Ritchie Valens Tribute

As hard as it is to believe, Rock-n-Roll legend Ritchie Valens would have turned 80 years old this past Thursday.

He was born Richard Steven Valenzuela on May 13, 1941, in Pacoima, CA. Among his peers, Sunny & the Sunglows, The Sir Douglas Quintet, and Thee Midniters, Ritchie Valens created themes heavily based on 1950s R&B music.

Ritchie is considered a forefather of the Chicano rock movement and modern Latino rock music. And one of the pioneers of contemporary rock-n-roll music.

As a young man, Ritchie Valens was a gifted guitarist, singer, and songwriter. Among his most recognized hits, Come on Lets Go, Donna, We Belong Together, and La Bamba, to name a few. He made his national debut on American Band Stand hosted by Dick Clark on October 6, 1958, in Philadelphia.

Sadly, Ritchie Valens' career was too short. His recording career lasted eight months, professionally active from 1957 through 1959.

Along with Buddy Holly and J. P. Richardson, "The Big Bopper," Ritchie was killed in a tragic plane crash on February 3, 1959, in Clear Lake, Iowa. He was just 17.

However, his music lives on. As I began to learn guitar, his melodies inspired me to learn to play. Readers of this blog may remember the post titled, What the Cat Heard from Sept. of 2016.

Despite his brief career, Ritchie Valens' lasting impact on rock-n-roll music affected many distinguished artists including, Jimi Hendrix, Carlos Santana, Los Lobos, Ricky Martin, and Brian Wilson have credited Ritchie as influencing their careers.

Ritchie Valens was elected to the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1999 and enshrined in the Rock' n Roll Hall of Fame in 2001.

Happy birthday, Ritchie, your music lives on!

"Won't you be my virtual neighbor?" If you enjoy our weekly visits, please share them with a friend.

This is Patrick Ball; thanks so much for listening. I'll see you in the next episode.

Comments

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

The Endless Work of Wisdom

It always makes me smile. The moment people learn I've officially entered what I like to call the Great Un-Working (retirement), they almost immediately ask the same question: “So . . . What do you do now?" I think they're expecting me to say I'm restoring a vintage sports car, hiking the John Muir Trail, or finally becoming fluent in French. Instead, I tell them: "I live life deliberately." That's usually the point when I get a polite nod, followed by the unmistakable look of someone wondering whether I've simply found a more sophisticated way to say, “I’m becoming a bum.” Apparently, "living deliberately" sounds suspiciously like unemployment, just better branding. The truth is, what living deliberately looks like for me right now is taking time to synthesize a lifetime of experiences into these weekly reflections. It's slowing down long enough to ask what those experiences have taught me, while keeping the door wide open to the poss...

On The Fly

Search This Blog