On Feb. 3, 1959, a trio of young rockers—-J.P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson, Ritchie Valens and Buddy Holly—-simultaneously lost their lives in a plane crash shortly after take-off. The day became a tragic anniversary in the annals of music history and became known to fans of rock-and-roll as “The Day The Music Died.”

For those who weren’t fans of the performers, it was probably considered an unfortunate accident wasting the potential of three young men. But to their followers, losing Holly, Richardson and Valens represented lost masterpieces and dreams deferred. They likely saw bits of themselves inside each of the artists, heard their heart’s desires within the lyrics and felt the joy of being set free each time they danced in time with the rhythms from the jukeboxes and 45s. Music was a calling, an escape from the doldrums and a universal language that connected them to others who would instantly relate and understand.

My parents were grade schoolers in 1959, meaning I had yet to exist. But due to the back-to-back losses of musicians that we’ve experienced over the last twelve months, I’m pretty sure that I can relate to what they felt and that this year will become entitled, eventually, as “The Year That Music Died.”

Unless this is the first time you’ve read something penned by yours truly, it’s probably obvious by now that I enjoy music. Thanks to my parents, I grew up surrounded by stacks of vinyl albums and eagerly waited in front of the TV on Saturdays for episodes of Soul Train. I attended my first concert at the ripe old age of seven and now own a collection of hits so massive that it would make a DJ jealous. Music brings me peace, joy, contentment and offers me hope in a world that can often seem bereft of it. So many of the losses we experienced struck me just as deeply and as personally as if they had been my own family members and friends. I didn’t come in contact with all of them personally, but their styles and artistic influences moved me all the same.

As I type this, fourteen artists departed this life, practically one for each month of 2016. Some of them, like Keith Emerson (Emerson, Lake & Palmer), songwriter Leonard Cohen and country performer Joey Fleek, for example, never really registered on my radar, but I respected their legacies and contributions. Others like David Bowie, Merle Haggard and funk-soul singer Sharon Jones, remained unfamiliar but still were enjoyed from time to time. But the losses of Maurice White (Feb. 4), Malik “Phife Dawg” Taylor (March 23), Prince (April 21) and George Michael (Dec. 25) left me in various stages of numbness, disbelief and tears. If music was my “yellow brick road,” their deaths represented irreparable cracks and sinkholes. I cannot imagine a party without hearing “September,” never witnessing the funk and rock genius of Purple Rain, going without the cool and witty couplets heard in “Buggin’ Out” or missing the irresistible bubble-gum pop of “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” They were flawed human beings, just like the rest of us, but by tapping into their talents and sharing those gifts, these artists left the world a better place.

Time, as the saying goes, eventually heals all wounds. I can get through the hits, most of the time, without feeling a lump in the throat or tears crowding my eyes. I recall being lucky enough to have attended Prince’s Musicology tour, the honor of speaking with Maurice White for a written feature and excitedly clutching Phife Dawg for a photo after a Dallas show. All I can hope for today is that each one of these performers now exist as shining examples—or cautionary tales—for future musicians. And even if we’re unable to agree on who might have been ‘the best,’ we can definitely agree that, as far as this year is concerned, 2017 can’t arrive fast enough.