Don McLean's "American Pie"

Four generations react in the early 1970s

Earlier this month via YouTube, I heard a British singer and pianist in his twenties say that “American Pie” was the greatest song of all time and “Vincent” was not too far behind. Don McLean’s music continues to be meaningful half a century later.

This scene and dialogue in my new novel, Above All Shadows Rides the Sun, involve four generations responding to McLean’s “American Pie”. They are responding, more broadly to the shifts in culture and society over the previous decade or so.

This is the first time in the novels that characters from my own generation make an appearance. Bodo and Diego, GenX children, take the new cultural milieu for granted and just enjoy it.

(A friend of mine and I realized last year that we both belted out the lyrics of this song when we were in elementary school, and he remembers belting out all the lyrics by the time he was seven and maybe by the time he was six. Which I found amusing and built the scene around.)

Ren, from the Big Band Generation and in his fifties, rejects the cultural change. Dylan and his sister Bronwyn, from the Folk Generation and in their thirties, accept it without quite understanding it. And Yale, the Boomer grad student, thinks he’s cracked the code and understands what the song means.

Denver

January 29, 1973

Another of our favorite songs is by Don McLean.  “Vincent” is McLean’s tribute to Vincent Van Gogh and a profound lament for humanity’s tragic loss after the artist’s years of battles with his bipolar demons.  It’s a calming and exquisitely beautiful song yet a haunting song about heartbreaking struggle and pain.  It touches us and moves us with into real depth of feeling.

“The evocative lilt of his singing voice,” observes Bronwyn, as she arrives with her son Bodo and one of Bodo’s friends.  “A brilliant song, a perfect song.”

“Packed with meaning,” I agree. 

“A thing of beauty,” says Yale.  “It will endure through the ages.” 

My nephew Bodo is turning seven today and has already had a birthday party with his friends.  Yale and I each has a gift for him, and Ren is joining us to bring his gift and play a few card games tonight.  So it’s a small second party.

            “Everyone,” says Bronwyn, “this is Bodo’s friend, Diego Apodaca.  He turned six in November.”

I say “hey Ace” to Diego and shake his hand.  Then I jostle Bodo’s hair.  “Hey Champ, why don’t you do your Don McLean performance?”

            “Sure,” he says.  He places the eight-track cassette of “American Pie” in my player, cranks up the volume, and leaves the room with Diego.  I press play, and seconds later the two of them come gliding back in.  Seven-year-old Bodo and six-year-old Diego entertain the rest of us – with some serious concern about Bronwyn’s parenting on Ren’s face – by belting out all the lyrics, every single line, of “American Pie”.

            They’re driving their Chevy to the levee but finding it dry.  Good ole boys are drinking whiskey and rye while sure that this will be the day that they die.  The church bells all are broken as the three men they admire most – the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost – catch the last train for the coast, “the day the music died”.  

Bronwyn, Yale, and I love this song and we join Bodo and Diego in singing the final stanzas.

But Ren speaks for most of America’s elders when he cracks, “We are witnessing the final collapse of our civilization.”   

“C’mon, Cousin,” Bronwyn says.

“Listen, Bodo, Champ,” says Ren.  “And Diego.  No one’s questioning your talent.  Very impressed with your singing.”

Bodo beams.  “Thank you, Uncle Ren.”

“But,” Ren asks, looking sternly at Bronwyn, “what are the values of the song?”

“None of us knows what this song means,” I say.  “Buddy Holly’s death can only account for a few lines out of the eight minutes.  The song’s a mystery.  I’ve listened to it a hundred times.  No idea what it means.”

“Me too,” says Bronwyn.  “No idea.  But c’mon, Ren, this song is pure magic.”

Bodo and Diego look sheepish but don’t seem sure they should have to.  Ren continues his disapproving glares toward Bronwyn and me.

"Now hold on, everybody,” says Yale.  “Of course the song has meaning.  It’s not only about the death of Buddy Holly.  It’s about the death of a more innocent time, the 1950s, and the death of innocence.  The turbulence of the 1960s.  Excessive drug use, people burning out from drugs.  And how – from the drug abuse, turbulence, and loss of innocence – everyone’s arriving in the 1970s disillusioned.”

“Not bad at all, Yale,” I say.

“And it’s about music,” he tells us.  “Folk music that was candid and pure.  Traditional 1950s rock ‘n’ roll that just made you feel happy.  How music used to be, the music and the messages. 

“He is praising Woodie Guthrie, Pete Seeger, and Bob Dylan.  He’s criticizing the Beatles and the corporate music machine for drowning out other voices while they churn out each song as a nice, neat, packaged product.  He’s against excessive drug use in the music scene, like he sees with the band the Byrds.  He thinks Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones are evil.  He’s saying that our values are going askew and our culture is being ruined.”

“Very impressive, Yale,” I say.

“That’s good,” Bronwyn tells him.  “Excellent.”

Yale’s talk has mystified Bodo and Diego. 

“I had no idea it meant all that,” says Bodo.

“I thought it was just a fun song,” says Diego.

Ren has been raising his eyebrows as Yale’s been speaking.  “You all think I judged the song too quickly.”  He shakes his head but also relaxes his scowl.