A day of rest for Buck Owens at the Crystal Palace - By N.L. Belardes

Memorial outside of Crystal Palace


CMT gives an interview








Mourners walk away from the viewing


Later as I headed home, the Fox Theatre remembers Buck Owens


A day of rest for Buck Owens at the Crystal Palace:


I didn’t snap a photo of her, but she existed. I watched her today; the lady with the big blonde platinum hairdo that looked more like a wig than a headful of natural hair. She wore a big black white-trimmed cowboy hat, a long black coat, black blouse, and black trousers with a large oval champion-style belt buckle that would surely have made Buck proud. She walked around the Buck Owens’ Enterprise building toward the area where long lines had been expected to gather to view Buck Owens’ body. The line was to have stretched around the Crystal Palace, and then beneath awnings where a zigzag white picket fence wound like a maze toward the building. She bypassed all that and continued to walk to the Crystal Palace, around the back, and through a foul waft that made me think of death, though it was surely just the odor of garbage bins lingering in the air. Workers and security guards along the way reminded us that no cell phones or cameras were to be used. They smiled strangely, politely, in a moment unlike any restaurant moment I have ever seen. This was the Crystal Palace, an Old West style theatre-restaurant where food was served, cowgirls and cowboys danced on the wooden floors and Buck Owens and friends sang fiery tunes in music-filled nights that often tore past the midnight hour.

For a moment I didn’t see the lady with the black hat. At the entrance to the Crystal Palace media folks lingered near the entrance, hopeful to gather interviews of haunting final moments of Buck Owens as he lay dead inside. A disheveled reporter stood nearby with a white media sticker stuck to his large blue collared shirt. He had a head of tousled grey hair, goatee and black bushy eyebrows. A pair of glasses on his head almost seemed too large for his face. He held a notepad and pencil, ready to pounce on his next media prey, while several reporters with video and still cameras hovered close by.



I took a deep breath and walked into the Crystal Palace. Several girls wore black and stood near guest books, some at podiums. This was Buck’s biggest performance and they had to wear smiles for him, though they seemed uncomfortable in their nervous half-grins. I signed one of the guest books on the very last line and caught a glimpse of the lady with the black hat at the counter signing a book.

From where I stood I could see into the darkness of the theatre and restaurant. I didn’t feel or hear the familiar raucous air of what should have been inside. There was no clink of plates, or loud live country music. Bodies didn’t go hustling past toward the dance floor.

I first noticed flowers. Upon entering the Crystal Palace theatre and restaurant, the stage is immediately to the front. Normally you can walk to the left or to the right going around the stage through walkways of Buck Owens’ memorabilia on glass shelves: red-white-and blue guitars, clothes, photos and documents. Not today. The entrance led to the left and into an opening on the side of the stage to the dinner-theatre where a grand display of flowers met the eye. Far above that glowed the yellow neon letters of “Buck Owens”. Right away I was reminded of the explosion above the Crystal Palace the night Buck Owens died and how colorful that must have been. That night I had been sitting right across the street at Denny’s eating hotcakes when the power went out twice around midnight. Was Buck Owens’ spirit so energetic that it ripped out lights in nearby buildings, left Buck Owens’ own drummer awestruck at such a strange eerie sight, then put all the lights out at the Crystal Palace?

I stepped further into the room. At first I had to orient myself to where Buck Owens lay. So many flowers adorned the room that I had to walk further to see the edge of his casket set right in the middle of the wooden dance floor. Above that on the stage stood three of Buck’s guitars lit like trophies: a white Telecaster, acoustic, and red-white-and-blue Telecaster. They seemed odd in their well-lit position on stands and in need of being picked up, tuned and played. Behind them on several screens floated just a few images of Buck Owens, who in his youth looked like a handsome rocker from the streets of Bakersfield and thrust into country stardom with tough fists and an even tougher guitar.

Rounding a corner I stopped before Buck’s body came into view. I hung on a railing for a moment and just looked at all the flowers. A barricade had been set up so people couldn’t’ get close to Buck’s body. While looking out at the sea of flowers surrounding Buck, more flowers filled tables lining the walkway that in an eerie way gave a colorful frame to the old car that hangs from the bar that Elvis once owned. Elvis hadn’t seen the car in two years when Buck bought it for eleven grand off a tailor he and Elvis shared. What did the tailor care? He had another just like it.

The top of Buck Owens’ casket was filled with an explosion of dozens of bright red roses. Surrounding the casket were many wreaths, some in the shape of red-white-and-blue guitars, with one having a banner that read “The Don Rich Family”. I wondered what Buck would look like, but didn’t for one second think of turning back around. I stepped further along the railing and saw Buck Owens’ face lit in the preserved sleep of embalmed death. His face shrunken, he was a shadowy reminder of a legend wrapped in the dignity of a country music nobleman. He wore a red shirt and black coat, while one of his trademark black hats lay in his lap, covering his hands. I looked around the room, at a few forlorn faces, people who probably didn’t know Buck either, but who were drawn by the power of pop culture and Buck’s rhythms in their lives.

As I was leaving I heard “Act Naturally” begin to play and thought about when the Buck Owen’s Story would hit the big screen. In the blackness and color of the room echoed Buck’s voice, “They’re gonna put me in the movies. They’re gonna make a big star out of me. They’ll make a film about a man who’s sad and lonely, and all I gotta do is act naturally…”

Just then I saw the lady with the black hat walk to the barrier in front of Buck’s casket. She rested her elbows on the railing and looked forward at Buck’s body and surrounding flowers. After a moment she wiped away a tear, fixed her hat and started moving on… I kept moving too and soon exited past the same reporters who had been outside before from the local news stations and CMT. I headed around the side of the Crystal Palace and was approached by a young Asian-American reporter from a local Bakersfield television station. She asked if I wanted to give an interview. At first I didn’t want to talk as I was busy reflecting on the moment. But then I decided I would.

She asked about the atmosphere and what I saw. I thought for a moment and described the casket and flowers. I told her inside was a great tribute and that people should come down and pay their respects. After all, if people understood and appreciated the city’s most famous icon ever, then why wouldn’t they come and pay Buck Owens the respect he deserves. But then, Bakersfield is a complacent town, a town that complains when its own students protest and traffic has to be diverted, a town that would probably mostly complain and mutter about traffic again and not drive down to the Crystal Palace where Buck Owens lay; a town that will sit at home and watch Buck Owens’ funeral tomorrow, because they’re sitting at home anyways, too complacent to attend, too complacent and yet too curious to change the channel.

This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on Saturday, April 01, 2006. You can leave your response.