In 1959 a small airplane crashed into an Iowa field just minutes after takeoff. Aboard that plane, one of music's greatest vocalists and visionaries. A cold blizzard scuttled across the wreckage, obscuring it; the silence was deafening. Back at home, a beautiful wife carried his child, yet grief would take the child as well. He wasn't just a rocker, he was a composer. A Mozart. But most of the world saw him as a stuttering clown in black-framed glasses. Buddy Holly, RIP.