"The Day the Music Lived" 3/?
anonymous
July 21 2011, 16:20:45 UTC
*****
"So, a sacred day, is it?" John asked over his pint.
Lestrade stared into his bitter. His half-smile appeared almost shy. "To every boy or girl in the Western world who's picked up a guitar over the last half-century or so. Whether they know it or not."
John looked to Lestrade's calloused fingertips where they touched the glass. Sherlock's methods were rubbing off on him, it seemed.
"You still play," he ventured.
A shake of the silvering head. A self-deprecating laugh. "Only for stress relief. Where no one can hear." A shrug. "I still listen. To the greats."
Whatever Lestrade did for stress relief appeared to be woefully insufficient, John thought, but he refrained from saying so. He found himself taken with the glimpse into this private man's life, the idea of Lestrade at home, alone, playing his guitar, struggling to clear his mind.
Perhaps not so different from Sherlock after all.
"What do you know," Lestrade asked, "about Buddy Holly?"
"The 'Peggy Sue' Buddy Holly?" At Lestrade's nod of affirmation, John said, "Early rock. 'That'll Be The Day.' Died tragically, didn't he?"
"Yeah. Plane crash. He was only twenty-two. He'd only been recording for two years. But he changed music forever with his songs and style, blending rockabilly with rhythm and blues to make rock-n-roll."
Warming to his subject, Lestrade began gesturing with expressive hands. "Without Buddy Holly and the Crickets, we wouldn't have had the Beatles. At all. Or the Rolling Stones, at least as we know them. Or Bob Dylan. Or Eric Clapton."
"And today is what, exactly?" John asked, genuinely interested.
"His seventy-fifth birthday." Lestrade raised his glass. "He might've died before I was born, but for most of my life, he's been a good mate of mine."
"To the late, great Buddy Holly," John agreed, and he raised his glass, as well.
"The Day the Music Lived" 4/?
anonymous
July 21 2011, 16:23:53 UTC
They were halfway through a truly amazing meal when Sherlock dashed in, breathless, to kiss Mrs Hudson's cheek and assume his place at her table.
"Apologies for my tardiness," he panted.
It continually amused and intrigued John how Mrs Hudson could, by sheer force of personality, lead Sherlock to do so many things - apologize, demonstrate affection, even eat - that anyone else would abandon as lost causes. She was the exception who proved the rule.
"Never mind, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said. "John told me there were exciting developments at St. Bart's."
"I was in the middle of experiments," he explained, helping himself to the roast. "Crushing testicles."
"Oh, sounds like good fun, dear."
John timed his bites with care around his silent laughter. It wouldn't do to choke on a mouthful of roasted potatoes.
"They couldn't wait. The tests required a certain freshness. Frozen testes wouldn't suit. They lose pliability."
"Of course," she said. "Good thing we're not having pâté now, eh?"
"Why? I like pâté," Sherlock said with feigned innocence.
The two of them could go on like this for hours. And poor Lestrade might strangle before they'd had their fill of play.
"Sherlock," John scolded, "we do have a guest."
"Not a guest, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just Lestrade."
The detective inspector nodded, seeming to take this in stride. With some satisfaction, even. As if it pleased him, to be accepted and included in this bizarre little circle so easily.
Yes, John understood.
And then, as he looked around the table, it hit him.
Mrs Hudson, he thought, is the Island of Misfit Toys.
"The Day the Music Lived" 5/?
anonymous
July 21 2011, 18:37:57 UTC
*****
After the rice pudding, Mrs Hudson said, "I do hope you gentlemen will indulge an old lady's whim and join me for a time in the sitting room. It's the reason for tonight's dinner, you see. A celebration, of sorts. Everything's set up."
As they moved to the other room, John heard Sherlock ask Lestrade in a hushed tone, "The results from the father's blood tests?"
"Not back yet."
"Once you know what he was taking, check his friends' medications."
"You think he was mixing?"
"His prescriptions, old and new, and theirs. It's likely."
Lestrade's hand brushed Sherlock's arm as he passed, a silent gesture of gratitude. The consulting detective wasn't even working this decidedly boring case, John knew, but Sherlock must have been following its progress, all the same.
High-functioning sociopath, my pale white arse, John thought.
He settled himself in a cosy seat in Mrs Hudson's welcoming room. Somehow a lager appeared at his elbow and at Lestrade's. Sherlock found himself with a glass of wine.
Before them, Mrs Hudson pulled a chair next to the turntable she'd arranged on a low cabinet. She hugged a stack of vinyl albums to her chest.
"Does anyone know what today is?" she asked, like a proper schoolmarm.
"Buddy Holly's birthday," Lestrade breathed, reverence in his tone.
"Oh, well done indeed," she beamed at him. "Clever man!"
Sherlock snorted. Everyone ignored him.
"'Not Fade Away' is one of the single greatest songs of the rock era," he said, leaning forward, almost painfully earnest.
"Couldn't agree more." She was glowing. "You know, dear, I saw both the Rolling Stones and the Grateful Dead cover it. Live."
With a sigh, she added, "What Chuck could do with that beat."
"Chuck?" Sherlock asked.
"You mean Charlie Watts?" John asked.
"Mmmm, the Wembley Whammer himself. The hands on that man, when we were young."
Then, flushing faintly, she said, "But that's another story. So you know Buddy Holly, Detective Inspector. How about you, John?"
"Lestrade told me this was his seventy-fifth birthday."
"That's right. And it should be a global holiday." She removed an album from its paper sheath. "A lady doesn't like to mention her age, but in this case, I'll admit that we were… of the same generation, let's say."
For a moment she paused, balancing the naked record between careful fingertips.
"He was taken so early," she mused. "What he might've done with all the years I've had."
John glanced at Lestrade, whose face had grown solemn. John guessed they were both thinking not only of a plane crash half a century gone, but also of three babies drowned in a bath mere days ago.
Sherlock broke the silence. "Holly was one of the first white musicians to perform at the legendary African-American venue known as the Apollo Theater. And in 1957, Buddy Holly and the Crickets were the only white artists on a national tour that included black neighbourhood theatres. He was known for his cross-cultural sound, bringing rhythm and blues to white audiences and rockabilly to black audiences."
No one said a word.
"It was relevant," Sherlock said. "For a case." After a beat, "I just haven't deleted it yet."
"Then this," Mrs Hudson said, "is for you, Sherlock."
The music began.
Bo Diddley bought his babe a diamond ring. If that diamond ring don't shine, He's gonna take it to a private eye. If that private eye can't see, He better not take the ring from me…
John's palms slapped out the beat on his thighs. Lestrade's feet tapped to the rhythm. Mrs Hudson rocked from side to side in her chair.
Sherlock leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers together as if in prayer. With every fibre of his being, John realized, Sherlock was listening.
"The Day the Music Lived" 6/7
anonymous
July 22 2011, 10:43:19 UTC
They heard "Not Fade Away" and "That'll Be The Day" and "Rave On," "Maybe Baby" and "Everyday" and "It Doesn't Matter Anymore," "Peggy Sue" and "Rock Around With Ollie Vee" and "Blue Days, Black Nights."
Lagers and wine had been replenished by the time Mrs Hudson dedicated a song to John.
I don't know why I love you, baby, I guess it's just because You're so square - Baby, I don't care.
John spluttered in good-natured outrage while Lestrade laughed and Sherlock smirked and both offered unsolicited commentary on his many jumpers.
Jumpers which, incidentally, John happened to like, thank you very much.
Mrs Hudson shuffled through her albums once again and made another selection.
"My dears," she began, "these days I'm not in 'sock hop' condition, but a slow dance would do the trick. When again will I have three handsome men all to myself?"
Setting the needle to the groove, she rose and extended her hand to John. "May I have this dance, Dr Watson?"
"I'd be honoured," he said.
Embracing his landlady tenderly, John began to sway her around the centre of the room. She rested her head against his broad shoulder.
Dearest, You're the nearest to my heart. Please don't ever, mmmm yeah, Ever say we'll part…
When the song ended, they hugged and parted, and Mrs Hudson turned to Lestrade.
"Detective Inspector?"
"With pleasure."
Just you know why, Why you and I Will by and by Know true love ways…
When Lestrade dipped her at the end, she giggled like a schoolgirl. So did John.
As the next song began, Mrs Hudson stood before Sherlock.
"You know I don't dance," Sherlock said, glaring, arms crossed.
"You know I don't care," Mrs Hudson replied, grinning, hands on hips.
"This song," Lestrade told the room at large, "is one of the very first to use overdubbing, years before multitracking became standard practice. It's a pioneering work."
Sherlock's lips twitched, and then he gave a put-upon sigh. "A pioneering work," he echoed. "Well, in that case, how can I refuse?"
In a single graceful motion he rose and enfolded Mrs Hudson in long arms. After that, he did little but shift his slight weight from foot to foot, but that seemed to satisfy his dancing partner.
Hold me close and tell me how you feel. Tell me love is real. Mmmm… Words of love you whisper soft and true. Darling, I love you. Mmmm…
"My boys," she said at last, when all had resumed their seats, "you've made me a happy woman. Without you, I would've spent the night remembering how I cried at the news of his plane crash, and the thought of young life gone far too soon. But thanks to you, I've remembered his music instead, and all the joy it's given."
They sat silently together, as if by mutual consent, until Mrs Hudson played another song.
Well… all right, so I'm being foolish. Well… all right, let people know About the dreams and wishes you wish In the night when lights are low. Well… all right, well… all right, We'll live and love with all our might…
"The Day the Music Lived" 7/7
anonymous
July 22 2011, 11:40:36 UTC
As the soulful voice and haunting melody washed over him, John observed the room through half-lidded eyes.
Lestrade sprawled comfortably in his chair, shoulders back, arms open, ankle crossed over thigh, an altogether different sight from the wretched knot of heavy-hearted tension he'd presented in his office. Rhythmic motion rippled across his body - a flick of a fingertip, a bounce of a knee, a swing of a foot - marking the gentle beat of the song.
Sherlock once again reclined, a long line angled into his chair, eyes closed and palms together. Perfectly still. His powers concentrated. No manic energy, no brooding impatience. For this precious moment, content.
Mrs Hudson's dreamy-eyed, faraway look gave John a sense of the young girl who once had been - and who still was, inside the woman's older frame. He sent up a word of thanks that even now, as an adult, fate had gifted him with the chance to have a mother like this, figuratively if not biologically.
John's hands were splayed on the sturdy thighs that had served repeatedly this past hour as his makeshift drum kit. As he studied his blunt, capable fingers, he wondered what he wouldn't give to preserve this night, to protect these friends and shield them from harm.
He would, in fact, give anything.
That wasn't the way it worked, though, was it? He would try, of course, but there were no guarantees in a world as uncertain and perilous as this, a world in which airplanes fell from the sky and fathers drowned their children and Moriartys schemed from the centres of their webs.
There were, however, moments like these. They had been far too few in John's life to take for granted. As much as he craved the adrenaline rush of the battlefield, he needed this, too. This belonging. Family.
"Just one more song," Mrs Hudson said after a time, smiling with mischief as she drew each man back from his own reverie. "This is for the Detective Inspector."
Way back in history three thousand years, Back ever since the world began, There's been a whole lot of good women shedding tears For a brown-eyed handsome man…
Then it was John's turn to laugh as Sherlock smirked. And laugh he did.
*****
They ended the evening on that note.
John and Lestrade helped Mrs Hudson clear her dishes from the table, while Sherlock disappeared to record the important data from what John now thought of unofficially as the Great Balls-Busting of St. Bart's.
Lestrade departed - for home, he promised, and not back to the office - with fresh bandages on his arm, courtesy of John, and fresh leftovers tucked under it, courtesy of Mrs Hudson. His words of thanks for the evening were quiet and plainspoken. John knew they were profoundly heartfelt.
When John at last sank into his bed, he dreamed not of Afghani sands and London baths and the lifeless bodies found in each, but of a distinctive Lubbock voice and a Gibson acoustic guitar and a table surrounded by familiar faces, misfit toys, and chirping crickets.
In his dreams, he kept them safe. In his dreams, the music never died.
The End
The songs referenced above as lyrics only include the following, in order: "Bo Diddley," "You're So Square (Baby, I Don't Care)," "Dearest," "True Love Ways," "Words of Love," "Well… All Right," and "Brown-Eyed Handsome Man."
The title of this story refers to Don McLean's song "American Pie," which refers to Buddy Holly's tragic death on February 3, 1959, as "The Day the Music Died."
Re: "The Day the Music Lived" 7/7rubicks_cubeJuly 30 2011, 18:03:40 UTC
O__0
How? How can you know my perfect combination of Rupert Graves and Buddy Holly that makes my geeky little heart soar with joy??
This brought back so many happy memories of seeing the 'Buddy Holly Story' and dancing around to 'Heartbeat' and 'Peggy Sue' - so yeah, you just pwnd my soul forever :D
Re: "The Day the Music Lived" 7/7morganstuartJuly 30 2011, 18:08:52 UTC
Aw, this makes my day! It's great to meet another kindred soul who loves Rupert Graves and Buddy Holly. :) I'm so very glad you liked the story and that it brought back happy memories. *huge hugs*
"So, a sacred day, is it?" John asked over his pint.
Lestrade stared into his bitter. His half-smile appeared almost shy. "To every boy or girl in the Western world who's picked up a guitar over the last half-century or so. Whether they know it or not."
John looked to Lestrade's calloused fingertips where they touched the glass. Sherlock's methods were rubbing off on him, it seemed.
"You still play," he ventured.
A shake of the silvering head. A self-deprecating laugh. "Only for stress relief. Where no one can hear." A shrug. "I still listen. To the greats."
Whatever Lestrade did for stress relief appeared to be woefully insufficient, John thought, but he refrained from saying so. He found himself taken with the glimpse into this private man's life, the idea of Lestrade at home, alone, playing his guitar, struggling to clear his mind.
Perhaps not so different from Sherlock after all.
"What do you know," Lestrade asked, "about Buddy Holly?"
"The 'Peggy Sue' Buddy Holly?" At Lestrade's nod of affirmation, John said, "Early rock. 'That'll Be The Day.' Died tragically, didn't he?"
"Yeah. Plane crash. He was only twenty-two. He'd only been recording for two years. But he changed music forever with his songs and style, blending rockabilly with rhythm and blues to make rock-n-roll."
Warming to his subject, Lestrade began gesturing with expressive hands. "Without Buddy Holly and the Crickets, we wouldn't have had the Beatles. At all. Or the Rolling Stones, at least as we know them. Or Bob Dylan. Or Eric Clapton."
"And today is what, exactly?" John asked, genuinely interested.
"His seventy-fifth birthday." Lestrade raised his glass. "He might've died before I was born, but for most of my life, he's been a good mate of mine."
"To the late, great Buddy Holly," John agreed, and he raised his glass, as well.
*****
Reply
"Apologies for my tardiness," he panted.
It continually amused and intrigued John how Mrs Hudson could, by sheer force of personality, lead Sherlock to do so many things - apologize, demonstrate affection, even eat - that anyone else would abandon as lost causes. She was the exception who proved the rule.
"Never mind, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said. "John told me there were exciting developments at St. Bart's."
"I was in the middle of experiments," he explained, helping himself to the roast. "Crushing testicles."
"Oh, sounds like good fun, dear."
John timed his bites with care around his silent laughter. It wouldn't do to choke on a mouthful of roasted potatoes.
"They couldn't wait. The tests required a certain freshness. Frozen testes wouldn't suit. They lose pliability."
"Of course," she said. "Good thing we're not having pâté now, eh?"
"Why? I like pâté," Sherlock said with feigned innocence.
The two of them could go on like this for hours. And poor Lestrade might strangle before they'd had their fill of play.
"Sherlock," John scolded, "we do have a guest."
"Not a guest, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just Lestrade."
The detective inspector nodded, seeming to take this in stride. With some satisfaction, even. As if it pleased him, to be accepted and included in this bizarre little circle so easily.
Yes, John understood.
And then, as he looked around the table, it hit him.
Mrs Hudson, he thought, is the Island of Misfit Toys.
So glad we made it to her shores.
TBC *****
Reply
After the rice pudding, Mrs Hudson said, "I do hope you gentlemen will indulge an old lady's whim and join me for a time in the sitting room. It's the reason for tonight's dinner, you see. A celebration, of sorts. Everything's set up."
As they moved to the other room, John heard Sherlock ask Lestrade in a hushed tone, "The results from the father's blood tests?"
"Not back yet."
"Once you know what he was taking, check his friends' medications."
"You think he was mixing?"
"His prescriptions, old and new, and theirs. It's likely."
"Ugly business," Lestrade sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Yeah, I'll check. Thanks."
Lestrade's hand brushed Sherlock's arm as he passed, a silent gesture of gratitude. The consulting detective wasn't even working this decidedly boring case, John knew, but Sherlock must have been following its progress, all the same.
High-functioning sociopath, my pale white arse, John thought.
He settled himself in a cosy seat in Mrs Hudson's welcoming room. Somehow a lager appeared at his elbow and at Lestrade's. Sherlock found himself with a glass of wine.
Before them, Mrs Hudson pulled a chair next to the turntable she'd arranged on a low cabinet. She hugged a stack of vinyl albums to her chest.
"Does anyone know what today is?" she asked, like a proper schoolmarm.
"Buddy Holly's birthday," Lestrade breathed, reverence in his tone.
"Oh, well done indeed," she beamed at him. "Clever man!"
Sherlock snorted. Everyone ignored him.
"'Not Fade Away' is one of the single greatest songs of the rock era," he said, leaning forward, almost painfully earnest.
"Couldn't agree more." She was glowing. "You know, dear, I saw both the Rolling Stones and the Grateful Dead cover it. Live."
With a sigh, she added, "What Chuck could do with that beat."
"Chuck?" Sherlock asked.
"You mean Charlie Watts?" John asked.
"Mmmm, the Wembley Whammer himself. The hands on that man, when we were young."
Then, flushing faintly, she said, "But that's another story. So you know Buddy Holly, Detective Inspector. How about you, John?"
"Lestrade told me this was his seventy-fifth birthday."
"That's right. And it should be a global holiday." She removed an album from its paper sheath. "A lady doesn't like to mention her age, but in this case, I'll admit that we were… of the same generation, let's say."
For a moment she paused, balancing the naked record between careful fingertips.
"He was taken so early," she mused. "What he might've done with all the years I've had."
John glanced at Lestrade, whose face had grown solemn. John guessed they were both thinking not only of a plane crash half a century gone, but also of three babies drowned in a bath mere days ago.
Sherlock broke the silence. "Holly was one of the first white musicians to perform at the legendary African-American venue known as the Apollo Theater. And in 1957, Buddy Holly and the Crickets were the only white artists on a national tour that included black neighbourhood theatres. He was known for his cross-cultural sound, bringing rhythm and blues to white audiences and rockabilly to black audiences."
No one said a word.
"It was relevant," Sherlock said. "For a case." After a beat, "I just haven't deleted it yet."
"Then this," Mrs Hudson said, "is for you, Sherlock."
The music began.
Bo Diddley bought his babe a diamond ring.
If that diamond ring don't shine,
He's gonna take it to a private eye.
If that private eye can't see,
He better not take the ring from me…
John's palms slapped out the beat on his thighs. Lestrade's feet tapped to the rhythm. Mrs Hudson rocked from side to side in her chair.
Sherlock leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers together as if in prayer. With every fibre of his being, John realized, Sherlock was listening.
TBC...
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Lagers and wine had been replenished by the time Mrs Hudson dedicated a song to John.
I don't know why I love you, baby,
I guess it's just because
You're so square -
Baby, I don't care.
John spluttered in good-natured outrage while Lestrade laughed and Sherlock smirked and both offered unsolicited commentary on his many jumpers.
Jumpers which, incidentally, John happened to like, thank you very much.
Mrs Hudson shuffled through her albums once again and made another selection.
"My dears," she began, "these days I'm not in 'sock hop' condition, but a slow dance would do the trick. When again will I have three handsome men all to myself?"
Setting the needle to the groove, she rose and extended her hand to John. "May I have this dance, Dr Watson?"
"I'd be honoured," he said.
Embracing his landlady tenderly, John began to sway her around the centre of the room. She rested her head against his broad shoulder.
Dearest,
You're the nearest to my heart.
Please don't ever, mmmm yeah,
Ever say we'll part…
When the song ended, they hugged and parted, and Mrs Hudson turned to Lestrade.
"Detective Inspector?"
"With pleasure."
Just you know why,
Why you and I
Will by and by
Know true love ways…
When Lestrade dipped her at the end, she giggled like a schoolgirl. So did John.
As the next song began, Mrs Hudson stood before Sherlock.
"You know I don't dance," Sherlock said, glaring, arms crossed.
"You know I don't care," Mrs Hudson replied, grinning, hands on hips.
"This song," Lestrade told the room at large, "is one of the very first to use overdubbing, years before multitracking became standard practice. It's a pioneering work."
Sherlock's lips twitched, and then he gave a put-upon sigh. "A pioneering work," he echoed. "Well, in that case, how can I refuse?"
In a single graceful motion he rose and enfolded Mrs Hudson in long arms. After that, he did little but shift his slight weight from foot to foot, but that seemed to satisfy his dancing partner.
Hold me close and tell me how you feel.
Tell me love is real. Mmmm…
Words of love you whisper soft and true.
Darling, I love you. Mmmm…
"My boys," she said at last, when all had resumed their seats, "you've made me a happy woman. Without you, I would've spent the night remembering how I cried at the news of his plane crash, and the thought of young life gone far too soon. But thanks to you, I've remembered his music instead, and all the joy it's given."
They sat silently together, as if by mutual consent, until Mrs Hudson played another song.
Well… all right, so I'm being foolish.
Well… all right, let people know
About the dreams and wishes you wish
In the night when lights are low.
Well… all right, well… all right,
We'll live and love with all our might…
TBC...
Reply
Lestrade sprawled comfortably in his chair, shoulders back, arms open, ankle crossed over thigh, an altogether different sight from the wretched knot of heavy-hearted tension he'd presented in his office. Rhythmic motion rippled across his body - a flick of a fingertip, a bounce of a knee, a swing of a foot - marking the gentle beat of the song.
Sherlock once again reclined, a long line angled into his chair, eyes closed and palms together. Perfectly still. His powers concentrated. No manic energy, no brooding impatience. For this precious moment, content.
Mrs Hudson's dreamy-eyed, faraway look gave John a sense of the young girl who once had been - and who still was, inside the woman's older frame. He sent up a word of thanks that even now, as an adult, fate had gifted him with the chance to have a mother like this, figuratively if not biologically.
John's hands were splayed on the sturdy thighs that had served repeatedly this past hour as his makeshift drum kit. As he studied his blunt, capable fingers, he wondered what he wouldn't give to preserve this night, to protect these friends and shield them from harm.
He would, in fact, give anything.
That wasn't the way it worked, though, was it? He would try, of course, but there were no guarantees in a world as uncertain and perilous as this, a world in which airplanes fell from the sky and fathers drowned their children and Moriartys schemed from the centres of their webs.
There were, however, moments like these. They had been far too few in John's life to take for granted. As much as he craved the adrenaline rush of the battlefield, he needed this, too. This belonging. Family.
"Just one more song," Mrs Hudson said after a time, smiling with mischief as she drew each man back from his own reverie. "This is for the Detective Inspector."
Way back in history three thousand years,
Back ever since the world began,
There's been a whole lot of good women shedding tears
For a brown-eyed handsome man…
Then it was John's turn to laugh as Sherlock smirked. And laugh he did.
*****
They ended the evening on that note.
John and Lestrade helped Mrs Hudson clear her dishes from the table, while Sherlock disappeared to record the important data from what John now thought of unofficially as the Great Balls-Busting of St. Bart's.
Lestrade departed - for home, he promised, and not back to the office - with fresh bandages on his arm, courtesy of John, and fresh leftovers tucked under it, courtesy of Mrs Hudson. His words of thanks for the evening were quiet and plainspoken. John knew they were profoundly heartfelt.
When John at last sank into his bed, he dreamed not of Afghani sands and London baths and the lifeless bodies found in each, but of a distinctive Lubbock voice and a Gibson acoustic guitar and a table surrounded by familiar faces, misfit toys, and chirping crickets.
In his dreams, he kept them safe. In his dreams, the music never died.
The End
The songs referenced above as lyrics only include the following, in order: "Bo Diddley," "You're So Square (Baby, I Don't Care)," "Dearest," "True Love Ways," "Words of Love," "Well… All Right," and "Brown-Eyed Handsome Man."
The title of this story refers to Don McLean's song "American Pie," which refers to Buddy Holly's tragic death on February 3, 1959, as "The Day the Music Died."
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(The comment has been removed)
An autumn or winter wedding will be fine. Nothing fussy, just a middle-aged policeman with a guitar for the music.
Una Stubbs as maid of honor.
I am SO THERE. Count me in. *hugs*
FYI, I now have a cleaned-up version posted here.
Thanks to you, from the bottom of my heart.
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(The comment has been removed)
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The revised version is now up here.
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How? How can you know my perfect combination of Rupert Graves and Buddy Holly that makes my geeky little heart soar with joy??
This brought back so many happy memories of seeing the 'Buddy Holly Story' and dancing around to 'Heartbeat' and 'Peggy Sue' - so yeah, you just pwnd my soul forever :D
Thank you,
Cube x
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Thanks so much for reading and commenting!
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