I already have two strikes against me: one, I am a Yankee, two a girl. I don't want to strike out because I'm a teetotaler, especially since I quickly surmise that this bunch of headstrong chauvinists casts wary eyes on the nondrinking population. After all, they are from Jacksonville, Florida — moonshine terrain — and anyone who can swallow Mother Nature's attempt at nailpolish remover and not frown can tipple to next Thursday and not notice. I know that there is no way I'm going to keep up with this bunch of barflies. However, even Lynyrd Skynyrd can get their whistles a little too wet— and after that it's only a matter of time before they're in their cups... on the floor, on the table...

As Gary Rossington gets fuzzier around the edges, he loosens his muzzle a little, and, bending towards little ol' Yankee me, reveals in all sincerity that he is a redneck. "I was born and brought up that way, and I still am a redneck, to this very day."

"Yeah?" I respond, non-plussed, waiting for him to continue, or at least

Icansee

an end to Lynyrd Skynyrd... It's scary to me because this is the way I make my living and it's destroying my body.

tell me some juicy tales of nigger skinninas and tar-and-featherings.

"Well..." he drawls slowly, "I just grew my hair long so it would cover my Photos by Michael N. Marks red neck." He cracks up, chuckling at his own bad joke as he unconsciously twirls a long brown strand around his index finger.

While Rossington may claim to be a strict shit kicker, back in the "mean" Sixties Gary — along with Ronnie Van Zant. and Alan Collins — was just another friggin' hippie, particularly to one bigoted gym coach, a certain Leonard Skinner — who saw to it that the guys were suspended from high school indefinitely until they sheared the lengthy locks. They refused and never did get their diplomas. But they did get back at the old jock with the subtlest (for them) of nosethumbs, honoring Mr. Skinner by naming their rock 'n' roll band after him — taking care to change all the vowels in the skinhead's name to protect the guilty — Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Just to show how times have changed in the land of cotton, Gary offers an update on the old folks at home, and especially Leonard Skinner, who now reigns as the Cal Worthington of Northern Florida all because of his former pupils. "Well, Leonard no longer teaches school. He divorced his wife and got long hair and sideburns and goes out with chicks. You know we make him real popular. He's in real estate now and is really doing good. People call him up and say they know us — apd buy houses from him."

So all is forgiven. Lovely. Alan gets up to punch out the juke box. He presses some buttons and returns to his seat. Big time spender.

"City girls just seem to find out early..." warble the Eagles.

"Hey I didn't play 'Lying Eyes!' Alan roars at no one in particular. "The last time I got off the road and came home, the first thing my wife did was play that song. That reially hurt. I'm only home six weeks out of a whole year and then that."

"I didn't know you were —" I start.

"Shit, I've been married for five years now. I was 18, and Kathy was 17, she was knocked up. But it wasn't any shotgun deal — I love the shit out of the .girl. At first she was wild — Seconal and acid — but marriage has settled her down. She's a good wife and mother..: but shit, I see all of them more than I see her," he whines pointing an unsteady finger around the table. "She's probably at the Naval Academy right now occupying herself while I'm away."

Alan is doing a good job of consoling himself with double Jack Daniels — every time he tries to drown a sorrow it uncannily resurfaces. He's lonely for his lady back home and the only way to shake it is to get laid, he figures. And almost any willing long-legged lady would do ("Lyin' Eyes" indeed), but itjls unlikqly he'll find any amorous company draping their fine frames around this formica bar. The clientele is an odd combination of pinstriped Republicans and low-rent pimps. Determined, Alan frantically scans the naugahyde booths for local talent. Scowling about his lack of success he heads back in the direction of the jukebox in search of sonic solace.

Beyond his shoulder I espy Ronnie Van Zant nuzzling up to the bar and despend on the lead singer/chief rabble rouser. r

"What's that? A Bloody Mary?" I inquire of Ronnie, in reference to the reddish potion at which he is sipping.

"Just tomato juice," comes the somewhat gruff response. "I only drink when I'm working."

Right. That's how you get in all those fights — just a pack of Carrie Nations with knuckles. Rossington bristles.

"Sure we get in fights — I think it has to do with being on the road, you're always uptight, so you drink to unwind, If you're drunk and there's any trouble you're quick to react violently because of the mood. When you're tense and uptight it's just natural to fight,'' he says

"I don't expect to live very long... I have the same problem Janis Joplin did, but worse."

quickly confusing his statement by adding, "We really \don't fight unless someone hassles us: You know, cuts us down for our hair, or just plain tries to mess with us. No one likes to fight."

"So you don't start 'em, just finish 'em?" I conclude.

"Yeah, that's right," Gary agrees.

Sure, tell that to the judge, I think, remembering the press release from Skynyrd's PR, firm boasting of Van Zant's fifth arrest of 1975 — in Hampton Roads, Virginia — when, accord-

ing to the release: "..,he interfered with, police officers who were in the process of stopping Skynyrd keybpard man Billy Powell from 'drinking standing up outside.' He made arguments with the officers, and they arrested him instead of Powell."

More show biz stunts?

"Is it just publicity or do you think your band deserves the reputation fpr being the rebel rousers and bad boys of rock 'n' roll?"

"None of the boys are bad except tne," Van Zant says coolly.

I was unprepared for that — but onward. "Why is it that you are so special?"

"Because I am," he says. "Well I was born in Mississippi/And I don't take stuff from you/And if I hit you on your head box/lt's got to make you black and blue."

I quietly finger1 the empty glass in front of me — waiting for the lurid details — unsatisfied with this arrogant assertion. My patience is rewarded, since this obviously is a subject near and dear to Van Zant.

"At one time my father was the heavyweight champ, and he could beat anybody. And I could beat him. I was Silyer Gloves, and could have gone for Golden, but I got into some trouble." ' "Trouble?" . ' -

"I got thrown out of school.. .for attempted murder. But it wasn't my fault, and I was acquitted. But Pwas thrown out permanently from all the schools in Florida."

"What happened?" I eagerly ask.

"Streetfight." he answers simply.

"But there's no sense in going into that anymore."

"So then it'd be an understatement to say you had a bad temper?"

He nods. Curtty. But I press: how does he manage to curb it?

"Why, I lose my temper completely. And people know best to stay out of my way when I'm shoved over in a corner. Nobody dares say nothing to me, they . just stay away from me because that's when I get mean. Everybody says 'Just leave him be because he's liable to creep you or worse.'"

Now it is my turn for surprise. All right, on one hand I know Van Zant has been arrested twelve times, a goodly percent of those arrests have been the results of Van Zant LETTING OFF STEAM by pasting some unlikely and innocent bystander in the chops for the hell of it. Across from me, however, belying the image, sits this old school Southern gent with the perceptive and soft-spoken eloquence of a storefront preacher. Maybe tomato juice has a tranquilizing effect on him — or as Gary had said, was it all just for show?

"Isn't it lonely being sp inaccessible?" I venture.

My question dangles in midair, V.£. choosing to ignore it and extrapolate on his unapproachability .

"For the past two or three years nobody ever dared to say nothing to me. Even Gregg Allman has never raised a gruff voice to me...but ill tell you I do like it if someone has the bollocks to get down on my case. And I'll listen because that someone is risking a lot if they're talking to me like that and trying to tell me what to do, because I'm just as liable to blow up and deck thermi as listen. But 1 do welcome and appreciate it if someone tries to come down on me if I'm doing wrong — I know some people really care, really care, really give a shit, and that makes me feel good, that I've got some friends."

Okay, correct me if I'm wrong: if you try admonishing Ronnie Van Zant,^ you're taking your life into your hands, or at least your Blue Cross card/but there is the po'ssibility that he'll take your advice, and like you better for it. Right? Weird way to make friends. Well, just who are these hearty souls who'll lash out at him?

"Charlie Daniels will tell me when I'm wrong or Doug Grey of Marshall Tucker will chew me out if he notices something is wrong. And on one occas: ion Roger Daltrey has scolded me."

"I got out of school for attempted murder."

Roger Daltrey? How'd that happen?

"We'd toured with the Who on our first time out so we were on friendly terms. The last time we were in England when the Who played Wembley they invited us to their party. Afterwards a little scuffle broke out and we were a little too rowdy. I just punched one guy because I felt like raising pure hell. Well, Daltrey took me aside and scolded me — telling me that I don't have to do this shit, and, if I wanted to stay around for a while, maybe I shouldn't do this, or shouldn't do that. You know what, I thanked him for his criticisms. I loved that. Like I said, not many people will say anything to anybody, and for another singer that you respect so much to come up and say 'Look, why can't you quit? Why don't you get it together? Why don't you quit fucking up?' was really tremendous." He says this vehemently as he drains his second Jack Daniel's and coke.

So much for tomato juice. Or is he "working" now...?

After downing the drinks Ronnie begins to unravel his past, volunteering insights about topics that he'd skimmed over a half hour before — telling me, at one point, that I am getting too personal with him. His perceptions are influenced by the alcohol only in that they flow freely and don't have to be extracted. His reminiscences touch down on his father who did much to mold Ronnie into what he is today.

A tattoo festoons his left upper arm

— venerating "Lacey," who I mistakenly peg as his lady. "Lacey is my father and I got this tattoo in honor of him because after he is dead and gone part of him will live on, right here," he says, reverently pointing to the enscrolled name. "He is the fairest most beautiful person I have ever known. I learned everything I know from him. He used to say to me, 'Ronnie, if a man says he's never been beaten, it's just because he hasn't fought enough times.' He always wanted me to be something I could never be

— and I'm sorry to disappoint him — he wanted me to be just like him." This last is voiced with unmistakable regret.

"But I couldn't be like him. I don't even expect to live very long, because I'm living too fast."

TURN TO PAGE 69.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 50.

"I've heard it said about you that you're burning yourself out and burning your voice out with your way of life."

"You could say that is true. I can see an end to Lynyrd Skynyrd. I know I won't be doing this forever. I can't keep on screaming like this much longer. I've been doing it for almost ten years, and my body can't take abuse much longer. Ifs scary to me because this is the way I make my living and it's destroying my body.

"You know, I can't sing as strong as I used to — it's a bad combination of whiskey and 'playing' Lynyrd Skynyrd. You can't keep up in a style like mine. I have the same problem Janis Joplin did, but worse. In fact, the band has a nickname for me: Sly Stone." He laughs ruefully. "It's been said I blow off a lot of gigs — but I've only missed nine gigs in two and a half years. I never stay away from my music more than two days at a time."

"Well, you say you see an end, but you can't stay away from the music, so what's next?" I ask.

"After this is over, I'd like to be behind the scenes. I'd like to work with other groups and try to get them retord contracts — I'm interested in booking; and I'd even consider being a talent scout. Did you know I found the Outlaws? I got them signed with Walden and then talked to Clive Davis at Arista about them." He beams.

"I know I'll be good. I'd never hurt a band or fuck them over. I'd be good to my bands because I know exactly what its like to have a bad manager."

"If you decided to dissolve the band and nothing pans out for you immediately, how are you fixed for the future?" I pry.

"I put away most of the money I make. Fact is I have never cashed A recording check, I just bank them. And I have land, and I'm looking to invest in cattle and timber in the near future."

"This is beginning to sound like big business; Does that mean it's safe to assume that the motivation behind Lynyrd Skynyrd isn't good vibes and brotherhood, but just a way to make a living?"

"That's very true. I do look at it as a [business for a couple of reasons. One is, not having no education or anything, what could I do if I wasn't playing music? Pick cotton? Second, I've got to think of my parents. For instance, my father is no longer able to function very well, so I have to provide for him, my mother, and a younger brother."

"Haven't there been - any fringe benefits?"

"Sure, I have a Mercedes Benz and a beautiful home. I could afford almost anything. Yes ma'm, I'm a very wealthy man, but I've never seen a band in my life — that includes the Beatles,— that is worth what they get paid. It's amazing and ridiculous how much money they get paid."

"Did you ever think this would happen — that you'd be a rich star with all this loot?"

"First of all I don't consider myself to be a star. Second, I don't consider myself rich. I'd like to have spme kids and be able to stay home and watch football instead of sitting in this fucking bar. It's not rich when you've got pressure on you at all times. Rich is having kids and being able to raise them. The common man is rich. I'm very much for the common man, for the common people. The only thing between me and the common man is income tax. Lynyrd Skynyrd's goal was to make an album, and be good enough so that some record company would put the'alburn out. And after that was done everything else just changed. But we have no regrets. The business has been great to us, just fantastic."

By this late time, my emotions are as mixed as Van Zant's words. Yet somehow, the confusion is the point, and I know it's time to leave. But I also know that when the moment arrives for Lynyrd Skynyrd to punch out for good, they'll go out fighting. Maybe that's what, ultimately, makes rebels rouS'ers.,