Lynyrd Skynyrd: The Quality Goes In Before The Name Goes On

I can vaguely remember walking into first-period Spanish class one October morning when I was in the 10th grade and hearing the news of the Lynyrd Skynyrd plane crash. I don’t know how high school kids reacted to the disaster out in, say, Oregon, but where I was (and still am), 70-odd miles south of Skynyrd’s Jacksonville, Florida hometown, it was a black day.

See, Lynyrd Skynyrd wasn’t just another heavy band cranked up on somebody’s car stereo for lunch-period beer and bong hits. They were an affirmation that wild, longhaired North Florida boys were just as good as anybody else—hell, probably better than a lot of folks.

I didn’t really care that much because I hated Lynyrd Skynyrd when I was in high school. I feel a bit weird saying that now, not only because I’ve really come to love their old albums these past few years, but because in retrospect, my disgust for Lynyrd Skynyrd had almost nothing to do with the band itself.