November 20, 2025 • 19 mins
Everyone knows the story of Buddy Holly.
Most remember the legend of Ritchie Valens.
But on a freezing night in 1959, there was a third voice on that doomed flight…
a DJ… a jokester… a Texas-sized talent whose laugh once echoed across America.
This is his story.
Told as a ghostly broadcast from the great beyond, The Final Broadcast is equal parts biography, radio drama, and afterlife confessional.
It’s the forgotten chapter of “The Day the Music Died”—a story overshadowed by giants but carried now by the man himself, with humor, heart, and a heaping dose of Texas soul.
A tribute.
A reckoning.
A signal cutting through time.
Tune in…and if you listen close, between the static and the stars…
you might just hear him say it one more time: “Helloooooo, baby.”
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Most remember the legend of Ritchie Valens.
But on a freezing night in 1959, there was a third voice on that doomed flight…
a DJ… a jokester… a Texas-sized talent whose laugh once echoed across America.
This is his story.
Told as a ghostly broadcast from the great beyond, The Final Broadcast is equal parts biography, radio drama, and afterlife confessional.
It’s the forgotten chapter of “The Day the Music Died”—a story overshadowed by giants but carried now by the man himself, with humor, heart, and a heaping dose of Texas soul.
A tribute.
A reckoning.
A signal cutting through time.
Tune in…and if you listen close, between the static and the stars…
you might just hear him say it one more time: “Helloooooo, baby.”
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of Iheartradiot. Hello, wund there
all you cool cats and daddy o'dolls. Y'all are tuned
into the tip top of the dial, the high side
of the sky, broadcasting live from beautiful downtown Eternity. Here's
(00:20):
your pal behind the pearly microphone, coming through clean and
heavenly from w HV and Heaven Radio. Now I dig this.
Back on Earth, there was a spell when the airwaves
belonged to fellas like me. With a good old voice
and a hot flatter and a wink in your tone,
you could move mountains or at least a gym full
of teenagers. Ah well, I wasn't the biggest name on
(00:41):
the marquis, no sigh. I had friends, though, who could
make a crowd swoon on the first note. Real legends,
the kind that go and make movies about. Maybe that's
why some folks have misplaced my name. But radio is
a funny rascal sugar. Even when you twist the knob
off and the waves keep on riding through clouds, through stars,
even time itself, and somehow someway tonight you found me.
(01:07):
So I'm taking over the afterlive airways to set the
record straight. So here's my story. So keep your dial
right here, right where it is. Baby, don't you dare
touch that knob. You tuned into w HVN Heaven Radio.
And this is script eighteen, the final broadcast, Act one. Hello,
(01:27):
baby man. Now that used to be my famous catchphrase. Well,
I'm getting in my head in myself, ain't I? Before
the world started hollering back to that big old hello.
I was just Giles Perry Richardson Junior, a chunky kid
out of Sibean Pass, Texas, Hotter than a stolen radio
tube down there, and louder than a Sunday sermon. I
(01:47):
grew upon church hymns and golf breezes and that stinky
smell of the refinery. Mama used to say, My mouth
had its own volume. Nob trouble was it only turned
one way. Loud war came. I did my avid time,
learned discipline, learned to listen to the rhythm of the engines.
Then when I came home, what I truly wanted was noise,
music and laughing life through the loudspeaker. So I strolled
(02:11):
into a little old station kat R. M. Beaumont, Pride
of Jefferson County, and I said, y'all looking for somebody
who could talk faster than the record spins. They just
laughed and they hired me right on the spot. There then,
just like that, I'm on the air. Giles Perry Richardson,
junior announcer, part time board up and full time dreamer.
Which but it all back then country twin gospel shout
(02:32):
rhythm and blues that rattle the floorboards. You could feel
the world change it one forty five at a time.
Little Richard pounded pianos in the kindlin Chuck Barrett teaching
guitars to talk in to Elvis. That boy just kicked
the door clean off its engines. I'd cue the wax,
get all close to the mic like and then let
that sweet static roll across Texas. Good evening, Beaumont, Your
(02:55):
bunny Giles coming at you with that hot watch attack.
Grab your gal, hold her tight and let the needle
do the talking. Let's take yell back inside the booth
of Old Giles. Glass fogging with smoking heat, the red
second hand ticking like a leaky faucet, Coffee burning on
the hot plate, turntable, purring there. I am twenty something,
white eyed, grinned at the world. Throw a might no
(03:16):
bigger than my fist. Believe in, if I said it
just right, somebody out there would feel a little less alone.
Well that's my start, maybe before the laugh, before the fame,
even before the snow, Just Giles Perry Richardson Junior, trying
to make the nights sound alive. Stick around, cats and kittens.
We're just spinning the e side of this tail up
(03:37):
next Act two, when the DJ was king, Act too.
When the DJ was king. By the mid fifties, old
Giles here had traded Sunday shoes for a stack of
wax and a mic that never cooled down. We were
riding faders down in Beaumont, k t r M, where
the walls sweated and the tubes glowed like the Texas
(03:59):
sun shine. And brother, let me tell you be in
a disc jockey back then, Oh, it was like being royalty.
We weren't just announcing tunes. We were the ring masters,
boss jocks. Start a dance in Dallas, sell out a
sockop and port Arthur, all with a wink and a spin.
Our voices were the crowns and every good evening, y'all.
It was a royal decree from the Kingdom of Rhythm.
(04:20):
I kick off the midnight show and call it the
Bop Parade, stacking the hottest wax from record labels like
Sun and Chess and Specialty. Oh, Fats Domino and Clyde McPhatter,
Big Joe Turner, cats who could really make that transistor smoke?
Oh yeah, I'd write the fader talk between the beats,
keep that night moving, and we were the spark plus
between the records, keeping rock and roll from stulling out.
(04:43):
The thing is I wanted more than spinning them. I
started writing goofy little numbers on coffee stain papers, jokes
and phone calls and rhymey stories. Novelties they used to
call them, songs that were used to make them drin
even with a busted heart. Figured if I could make
folks laugh between the commercial I could make him laugh
on Vinyl two. I'd hang out late after my shift
(05:04):
cutting pretend shows on the old Ampex machine. One night
I hit the talk back and said, ooh, what you doing, sugar?
Then I answered myself real high talking to you, hoody.
Oh yeah. The lightbulbs popping over this big old nogging
a mine. Yeah right there. I knew there was a
character hiding in that microphone. Louder, funny, a little crazier
than plain old Giles could ever be. Didn't have a
(05:26):
name yet, but boy, it shirt had a sound. Imagine
you're there with me. Two seventeen am Beaumont, Texas, midnight laughs,
rattling the rafters. Refiner is blinking red outside inside this
young buck, I had a dream. I leaned into the
mic and practicing being somebody the whole world might remember.
I didn't know it. I didn't know it back then.
But the next laugh that rolled out of my mouth,
(05:47):
well it's still echoing here in heaven. Now, don't you
touch that dow baby. Next stops the diner wear. It
all comes together, chrome jukebox and a record that made
the world say my name at three The diner scene.
All right, now, this is where the story starts to swing.
(06:08):
Picture it. Nineteen fifty eight. I'm rolling past the diner
off Highway sixty nine, and even the windows rolled up. Aha,
I could hear it chattering, jukebox clicking, my whole future
humming and nickel slots and soda fizz, door goes ding.
I step in and right there there's three high school
sweethearts of it in the jukebox. One drops a coin,
punches B seven record, arm slides and the needle kisses
(06:32):
the wax, and out of those tiny speakers comes a
voice that makes the whole joint bust a gut. Hello, baby,
how doggy? That's me? Oh and they all screamed and
they giggle on the dance between the boos. I knew
right then and there that little booth joke I cut
back in Beaumont had gone nation wide. Hot Nuggy. That
was great. Oh that number, Oh it was Shin Tilly Lace.
(06:56):
Shin Tilly Le said a pretty face, that goofy, flirty
sweet talking. Started as a midnight gag, ended up selling
a million. And just like that, Old Giles, Perry Riches
and Junior steps aside. Ready for a new name. The boys,
the boys that the label would say, we need a
name that pops off the radio. Son, I say, how
about something that sounds like what I play? Something big,
(07:19):
something that bops.
Speaker 2 (07:20):
They grin.
Speaker 1 (07:21):
Right then, there my new name, Big Bomper was born.
Oh yeah, takes his side larger than life all paum
made and punchlines. Wasn't just spinning records no more. I
was one worth the ship by day, hit the road
by night, singing my song, laughing my lafe, shaking walls
wherever the juke box pun. Oh yeah, big Bomber, I'm
(07:42):
laughing my way up the charts. Half DJ, half rock
and roll star and full time showman. But fame, fame
just ain't flashbombs and encore, No doggy stick around kittens.
We got to hit the road where busses freeze, crowds
roaring sleep. Well that's just a rumor. He won't get
to that and Act four. Next Act four, Big Bopper
(08:08):
hits the road. I listen't here being a rock and
roll star and a radio boss jacket at the same time. Well,
that's like driving two Cadillacs and opposite directions and trying
off to spell your Texas tab doggie. One night, I'd
be hind the mic and Beaumont spinning fats till the
tubes glow red. Next night, I'm halfway to shreport, standing
on stage under light's hot enough to fry an egg
on this big old noggin. Oh yeah, I'm a big
(08:30):
old boy six foot three pushing three hundred trying to
squeeze into that shoe box dressing room. Oh yeah, honey,
that don't work. Honey. I looked like a bear wrestling
in a broom closet. Then when the spotlight popped, I'd
grab a mic flash of grin and holler hello, be
bit the crowd whoo. They don't lose their minds. And
I loved every minute of it. Afterwards, I'd pack up,
(08:53):
shake hands, sign autographs, hop a bus to the next town,
sleep sitting with a hat pulled down, or maybe not
sleep a tall yep gas station, coffee, greasy burners. It
was wild, weary, and wonderful, and I love They're a
minute of it. Radio changing fast too, though, Television sneaking
in yet, kids staring at screens more than speakers, So
every show feels like they're fighting to keep the magic
(09:15):
alive in the road. It don't love you back, Oh no, sir,
No matter the applause. Next morning starts over from scratch.
Still wouldn't trade it, though, friends from every frequency, Buddy
from love it. He got Richie from California, Dion from
New York City, young cats with guitars and dreams just
as loud as mine. Yeah, we were keeping the rhythm
rolling even when the fields were a wobbling. All right,
(09:38):
join me up on the bus. It's growning down the
frozen highway, snow hitting the glass like hands full of gravel. Inside,
there's laughter and coughs, and somebody's snoring in the back.
I can't buy what's left of the heater, scribbling jokes
for my next show, thinking on my Adrian and my
brand new baby girl waiting back in Texas. Outside white
and endless, inside warm, loud and full of music. Oh yeah,
(10:00):
the road, the road would bust your body, but don't
build your soul though. And me, I'm riding that soul
train straight through the winner of fifty nine, hunting the
next crowd, the next laugh, the next hillo baby, and
shaking off the cold. But every party has got a
last dance, and every tour a final stop. Next up,
I'm gonna tell you what really happened on that winter
(10:20):
night in Iowa. You've seen the movies. This time you're
gonna hear it straight from the Big Bopper himself. Back five,
the night the music died. Next back five. Alrighty, now,
(10:40):
let's set this needle down nice and easy, because this
is where all the grooves meet. We were out on
the winter dance party run Buddy, Holly and Richie Ballins
and Dion and the Belmonts, yours truly and a whole
caravan of pickers, dragging ourselves through the Upper Midwest and
de freeze season. Oh look fine on paper, twenty shows
in twenty some days, but in real life a frozen
(11:03):
marathon with a bus that we is louder than we did.
By the time we rolled into clear Leg, Iowah. We
were held together with cough drops and coffee. But the
surf ball room, now that was a warm miracle, bright lights,
big crowd, dance floor, jumping like July, even though the
world outside was colder than a tax collector's hand. And
shake hoo, doggy. Next stop Fargo to play over in
(11:26):
more Head, another town, another stage, another chance to outrun
the frostbite problem. Was our bus heater Oh it had
died two towns back, and Buddy had about all the
Arctic touring a fella could stum it. He turns to
us and says, I'm charting to playing out of Mason City.
Fly to Fargo, grab a shower and sleep in a
real bed. Oh man, that sounded like heavy with landing gear.
(11:49):
That little beachcrap bonanza was supposed to carry Buddy, Tommy
ass Up and Wheeland Jennings three seat, three boys, simple
as a three court song. But the road's funny like that.
It loves last minute rewrite. I was running a fever,
coughing like an old motor, and that bus felt like
a rolling meat locker. So I looked at Whaling and said, son,
(12:09):
you think you could give up your seat for this
sick man. He just grinned and said, well, if you
can make it to the plane, it's yours. And well
that's how I got a seat net for somebody else.
And then there's young Richie Vallins, all charms, shy smiles
and hit climbing the charts. He and Tommy flipped a
coin for the last spot and call it chance or feet,
(12:30):
but it came up Richie's way. Tommy stayed on the
bus and Richie got the ride. So once the swamping
all saddled, we got four souls lined up for that
midnight hawk out of Mason City. There's Buddy Hawley and
Richie Vallens and me and old Roger Peterson, a young
pilot doing his level best to get us tired boys
a little closer to home. So that's where we were,
(12:51):
that's where we were headed. That's who climbed aboard. The
engines droned low the snow, ticking the fuselage for blink.
There we beat the cold. Buddy's tapping his foot, humming
a tune. He swears, we'll go to number one. Richie
smiling at the window like he's already singing to the moon.
I'm back here thinking how good it's gonna feel to
(13:13):
hold my baby girl. That's when the snowstorms started to
pick up, and the laughing eases. Wind finds its own
tune somewhere deep in that beach grass belly. The engine
coughs just once, then again, skipping the rhythm, needle jumping
the groove. As we say, Buddy's eyes open wide, look
(13:35):
at the pilot for answers. Richie shoots me a look
teenage grin going uncertain. I whisper after myself. Come on, baby,
keep playing, come on, keep plead, keep playing with the
hum falters, cabin shivers, plain twitches left and right, and
then it goes stilling away it don't belong in the sky,
and then no more sound at all, just wind and
(13:56):
heart beats. Suddenly my life flashing before my peepers, play
like a jukebox, flipping your best sides, little niggs, I've
been past, son in my eyes, sweating my palms and
ball coming in like the.
Speaker 3 (14:09):
Whole world and crack crowd roarers and daddy booms, that's
my boy, my first kiss behind the Texico smell of
oil and honeysuckle and a girl named Kim laughing when
I missed for the first time, me thinking.
Speaker 1 (14:22):
Oh Lord, I hope everything feels like this boot camp,
whole boot camp, sea spray and roll call bones aching
from belonging to something bigger. Uniform made me stand tall.
But the radio back home that made me dream K
t R. M. Beaumont booth glowing and records humming my
(14:44):
first good evening y'all and hearing my own voice jump
back like the world answers. And then the diner, Oh,
the diner. Yeah. Teenagers two stepping around the juke box
laughing at my goofy phone call, realizing a silly lie
from a Texas d Jacob can make folks beer across
the map, the stage and the lights and the roar,
(15:04):
thousands singing back, Oh baby, meaning it, and that sound.
Oh that's what I carry into the clouds. The wind rises,
metal trembling, Buddy's praying quiet, and Richie's eyes shut, maybe
seeing his mama's kitchen. I reach in my coat and
pull the tape recorder and flip the switch. One more broadcast.
(15:29):
This is the Big Bobber coming to your life from
somewhere above Iowa. It's cold up here, baby, but the
views something fierce. If you can hear me down there,
Tell Adrian, I'm going. I'm coming home, just taking a
long way. Wings grown ground rises like the tide. I
(15:50):
see the lights of farmhouse and maybe heaven. I whisper,
keep the die warm from the sugar. They say the
music died that night. I figure I just changed frequencies,
buddying Richie mean, we didn't fall, We just we just
switched stations. Act six next Act six, crying, waiting and hoping. Well,
(16:24):
sorry about that last act. Yeah, it just gets to
me every once in a while. But it's quiet now here. Baby,
ain't no static, just a long, steady note that goes
on forever. Folks around here call it Heaven. I call
it the long range Frequency. Been broadcasting on it ever
since that Iowa night. Down there, they built statues, made
(16:45):
movies for my buddies, Buddy with the black room glasses
and Richie with that sweet, sweet voice. And I just
grinned because those boys earned it, earned every bit of it.
But sometimes in the world gets still, somebody remembers the
third name on that manifest and for a heartbeat, my
life comes back. I never wanted glory, just wanted connection.
(17:09):
A DJ turned silence into company and loneliness into laughter.
And That's what I did, and I'm still doing it
now up.
Speaker 2 (17:16):
Here WHVN Heaven Radio, where the playlift mamorins. Every night
I cueue up the greats and Buddy hitting that perfect
chord and Richie's singing about his Donna and all those
cats who made the world dance before they knew it
would break their heart. And every now and again I
(17:36):
spend my own shed telly lace and angels chuckle. When
that first Hello Baby rings out, they tap their halos
like tambourines, and I guess laughter's universal. Even past the
clouds world below slips back into midnight, a lonesome driver
hunts the dial for company, and just for a blink
(17:57):
he catches a signal that shouldn't exist, a deep laugh
and a warm voice saying, this is the Big Bumper,
signing on from w h v N. When the static
folds over and the night keeps driving, don't fret over me, sugar,
I ain't done. I just found another wavelength. And if
you ever need me, just listen. In between the songs,
(18:20):
every time someone laughs, every time it, DJ leans into
the mic and says, good evening, y'all, is just me
smiling from the booth upstairs. No regrets, baby, just just
gratitude for the music and the miles and the miracle
of a little voice carrying this far. This is the
Big Bumper broadcast one last time from the Grade beyond.
(18:42):
Keep your heart tuned to joy, keep your soul on
the beat, and never ever touch that dial, because somewhere
between heaven and Earth you always hear me say hello, baby.
Speaker 1 (18:58):
I hope you enjoyed. Script eighteen, the Big Bopper's final broadcast.
This has been Johnny's dead air podcast. I'm Johnny heartwell in.
Thank you so much for listening.
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of Iheartradiot. Hello, wund there
all you cool cats and daddy o'dolls. Y'all are tuned
into the tip top of the dial, the high side
of the sky, broadcasting live from beautiful downtown Eternity. Here's
(00:20):
your pal behind the pearly microphone, coming through clean and
heavenly from w HV and Heaven Radio. Now I dig this.
Back on Earth, there was a spell when the airwaves
belonged to fellas like me. With a good old voice
and a hot flatter and a wink in your tone,
you could move mountains or at least a gym full
of teenagers. Ah well, I wasn't the biggest name on
(00:41):
the marquis, no sigh. I had friends, though, who could
make a crowd swoon on the first note. Real legends,
the kind that go and make movies about. Maybe that's
why some folks have misplaced my name. But radio is
a funny rascal sugar. Even when you twist the knob
off and the waves keep on riding through clouds, through stars,
even time itself, and somehow someway tonight you found me.
(01:07):
So I'm taking over the afterlive airways to set the
record straight. So here's my story. So keep your dial
right here, right where it is. Baby, don't you dare
touch that knob. You tuned into w HVN Heaven Radio.
And this is script eighteen, the final broadcast, Act one. Hello,
(01:27):
baby man. Now that used to be my famous catchphrase. Well,
I'm getting in my head in myself, ain't I? Before
the world started hollering back to that big old hello.
I was just Giles Perry Richardson Junior, a chunky kid
out of Sibean Pass, Texas, Hotter than a stolen radio
tube down there, and louder than a Sunday sermon. I
(01:47):
grew upon church hymns and golf breezes and that stinky
smell of the refinery. Mama used to say, My mouth
had its own volume. Nob trouble was it only turned
one way. Loud war came. I did my avid time,
learned discipline, learned to listen to the rhythm of the engines.
Then when I came home, what I truly wanted was noise,
music and laughing life through the loudspeaker. So I strolled
(02:11):
into a little old station kat R. M. Beaumont, Pride
of Jefferson County, and I said, y'all looking for somebody
who could talk faster than the record spins. They just
laughed and they hired me right on the spot. There then,
just like that, I'm on the air. Giles Perry Richardson,
junior announcer, part time board up and full time dreamer.
Which but it all back then country twin gospel shout
(02:32):
rhythm and blues that rattle the floorboards. You could feel
the world change it one forty five at a time.
Little Richard pounded pianos in the kindlin Chuck Barrett teaching
guitars to talk in to Elvis. That boy just kicked
the door clean off its engines. I'd cue the wax,
get all close to the mic like and then let
that sweet static roll across Texas. Good evening, Beaumont, Your
(02:55):
bunny Giles coming at you with that hot watch attack.
Grab your gal, hold her tight and let the needle
do the talking. Let's take yell back inside the booth
of Old Giles. Glass fogging with smoking heat, the red
second hand ticking like a leaky faucet, Coffee burning on
the hot plate, turntable, purring there. I am twenty something,
white eyed, grinned at the world. Throw a might no
(03:16):
bigger than my fist. Believe in, if I said it
just right, somebody out there would feel a little less alone.
Well that's my start, maybe before the laugh, before the fame,
even before the snow, Just Giles Perry Richardson Junior, trying
to make the nights sound alive. Stick around, cats and kittens.
We're just spinning the e side of this tail up
(03:37):
next Act two, when the DJ was king, Act too.
When the DJ was king. By the mid fifties, old
Giles here had traded Sunday shoes for a stack of
wax and a mic that never cooled down. We were
riding faders down in Beaumont, k t r M, where
the walls sweated and the tubes glowed like the Texas
(03:59):
sun shine. And brother, let me tell you be in
a disc jockey back then, Oh, it was like being royalty.
We weren't just announcing tunes. We were the ring masters,
boss jocks. Start a dance in Dallas, sell out a
sockop and port Arthur, all with a wink and a spin.
Our voices were the crowns and every good evening, y'all.
It was a royal decree from the Kingdom of Rhythm.
(04:20):
I kick off the midnight show and call it the
Bop Parade, stacking the hottest wax from record labels like
Sun and Chess and Specialty. Oh, Fats Domino and Clyde McPhatter,
Big Joe Turner, cats who could really make that transistor smoke?
Oh yeah, I'd write the fader talk between the beats,
keep that night moving, and we were the spark plus
between the records, keeping rock and roll from stulling out.
(04:43):
The thing is I wanted more than spinning them. I
started writing goofy little numbers on coffee stain papers, jokes
and phone calls and rhymey stories. Novelties they used to
call them, songs that were used to make them drin
even with a busted heart. Figured if I could make
folks laugh between the commercial I could make him laugh
on Vinyl two. I'd hang out late after my shift
(05:04):
cutting pretend shows on the old Ampex machine. One night
I hit the talk back and said, ooh, what you doing, sugar?
Then I answered myself real high talking to you, hoody.
Oh yeah. The lightbulbs popping over this big old nogging
a mine. Yeah right there. I knew there was a
character hiding in that microphone. Louder, funny, a little crazier
than plain old Giles could ever be. Didn't have a
(05:26):
name yet, but boy, it shirt had a sound. Imagine
you're there with me. Two seventeen am Beaumont, Texas, midnight laughs,
rattling the rafters. Refiner is blinking red outside inside this
young buck, I had a dream. I leaned into the
mic and practicing being somebody the whole world might remember.
I didn't know it. I didn't know it back then.
But the next laugh that rolled out of my mouth,
(05:47):
well it's still echoing here in heaven. Now, don't you
touch that dow baby. Next stops the diner wear. It
all comes together, chrome jukebox and a record that made
the world say my name at three The diner scene.
All right, now, this is where the story starts to swing.
(06:08):
Picture it. Nineteen fifty eight. I'm rolling past the diner
off Highway sixty nine, and even the windows rolled up. Aha,
I could hear it chattering, jukebox clicking, my whole future
humming and nickel slots and soda fizz, door goes ding.
I step in and right there there's three high school
sweethearts of it in the jukebox. One drops a coin,
punches B seven record, arm slides and the needle kisses
(06:32):
the wax, and out of those tiny speakers comes a
voice that makes the whole joint bust a gut. Hello, baby,
how doggy? That's me? Oh and they all screamed and
they giggle on the dance between the boos. I knew
right then and there that little booth joke I cut
back in Beaumont had gone nation wide. Hot Nuggy. That
was great. Oh that number, Oh it was Shin Tilly Lace.
(06:56):
Shin Tilly Le said a pretty face, that goofy, flirty
sweet talking. Started as a midnight gag, ended up selling
a million. And just like that, Old Giles, Perry Riches
and Junior steps aside. Ready for a new name. The boys,
the boys that the label would say, we need a
name that pops off the radio. Son, I say, how
about something that sounds like what I play? Something big,
(07:19):
something that bops.
Speaker 2 (07:20):
They grin.
Speaker 1 (07:21):
Right then, there my new name, Big Bomper was born.
Oh yeah, takes his side larger than life all paum
made and punchlines. Wasn't just spinning records no more. I
was one worth the ship by day, hit the road
by night, singing my song, laughing my lafe, shaking walls
wherever the juke box pun. Oh yeah, big Bomber, I'm
(07:42):
laughing my way up the charts. Half DJ, half rock
and roll star and full time showman. But fame, fame
just ain't flashbombs and encore, No doggy stick around kittens.
We got to hit the road where busses freeze, crowds
roaring sleep. Well that's just a rumor. He won't get
to that and Act four. Next Act four, Big Bopper
(08:08):
hits the road. I listen't here being a rock and
roll star and a radio boss jacket at the same time. Well,
that's like driving two Cadillacs and opposite directions and trying
off to spell your Texas tab doggie. One night, I'd
be hind the mic and Beaumont spinning fats till the
tubes glow red. Next night, I'm halfway to shreport, standing
on stage under light's hot enough to fry an egg
on this big old noggin. Oh yeah, I'm a big
(08:30):
old boy six foot three pushing three hundred trying to
squeeze into that shoe box dressing room. Oh yeah, honey,
that don't work. Honey. I looked like a bear wrestling
in a broom closet. Then when the spotlight popped, I'd
grab a mic flash of grin and holler hello, be
bit the crowd whoo. They don't lose their minds. And
I loved every minute of it. Afterwards, I'd pack up,
(08:53):
shake hands, sign autographs, hop a bus to the next town,
sleep sitting with a hat pulled down, or maybe not
sleep a tall yep gas station, coffee, greasy burners. It
was wild, weary, and wonderful, and I love They're a
minute of it. Radio changing fast too, though, Television sneaking
in yet, kids staring at screens more than speakers, So
every show feels like they're fighting to keep the magic
(09:15):
alive in the road. It don't love you back, Oh no, sir,
No matter the applause. Next morning starts over from scratch.
Still wouldn't trade it, though, friends from every frequency, Buddy
from love it. He got Richie from California, Dion from
New York City, young cats with guitars and dreams just
as loud as mine. Yeah, we were keeping the rhythm
rolling even when the fields were a wobbling. All right,
(09:38):
join me up on the bus. It's growning down the
frozen highway, snow hitting the glass like hands full of gravel. Inside,
there's laughter and coughs, and somebody's snoring in the back.
I can't buy what's left of the heater, scribbling jokes
for my next show, thinking on my Adrian and my
brand new baby girl waiting back in Texas. Outside white
and endless, inside warm, loud and full of music. Oh yeah,
(10:00):
the road, the road would bust your body, but don't
build your soul though. And me, I'm riding that soul
train straight through the winner of fifty nine, hunting the
next crowd, the next laugh, the next hillo baby, and
shaking off the cold. But every party has got a
last dance, and every tour a final stop. Next up,
I'm gonna tell you what really happened on that winter
(10:20):
night in Iowa. You've seen the movies. This time you're
gonna hear it straight from the Big Bopper himself. Back five,
the night the music died. Next back five. Alrighty, now,
(10:40):
let's set this needle down nice and easy, because this
is where all the grooves meet. We were out on
the winter dance party run Buddy, Holly and Richie Ballins
and Dion and the Belmonts, yours truly and a whole
caravan of pickers, dragging ourselves through the Upper Midwest and
de freeze season. Oh look fine on paper, twenty shows
in twenty some days, but in real life a frozen
(11:03):
marathon with a bus that we is louder than we did.
By the time we rolled into clear Leg, Iowah. We
were held together with cough drops and coffee. But the
surf ball room, now that was a warm miracle, bright lights,
big crowd, dance floor, jumping like July, even though the
world outside was colder than a tax collector's hand. And
shake hoo, doggy. Next stop Fargo to play over in
(11:26):
more Head, another town, another stage, another chance to outrun
the frostbite problem. Was our bus heater Oh it had
died two towns back, and Buddy had about all the
Arctic touring a fella could stum it. He turns to
us and says, I'm charting to playing out of Mason City.
Fly to Fargo, grab a shower and sleep in a
real bed. Oh man, that sounded like heavy with landing gear.
(11:49):
That little beachcrap bonanza was supposed to carry Buddy, Tommy
ass Up and Wheeland Jennings three seat, three boys, simple
as a three court song. But the road's funny like that.
It loves last minute rewrite. I was running a fever,
coughing like an old motor, and that bus felt like
a rolling meat locker. So I looked at Whaling and said, son,
(12:09):
you think you could give up your seat for this
sick man. He just grinned and said, well, if you
can make it to the plane, it's yours. And well
that's how I got a seat net for somebody else.
And then there's young Richie Vallins, all charms, shy smiles
and hit climbing the charts. He and Tommy flipped a
coin for the last spot and call it chance or feet,
(12:30):
but it came up Richie's way. Tommy stayed on the
bus and Richie got the ride. So once the swamping
all saddled, we got four souls lined up for that
midnight hawk out of Mason City. There's Buddy Hawley and
Richie Vallens and me and old Roger Peterson, a young
pilot doing his level best to get us tired boys
a little closer to home. So that's where we were,
(12:51):
that's where we were headed. That's who climbed aboard. The
engines droned low the snow, ticking the fuselage for blink.
There we beat the cold. Buddy's tapping his foot, humming
a tune. He swears, we'll go to number one. Richie
smiling at the window like he's already singing to the moon.
I'm back here thinking how good it's gonna feel to
(13:13):
hold my baby girl. That's when the snowstorms started to
pick up, and the laughing eases. Wind finds its own
tune somewhere deep in that beach grass belly. The engine
coughs just once, then again, skipping the rhythm, needle jumping
the groove. As we say, Buddy's eyes open wide, look
(13:35):
at the pilot for answers. Richie shoots me a look
teenage grin going uncertain. I whisper after myself. Come on, baby,
keep playing, come on, keep plead, keep playing with the
hum falters, cabin shivers, plain twitches left and right, and
then it goes stilling away it don't belong in the sky,
and then no more sound at all, just wind and
(13:56):
heart beats. Suddenly my life flashing before my peepers, play
like a jukebox, flipping your best sides, little niggs, I've
been past, son in my eyes, sweating my palms and
ball coming in like the.
Speaker 3 (14:09):
Whole world and crack crowd roarers and daddy booms, that's
my boy, my first kiss behind the Texico smell of
oil and honeysuckle and a girl named Kim laughing when
I missed for the first time, me thinking.
Speaker 1 (14:22):
Oh Lord, I hope everything feels like this boot camp,
whole boot camp, sea spray and roll call bones aching
from belonging to something bigger. Uniform made me stand tall.
But the radio back home that made me dream K
t R. M. Beaumont booth glowing and records humming my
(14:44):
first good evening y'all and hearing my own voice jump
back like the world answers. And then the diner, Oh,
the diner. Yeah. Teenagers two stepping around the juke box
laughing at my goofy phone call, realizing a silly lie
from a Texas d Jacob can make folks beer across
the map, the stage and the lights and the roar,
(15:04):
thousands singing back, Oh baby, meaning it, and that sound.
Oh that's what I carry into the clouds. The wind rises,
metal trembling, Buddy's praying quiet, and Richie's eyes shut, maybe
seeing his mama's kitchen. I reach in my coat and
pull the tape recorder and flip the switch. One more broadcast.
(15:29):
This is the Big Bobber coming to your life from
somewhere above Iowa. It's cold up here, baby, but the
views something fierce. If you can hear me down there,
Tell Adrian, I'm going. I'm coming home, just taking a
long way. Wings grown ground rises like the tide. I
(15:50):
see the lights of farmhouse and maybe heaven. I whisper,
keep the die warm from the sugar. They say the
music died that night. I figure I just changed frequencies,
buddying Richie mean, we didn't fall, We just we just
switched stations. Act six next Act six, crying, waiting and hoping. Well,
(16:24):
sorry about that last act. Yeah, it just gets to
me every once in a while. But it's quiet now here. Baby,
ain't no static, just a long, steady note that goes
on forever. Folks around here call it Heaven. I call
it the long range Frequency. Been broadcasting on it ever
since that Iowa night. Down there, they built statues, made
(16:45):
movies for my buddies, Buddy with the black room glasses
and Richie with that sweet, sweet voice. And I just
grinned because those boys earned it, earned every bit of it.
But sometimes in the world gets still, somebody remembers the
third name on that manifest and for a heartbeat, my
life comes back. I never wanted glory, just wanted connection.
(17:09):
A DJ turned silence into company and loneliness into laughter.
And That's what I did, and I'm still doing it
now up.
Speaker 2 (17:16):
Here WHVN Heaven Radio, where the playlift mamorins. Every night
I cueue up the greats and Buddy hitting that perfect
chord and Richie's singing about his Donna and all those
cats who made the world dance before they knew it
would break their heart. And every now and again I
(17:36):
spend my own shed telly lace and angels chuckle. When
that first Hello Baby rings out, they tap their halos
like tambourines, and I guess laughter's universal. Even past the
clouds world below slips back into midnight, a lonesome driver
hunts the dial for company, and just for a blink
(17:57):
he catches a signal that shouldn't exist, a deep laugh
and a warm voice saying, this is the Big Bumper,
signing on from w h v N. When the static
folds over and the night keeps driving, don't fret over me, sugar,
I ain't done. I just found another wavelength. And if
you ever need me, just listen. In between the songs,
(18:20):
every time someone laughs, every time it, DJ leans into
the mic and says, good evening, y'all, is just me
smiling from the booth upstairs. No regrets, baby, just just
gratitude for the music and the miles and the miracle
of a little voice carrying this far. This is the
Big Bumper broadcast one last time from the Grade beyond.
(18:42):
Keep your heart tuned to joy, keep your soul on
the beat, and never ever touch that dial, because somewhere
between heaven and Earth you always hear me say hello, baby.
Speaker 1 (18:58):
I hope you enjoyed. Script eighteen, the Big Bopper's final broadcast.
This has been Johnny's dead air podcast. I'm Johnny heartwell in.
Thank you so much for listening.
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