his death, Buddy Holly was back in the record bins, back on the airwaves, and back in popular culture and even permeating the brain of an impressionable Canadian adolescent who was starting his search for a musical identity. Perhaps the title Buddy Holly Lives was not seem quite so far-fetched.