In this report from Skynyrd`s tour of Britain they seem like quite a peaceful bunch. There are lots of stories pointing to the contrary, but maybe they just didn`t expect the fighting mentality of the British people?
Read on!
The Wild Bunch
Fun and fisticuffs with Lynyrd Skynyrd by our man at the ringside Pete Makowski
“HEY YOU SHOULDA BIN AT THE TRIAL!!!”
The trial?
Wait a minute.
When Lynyrd Skynyrd tour they make sure everyone knows about it. Y’know what I mean. Rumour has it that their presence can be felt on a seismograph and it ain’t just 8.5.
A rumble in the concrete jungle.
The fact is that all rock and roll bands who know the true meaning of a five finger shuffle like to have themselves a good time. It’s just that Skynyrd, not unlike the Stones, have been marked down as the Music Society’s bad boys. Like anyone who doesn’t wear knife-edge pressed denims or blow their noses on a handkerchief. Skynyrd’s existence seems to bewilder, confuse and more than occasionally aggravate UMC suburban trendsetters. Yes folks, if your hair isn’t feather cut and blow dried and you don’t get up in time to eat breakfast, then you’re in trouble. Or, maybe appropriately, in the Skyn’s case. DOUBLE TROUBLE.
“T-R-O-U-BLE!!!!”
After my wonderfully chaotic time with these travellin’ toonsmiths across the waters, the idea of another confrontation in our more peaceful pastures seemed pretty mellow in comparison. Kinda like meeting Patton on neutral territory. The sterile formica, fur and foam surroundings of hotelsville didn’t seem to be appropriate for any fear or loathing.
But this was not to be so…….
“HEY YOU SHOULDA BIN AT THE TRIAL!!!” The hotel suite looked, er, nicely lived in when I arrived. Fighting through the cloud of smoke and carefully dodging bottles of champagne located in all corners I finally confronted “the hidden king of the music world” Mr Bassman Leon Wilkeson, reposing loosely against the side of a couch, ears almost clamped against a sturdy little nippon music machine.
The music was raw and somehow suited the surrounding swamplike atmosphere, the result of a press day for the band. Wall to wall interviews, scribe-shuttling. Being the last in line for some verbal interrogation, it almost seemed that fate deemed I should walk in at this moment.
While Wilkeson entertained a photog and writer from another weekly, I was informed that the band were changing hotels and if it was okay just to hang around and wean necessary information at opportune moments throughout the evening. Switching scenarios, it was already getting interesting.
“Listen to this!!!”, yelled Leon leaping to the side of the band’s PR man Geoff Thorne, as he proceeded to accompany the music by belting out de riddum of de music on Mr Thorne’s defenceless knee, as the remaining company, who had obviously been subjected to some of the Skyn’s liquid hospitality, nodded their collective noggins in agreement.
The sounds being emmitted were rough mixes of a projected compilation of songs recorded prior to the band’s involvement with Al Kooper, at Muscle Shoals studios. Recorded at the time when there were only two guitarists in the line up, Rossington and Allen, it’s romping stuff and hasn’t aged a bit since its conception in a period between 1969-71. Someone even pointed out that the band could rework some of the songs on the next album, but Leon thrust this aside: “Nah, it ain’t the same band.”
“HEY YOU SHOULDA BIN AT THE TRIAL!!!”
The trial? What trial Leon?
“Remember our little incident with the bikers?”
Yeh.
“Well they decided to put the guys on trial and I got a court order asking for me and a witness to attend, and you’re the only witness.” The actual inquest was supposed to be held in January but then Leon decided to drop charges as no real damage was incurred in the final outcome.
Now, as the final remnants of the day’s journalistic barrage had departed, I decided to find out why the group had decided to move hotels.
Well, actually , it was the result of two major scuffles at the hotel.
O.K. so let’s have the goods.
“Rock group Lynyrd Skynyrd’s reputation for hell raising followed them all the way from Jacksonville, Florida.” — Daily Mail.
No, No wait a tick, what actually happened?
The band, all weary from a session of socialising at the local niterie, returned to the hotel and headed for their respective sacks. On his way up to the room Billy Powell shared the lift with a young guy and his lady. The guy proceded to make remarks about Powell’s hair, etc. The old story. Powell asked him to stop. “What are you going to do about it”, or something in that nature, was the retort, followed by more abuse. Powell asked him again, to no avail… so -CRACK!- he did something about it. A minor bundle occured, in which the name-caller suffered most. Powell went to his room.
The guy turned out to be with some kind of convention which was being held at the hotel. Drawing their own conclusion of the past events a collection of his colleagues (reported numbers vary between six and eight) managed to extract information of Powell’s whereabouts from Chuck, one of the road crew, who they proceeded to beat up. Then there was a knock on Powell’s door.
BP: “Who is it?”
“We’re from the band downstairs, we where wondering if you wanted to come downstairs and jam.”
Powell opened the door and all hell broke loose. Two roadies who heard the scuffle from down the corridor ran down to help but by then, it seems, most of the damage was done.
Meanwhile, downstairs, road manager Ron Eckerman called the police and generally proceeded to sort the situation out. On his way up he was done over by the male faction of a party of three couples.
“Rock Group Lynyrd Skynyrd’s reputation for hell raising followed them all the way…”
I’ll admit I wasn’t around when the incident occurred, but being fairly familiar with them in these kind of situations the above synopsis, compiled from a series of people involved, makes sense to me, and it don’t seem right that they get put down for it. I’m not trying to paint a picture of a band of angels but these guys don’t go round kickin’ shit out of anything or anyone in sight to bolster a ‘wild bunch’ reputation.
“I really get tired with this violence thing associated with us”, Rossington commented later on in the evening. “I mean, we don’t go round smashing up things and beating up people for publicity. Sure we get into trouble, but we ain’t as bad as people make us out to be.”
Even the following night’s incident with the Metropolitan Police boxing team, which some of you might have read about in the dailies, was more a repercussion of the previous night than a senseless vendetta.
The band were by then very wary of a repeat of the last incident, so when the boxing team invited drummer Artimus (or “Artikus” as the Mail would have it) Pyle down for a bevy, he and Rossington approached the do with mucho caution. Apparently some of the opponents in the previous affray had been seen prowling around, which didn’t help matters.
What followed was a mixture of confusion and anger built up from past events which culminated with Rossington and Pyle unconcious on a dance floor surrounded by 600 guests.
Anyway, I`ll leave my Elmer Gantry routine out, leave you to your own conclusions and get down to the matter at hand.
THE MATTER AT HAND
RONNIE was ill with a bout of ‘flu picked up in Japan, Billy Powell was nursing a badly bruised lip and bloodshot eye. Everyone was freaked out with this ridiculous Peckinpah like outburst of tolchock which didn’t seem to fit in with their preconceived idea of our green pastures.
“You know what I would have done if I was there?” Leon said as we made our way out of the hotel and headed towards the Rainbow, where the band were having a soundcheck, “I’d have grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher and fired it at the guys. Harmless but effective. And if that didn’t work, well they’re pretty damn heavy objects aren’t they?”
The Rainbow was eerily empty. The P.A. echoed, creating a slight tremor in the portals as Artimus scaled around his kit. Powell gently tinkled away on the ivories, his finger still swollen, while Rossington and Collins slouched around occasionally breaking into one of those warm up jams. Gaines stood up at the front taking lead vocals while Van Zandt paced round the hall, preserving his flu-battered vocal chords for the show.
Van Zandt was checking out the sound balance, occasionally nodding or smiling in the band’s direction, confirming his approval as Gaines and the girls — Cassie, Joe and Leslie — brushed up on two new songs which were strong contenders for the next album, which will continue their relationship with Dowd.
Next destination was London’s Capital Radio studios. They checked into the new hotel on the way. I went up to Steve’s room where we were going to conduct an interview which somehow ended up as a party when some more of the band joined us and culminated with a collection of wasted torsos in uncontrollable hysterics watching the sheep dog trials on T.V.
MEANWHILE BACK AT THE RANCH
ROSSINGTON was ill. The nippon nasty was spreading and he was suffering, with bouts of shivering and sweating under a pile of blankets. With the first gig the next night, there were doubts as to whether he’d make it.
“He’ll make it,” said Van Zandt confidently.” That guy’s gone on with a raging fever before. “After seeing Rossington hobbling on the stage, toothless gums wired together after his devastating automobile accident, I knew Van Zandt was right.
RAINBOW RIDERS HIT TOWN
TOUR ORGANISER Sparkling Sally Arnold was zipping around the Finsbury funhouse making the final arrangements. Tonight was the night and everybody knew it. Some high society folks were lounging around the artistes bar, while out front the audience filed in, clutching their ammunition, beer, badges, programmes and herbal cigarettes. Backstage in no man ‘cept the band land, guitars were being pitched and everyone was generally tuning up.
The gig, as y’all know, was a raging success, the crowd dug it and that’s all that mattered to the Skyns.
The reception that followed was a bit of a Chimpanzee´s tea party. People were walking around in the usual confused state, looking for someone to latch onto.
Leon made a spectacular entry, stole my coat and prowled round the area, face hidden by shades and stetson, looking like a Texan flasher.
London was just the beginning of a month long trek of shit kickin’, arse bouncing, footstompin’, finger snapping, groin grinding BOOOGIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!
It finished quietly on Sunday with the band taking some snaps outside Buckingham Palace and a meeting with the fan club members specially driven down to meet the lads.
“Rock group Lynyrd Skynyrd’s reputation for hell raising followed them all the way…” Aw forget it.
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