Y’all.
Your faithful correspondent is a deep lover of documentary films. After my husband died, I had insomnia for years. I’d stay up all night watching documentaries on every subject imaginable.
I didn’t know what else to do.
But as a result, you can ask me ANYthing about the Kennedy Assassination, serial killers, or the mating habits of the golden hamster.
Recently I found myself binging on rock docs about Lynyrd Skynyrd.
They were super popular as I was entering my teens and I considered their songs pretty memorable, even if Southern Rock wasn’t my jam back then.
The term “Southern Rock,” my ATL friends might be interested to know, was most likely coined roundabouts 1972 by Mo Slotin in a review of an Allman Brothers concert published in Atlanta's underground paper, The Great Speckled Bird.
Through my adolescent eyes, all Southern male rockers who were not Tom Petty were slightly suspect. The seven members of Lynyrd Skynyrd looked unwashed to me. This British girl didn’t vibe with redneck rock — or redneck anything — and I didn’t enjoy the collective facial hair either.
Sit down, Linda Lou. No need to whup my butt. I was a teenage girl, full of teenage girl opinions. In those days I liked my rock stars clean-shaven, underweight, and androgynous, wearing eyeliner, with swoon-worthy hair.
But I saw the original bad boys of Lynyrd Skynyrd in concert when I was 15.
Hell yeah I did.