That’s Life



Editor’s note: Due to complications brought on by the weather, Tony was unable to complete a column by deadline. Here’s one of our favorites from 2012. Note: Bobby Vee died in 2016.

Memories For Bobby Vee

I met him when I was in my early twenties, a young, green DJ in Jamestown, ND. Bobby Vee and two other stars from the early days of Rock ‘N’ Roll, Tommy Roe (Dizzy) and Dee Clark (Raindrops), were coming to town for a concert sponsored by my station, KQDJ. I had the privilege of interviewing them all and then sitting with them backstage during the concert, where to a man, they were kind and gracious, making it one of the most memorable experiences of my radio career.

I was telling my son Dylan about that experience and the music of that generation the other day. His interest in the era had been piqued when I played Gary Puckett (what a powerful voice) and the Union Gap (Young Girl) on my turntable. Just two days later we learned that Bobby Vee, a favorite son of Fargo, ND, had been diagnosed with early onset of Alzheimer’s.

The radio airwaves were flooded with personal memories of the man. Bobby, whose career was famously launched when Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper died in a plane crash on their way to Fargo, ND was at the intersection of Rock ‘N’ Roll history. What was clear to me as I heard tributes and personal stories was that his life had seemingly intersected with just about everyone else in North Dakota at one time or another. Every story was a testament to his genuineness.

During the interview 30 years ago, which I still have on a reel of tape somewhere, Bobby shared stories of his days touring Europe with the Beatles, how John and Paul would have fistfights on the bus. This was at a time when Bobby Vee was a headliner and the Beatles were on the undercard. A man with a more delicate sense of self-esteem might have been put off when the conversation veered from his own outstanding career and string of hits—Suzie Baby… Rubber Ball… Come Back When You Grow Up, Girl… Take Good Care of My Baby… The Night Has a Thousand Eyes…

It felt like we were old friends. We spoke for 45 minutes, and he laughed as he shared the story of a young keyboard player named Robert Zimmerman—a skinny, wild-haired Jewish kid from Hibbing, Minn.,—who was with the band for a while. He called himself Elston Gunnn (with three N’s). The kid didn’t last long because they didn’t have the room to haul a piano around and venues didn’t always have one on hand. After “Elston Gunnn” left the band, Bobby lost track of him.

Later, Bobby said, “We kept hearing about this groundbreaking Bob Dylan, so we got tickets for a concert in New York.” When the man walked on stage, Bobby and his friends elbowed each other in astonishment— “Hey, it’s Zimmerman!” There was complete joy in the way he told that story, delight in the cosmic sense of humor. Elston Gunnn (with three N’s) whose abilities were limited pretty much to the key of C on the piano, had been transformed into the guitar-strumming voice of a generation, Bob Dylan. In his memoirs, Dylan spoke fondly of Bobby Vee. (Our son, Dylan, is named both for Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas.)

At the concert that night in Jamestown, I sat with the three men backstage as they shared stories of life on the road, times when the spotlight shone brighter. Dee Clark, his angelic voice soaring, dedicated, “Portrait of My Love,” to me, appreciative of the fact that I liked one of his lesser-known songs.

Tommy Roe told me a harrowing tale about being robbed in a hotel room one night at the height of his fame. He has a puckish sense of humor and egged me on to go on stage in his place when he was announced. I didn’t.

We talked about Jim Croce who died in a place crash in 1973, and I remember wondering what he would have gone on to do. Great things, Dee said. “He was in the pocket,” Tommy added.

I remember both men showed deference to Bobby, respect that spoke volumes about his stature in their eyes. That night, Bobby was all business on stage and behind the scenes, making sure the audience got a great show, so he kept the chitchat to a minimum. What a magical night it was.

I talked to Tommy a couple of times after that when he was promoting new records. Dee Clark died in 1990, too young, at 52, and it about broke my heart because he had been so genuinely kind to me. It was pretty tough, too, to hear the news about Bobby Vee, a man who had orchestrated one of my most treasured memories.

It hardly seemed fair, I thought, that this good man who created so many wonderful memories for so many people, was slowly losing his own. As I listened to all those voices on the radio offering their prayers, sharing their experiences, I realized that the rest of us have been entrusted with something sacred.

His legacy is certain. The memories are ours to hold.

We will hold these memories for Bobby Vee until he comes back for them.

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