Forty-seven seconds. I guess Pavel had to get to his concrete apartment block before curfew. Maybe the commies were rationing notes back then. Maybe Pavel couldn’t sing for more than a minute without passing out because all he had to eat that day was a cube of suet, a slice of bread cut on a bandsaw, and a shot glass of sour acidophilus milk.

You must admit, though; it’s forty-seven seconds of concentrated awesome. Buddy Holly wasn’t a musician. He was a savior sprung from Eisenhower’s fivehead descending from the heavens in a Cadillac chariot pulled by Sun records. .