Ritchie Lives on in Fans, Family

It was the bitter cold morning of Feb. 3, 1959, and a small plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J.P. (the Big Bopper) Richardson struggled off a snow-covered runway in Northern Iowa. Moments later, it crashed on a nearby farm, killing everyone aboard, the greatest single tragedy in the history of rock ‘n’ roll.

Holly was a certified pop star and Valens, at 17, was receiving the inevitable comparisons to Elvis Presley. His hit song, “Donna,” played constantly on the radio that winter.

The plaintive notes of that adolescent ballad, and the bittersweet memories they evoked, came to life again last week at Chuck Landis’ Country Club in Reseda. Scores of Ritchie’s friends and fans gathered to celebrate his selection to the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

This time the singer was to be Ernie (Reyes) Valens, Ritchie’s 21-year-old first-cousin, a pudgy, friendly man with an upper register voice that sounded eerily reminiscent.

“I don’t try to mimic him, but that’s the way it comes out,” said Reyes, standing nervously backstage before his performance. “A lot of people come up and say I sound like him.”

His first professional performance was in the same American legion Hall in San Fernando where Ritchie first sang more than 30 years ago. But the show at the Country Club promised to be Ernie’s toughest yet. The crowd, a diverse blend of ages and races from as far away as Georgia, included many people who knew Ritchie Valens and had heard him sing.

Teresa Dizon, 47, a slight, smiling woman, waited at a front table, recalling how exciting it was to be from Pacoima when Ritchie was performing.

“We would have pep rallies at San Fernando High School and everyone would show up when Ritchie was there with the Silhouettes.”

The Silhouettes was Ritchie’s first band.

“At San Fernando High School, he was loved. He was making it and he was Latino.”

He was only 17. But he seemed polished and confident beyond his years, singing and smiling. Whenever he finished a song and the local kids started screaming, he would turn to his family down front and wink, as though it were all a wonderful lark.

“When his record came out, ‘Donna,’ there was a rinky-dink record shop on Van Nuys Boulevard,” Dizon recalled. “He was there signing autographs. I went in there with my girlfriend. I had him sign ‘To Terry from Ritchie Valens and Ritchie Steve Valenzuela,’ ” his real name.

Dizon was in school when she heard Ritchie had died. “They made the announcement over the loudspeaker. I was in social studies at the time and I started crying.”

Last year, Dizon turned over her prized autograph to the Valenzuela family. Her husband, Richard, had just died of cancer and she suddenly understood the loss the family must have felt in 1959. As much as it meant to her, Ritchie’s signature, she felt, would mean more to his four surviving sisters and brothers.

Three of his siblings, Connie, Erma and Mario, trooped on stage at the Country Club to receive several mementos collected by fans, including Ritchie’s green electric guitar.

“I’d like to introduce the newest member of our family,” Connie Alvarez said in her turn. An effervescent woman whose voice seemed to embrace the crowd as much as inform it, she hauled on stage J. P. Richardson III, the son of the Big Bopper. A burly Texan with a flattop, he delighted the crowd with an undulating “Hello-o-o Baby,” his father’s trademark greeting.

During a break, Connie moved to the shadows in the back of the club to talk about her dead brother.

But, she said, she would not talk about death.

“This is one day I don’t want to think about that,” she said in a tone that permitted no discussion.

“I remember going to dances and seeing all the girls go crazy,” she said. But what she recalled most was what it was like to be a member of his family. “Mom taught us to love and respect people. As famous as Ritchie got, he never forgot that. He was not pretentious.”

To the family, Ritchie’s fame was an unexpected treat. Connie is convinced that what preserves Ritchie’s appeal is the popular belief that here was a good kid finishing first.

She said the family is especially proud of Ernie Valens. “There’s only one Ritchie, but it excites me to see what he’s doing.”

But backstage, Ernie was feeling the weight of the legend.

“My special responsibility is just to keep his music alive,” he said. But he also was aware that Ritchie’s legend is now based on far more than his music. To some, the movie on his life had helped raise Ritchie Valens to the status of a minor saint, an ideal for all poor kids.

And so, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, Ernie ran down his credits before going on stage. They had nothing to do with his musical training. It was a moral resume designed to show that he was qualified to sing Ritchie’s songs. No, he said, he doesn’t do drugs. Yes, he said, he stays away from gangs.

“I’m a clean person,” he said earnestly. “I don’t get into anybody’s business but my own.”

He walked on stage to polite applause.

The show began tentatively when a string broke on the lead guitar player’s instrument during “Framed,” a rhythm and blues song that Ritchie favored.

Mario appeared, harmonica in hand, to rescue Ernie with a rousing rendition of “Lucille.”

The two men embraced like brothers and the band swung into a lilting version of “Donna.”

As Ernie began singing, clear and high, the dance floor filled up, the surest stamp of approval for any popular singer. Ernie began to smile.

He might even have winked.