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The music died yesterday. If you’re my age (or a fan of Don McLean’s “American Pie”) you know what that means: Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, the Big Bopper. Dead. Feb. 3, 1959. Depending on your view, it ended an era or started one: Post-Elvis/WW2; pre-Beatles/Vietnam.

Charles Hardin Holley was born Sept. 7, 1936. Texan. Baptist. Singer-songwriter. Success tip-tapped his tunes: “Peggy Sue.” “Words of Love.” “That’ll Be the Day.” And more. He played little gigs and built a big reputation. Paid his dues.

Hard work.

“Winter Dance Party” was a Midwest bus tour expedition — with the emphasis on winter. Started in Milwaukee. Cold. Snowy. Bitter. Frigid. Some on the tour got sick. Threw up. Holley (nicknamed “Buddy”) was set to perform in Moorhead, Minnesota. He dumped the bus to charter a flight to nearby Fargo — so he could shower. Do his laundry. Never made it.

Dead at 22.

Also on the flight was Ritchie Valens. Like Holly, Valens sang and wrote songs. Played guitar. Born Richard Steven Valenzuela on May 13, 1941, in Pacoima, California. Big hit: “La Bamba.”

Dead at 17.

Holly and Valens were joined by Jiles Perry “J. P.” Richardson, Jr. “The Big Bopper.” Musician. Songwriter. Rockabilly upstart. Bigger than life. Born in Texas. Best known for “Chantilly Lace.”

Dead at 28.

Not on the flight was Waylon Jennings. Yes, that Waylon Jennings. He played bass for Holly on that chilly tour — but gave up his seat on the plane for Richardson. It’s said Jennings was haunted by that decision until the day he died, Feb.13, 2002, at age 64.

Something odd happens when you die just as you’re stepping onto life’s big stage. You’re frozen. Like Hans Solo in “The Empire Strikes Back.” Mel Gibson in “Forever Young.” Or that little bug in “Jurassic Park.”

Achievements get amplified and magnified. Sometimes even distorted.

What if Holly, Valens, and Richardson survived? Had their sunshine moment. Then faded. Moved on. Retired. Maybe to open a restaurant. Sell insurance. Preach. We’ll never know. That’s what makes it so impactful. The speculation. The pondering. The mind games:

What if? What if? What if . . .

Oh, yeah. One more thing. Just to make my point. You know who else died Feb. 3, 1959? Roger Peterson. Never heard of him? Exactly. Peterson piloted that fateful fatal flight. No song bears his name. No recording carries his voice. No Hall of Fame holds his image. Yet he was there. Right there. The day the music died.

Dead at 21.

Jim Lamb is a retired journalist and author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” the story of how he survived Vietnam and kept his sense of humor. He liked “The Big Bopper” and remembers the day he died. For more about Jim and his writing, visitwww.jslstories.com.

Music Related Reads:

Bonus-1: Songs of the Humpbacked Whale

Bonus-2: Viva Verdi!

Bonus-3: Blind Willie McTell

Bonus-4: “In My Own Dream”

Bonus-5: Gypsy Jazz