On February 3, 1959, Buddy Holly died in the same plane crash that killed Ritchie Valens and J.P. Richardson, otherwise known as the Big Bopper, and yet rock and roll lives on. That, at any rate, is the moral of “Buddy,” the docu-musical that just flew into the Shubert. People committed to this proposition had probably better steer clear of the show: it would only disillusion them.
“Buddy,” which opened November 4 and features Paul Hipp in the title role, is the first embarrassing musical of the season, and that’s too bad, because it might have been fun. Buddy Holly was no genius; but he wrote some good tunes and he had a certain inimitable style. Unfortunately, Mr. Hipp is not capable of putting over either the songs or the style. Where Holly had a sort of geeky innocence, Mr. Hipp has only geekiness, which in stage terms translates into a monumental lack of presence. Moreover, Mr. Hipp’s vocal range is such that he has to sing all the high bits a sixth or so below.
The show, which is a London import—Mr. Hipp is reprising the performance he originated in the West End—is subtitled “The Buddy Holly Story” and the tale it tells is not substantially different from the 1978 film of the same name, except for being slightly less sophisticated. The first act is devoted to the rise of Buddy Holly and the Crickets—their transformation from promising country-and-western trio into top-of-the-charts rock band. (There’s a lot here about Holly’s humble origins in Lubbock, Texas, and his brothers in the tiling business, and even more about the villainy of country-and-western versus the vitality of rock and roll.) Much of the second half consists of a simulation of the concert that took place the night before the fateful plane crash. (The ominous foreshadowings come thick and fast, and one longs for a machete.) What turns out to be unfortunate in the stage version is the way the story is used to suggest that Holly’s music broke down racial barriers. This is particularly troublesome in the sequence in which the band, having been mistakenly booked into the Apollo Theatre, proceeds to win the heart of Harlem. Because Mr. Hipp isn’t very good at what he’s doing, and all the black members of the company have to look as though he were, the show ends up duplicating the way in which black culture has traditionally been co-opted by whites.
“Buddy” was directed by Rob Bettinson, designed by Andy Walmsley, lighted by Graham McLusky, and costumed by Bill Butler and Carolyn Smith. It has a book by Alan Hanes and ghastly musical direction by Paul Jury (who manages to ruin some of the simplest orchestrations in musical history). It was co-produced by David Mirvish, of the Canadian Mirvishes, who own most of Toronto, including the Royal Alexandria Theatre, and also have interests in London, where the show evidently did well. This is no doubt a continuing sign of something, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.
Mimi Kramer
The New Yorker, November 19, 1990