Lubbock - Day 9

August 26, 2004

Early morning and wake up to the first glimpse of the Buddy Holly Center. My head does not feel as if it part of me. So inadequate are my bedclothes that I have augmented them with jackets and shirts. They follow me as I exit the vehicle leaving them sprawled along the pavement. Parked on the side street and load equipment through a side door. I stare unbelievably at the vehicles, which are torn and dirty from excessive miles. Generators buzz in usual fashion while the drivers compare notes on last night's drive. They are proud of their achievement supported by the merits of Red Bull. Red Bull appears to keep them on track and may as well from what I see be taken intravenously. Its another form of caffeine only delivered in cans the remnants of which scatter across the floors of each vehicle. Their stories always give me a kick.

The museum is sterile and neat with a lovely air. A courtyard in the middle stands silent with iron tables and chairs lying under green trees. It is all very quiet and peaceful. Our hosts are kind and hospitable and go out of their way to meet our every need.

1200 and the day is restful with several film crews from local news stations occasionally breaking up our schedule now and then. A steady flow with no real need to rock and roll, as all seems on plan. The tempo increases gradually in the afternoon and people come and go with ease.

1745 and a pleasant summer's evening now. The last concert of the summer season starts with a bang. It attracts at least three hundred people who enjoy the music under fading light and a gracious breeze. The centers director without notice presents me to a bustling crowd beckoning me to the stage to introduce myself. Tripping on an electrical cord sending me hurtling towards her at speed mars my entry. I save myself and welcome the crowd explaining our need to celebrate them and their town. It works. As if through automation they stand and applaud as I acknowledge them and their town. Within five minutes lines of eager participants inundate us. I study them selecting portraits and interviews as well as I can without offending anybody. Tiredness and fatigue rears its ugly head again with occasional tugs of war between crewmembers. My telephone rings, the display showing a UK number. My heart sinks momentarily before answering the call. My worst fears are met.

'He's gone and that's it I'm afraid,' said my good friend from schooldays. My heart sank. I walk across the street taking in the last dusk light and remember far off schooldays when my greatest friend and I would run through English countryside on long summer evenings. His loss leaves me impaired and lonely and frightened. If I could ever pay my deceased friend tribute it would be this project. I do it for you my friend, just for you.