February 2, 2025

Dancing Through History in Clear Lake, Iowa

 


Dancing Through History in Clear Lake, Iowa
Todd Swank's Diary Entry for February 2, 2025


This week I spent two nights in Houston at Oracle's Data & AI Forum, a great event where I had the chance to meet with several customers and prospects. It’s clear that every company is eager to figure out how they can leverage generative AI to drive their business forward, and I’m fortunate to work for an awesome company like Oracle that delivers the powerful solutions they need to make that happen.

Friday night, we hit the road with our good friends Sue and Ron Korkowski, heading to Clear Lake, Iowa, for the Winter Dance Party. But first, we carbo-loaded at The Other Place (The OP) with pizza and sandwiches—because nothing says "ready to dance" like a belly full of melted cheese and regret.


While grabbing dinner, I ran into one of my oldest friends, Randy Chesterman. Back when I was in elementary school in Mason City, Randy worked at The Record Vault—an awesome record store back when those were still a thing. I’d walk to Regency Mall and pester him while he was trying to do his job, flipping through vinyl like I actually knew what I was looking at. Little did I know, the guy behind the counter would go on to become The Voice of North Iowa and land himself in the Iowa Rock and Roll Hall of Fame… and I was just the annoying kid in the background of his origin story.

My home town of Clear Lake, Iowa is home to the Surf Ballroom, the site of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper’s final show before the day the music died. But in true Midwest fashion, we turned tragedy into a party. The Winter Dance Party started in 1979 and has been rocking ever since, proving that in Clear Lake, the music doesn’t die—it just gets louder.


It was Sue’s idea to hit this year’s Winter Dance Party, and somehow Miss Sheri and I had never been. Since we were back in town, we went all in—right down to visiting the crash site in the middle of a frozen cornfield. Back in high school, it was just an empty field with a grim story. Now, they’ve got Buddy Holly’s giant glasses marking the spot, making it easier to find tragedy with a side of photo op.


It was freezing cold with the kind of wind that feels like it’s trying to slap some sense into you. I’d been to the crash site a few times, but I forgot how far you have to trek into the cornfield to reach it. By the time we got there, I couldn’t feel my face, but at least the memorial looked more elaborate than I remembered. Lots of tributes. Probably because people were trying to distract themselves from the frostbite.


Replicas of their most popular records were front and center, surrounded by a random assortment of oddities—some weird coins, a bunch of guitar picks, fake flowers trying their best to look alive, and an unexpected collection of sunglasses. Because when you're paying tribute to rock 'n' roll icons, nothing says respect quite like turning their crash site into a lost-and-found for accessories.


We hit up the Rockin' N Boppin' Record Show during the Winter Dance Party, where you can find everything from vinyl and vintage posters to cassette decks that probably still have mix tapes from 1987 stuck inside. Sue went to school with Bobby Vee's kids, so every time we spotted one of his albums, we made sure to shove it in her face. Judging by her smile, it worked like a charm—either that or she’s just really good at humoring us.


Krazy Kory rolled in to meet us for dinner at Prime N Wine, one of our Mason City favorites. We only had a couple of hours with him, but when you’re dining with a guy called Krazy Kory, that’s basically a full weekend’s worth of entertainment packed into one meal.

The Winter Dance Party runs for three nights, but we only needed Saturday to get our fix. The opening act? A wild group of ladies called The Midnight Cowgirls. Imagine if country, new wave, post-punk, and rockabilly had a chaotic love child, and then dressed it up in cowboy hats and glitter. They’re like the soundtrack to a rodeo that accidentally wandered into a punk rock dive bar—and somehow, it works.


Ran into Nelson Crabb, the long-time mayor of Clear Lake. Every time he sees me, he brings up that high school party where I tried to make a swift exit and ended up face-first in his rose bushes. He’s been mayor for over 20 years now, which is impressive, especially considering he’s still willing to talk to the kid who used his landscaping as a crash pad. The city’s in good hands… even if my dignity isn’t.


I always seem to run into Chris Barragy when I’m back in Clear Lake. He’s a fantastic photographer, covering all the big events—aka, the exact places I tend to show up and distract him. I’ve known his family since high school, so it’s always great to see him, even if I’m basically the human equivalent of a photo bomb while he’s trying to do his job.


Next up were Albert Lee and Jeremy Clyde—absolute legends with resumes longer than a CVS receipt. Albert’s been shredding guitars with everyone from Clapton to Emmylou Harris, and Jeremy’s got hits and acting chops to spare. But despite all that star power, their set had us feeling less like we were at a rock show and more like we were waiting for our turn at the DMV.

The Duprees hit the stage and suddenly it felt like we’d wandered into a live version of Jersey Boys. Smooth harmonies, sharp suits, and songs that made you feel like you should be slow dancing in a high school gym circa 1962. I actually enjoyed a lot of their set, but halfway through I started checking over my shoulder for a mob boss in the corner booth giving someone the nod.


Miss Sheri was floored when she turned around and saw Lynne Jensen, an old friend from her Camp Sunnyside days. One minute she’s jamming out at the Winter Dance Party, the next she’s back in her college years, reminiscing about summer camp adventures. Turns out Lynne’s moving to Clear Lake—because apparently, small-world moments come with a change of address.


Chubby Checker closed out the night, and I’ll be honest—I was expecting a nostalgic shuffle and maybe a polite wave goodbye. But no, the man’s 83 and performed like he had a time machine stashed backstage. He had the crowd twisting, shouting, and hanging on every move for 90 minutes straight without so much as a water break. I went in skeptical and came out wondering if I need to hit the gym just to keep up with Chubby.


We had way more fun at the Winter Dance Party than any of us expected. Sure, standing by the stage all night left our feet screaming for mercy, but honestly, it was worth it. By the end, we were all wondering—could this become an annual thing? I mean, if the day the music died taught us anything, it’s that you gotta enjoy the tunes while you still can.

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