The Rotgut Life

No American rock group works harder or equals the decibel level of Lynyrd Skynyrd, a band of seven Southerners who seldom see their homes outside Jacksonville. An energetic blend of English heavy metal and funky, rural blues, Skynyrd's music occasionally dominates its lyrics, but their teeny-tot fans like it that way. The group, named after the members' high school gym teacher (perversely spelled but phonetically pronounced), has sold more than 3 million albums. Its fifth LP, One More from the Road, has recorded sales of 350,000 copies since its release four weeks ago.

Most pop bands must tour constantly to stay afloat, and Skynyrd's "torture tours" are legend. Occasionally the group will give 250 concerts during 300 days on the road. During one 95-day stretch in 1975, they did 88 one-nighters. Last week they traveled through four Western states, giving five concerts in seven days. The ceaseless motion soon takes its psychic toll. "After a while you turn dingy," says Vocalist Ronnie Van Zant, 27. "Your mind and body won't take it."

Morning-after blues are a particular problem. But a quick Dexamyl, followed by several white crosses (bennies), puts one right for breakfast. A little Scotch on the bus mellows the transition between motel rooms, and a bottle of champagne primes one for the performance. "This is a rotgut life, but why worry?" smiles Van Zant. "We attract mostly drunk people and rowdy kids who come to shake."

The main release for the group is simple violence. Between them the members of the band have chalked up over a dozen arrests on such charges as assaulting a police officer and possession of amphetamines. Last year Skynyrd ruined more than half the exercise machines at Nashville's Spence Manor Hotel. During a recent trip to Bristol, England, Van Zant threw an oak table out a fifth-story hotel window. "We were just having fun, letting off pressure," he remarked afterward. "It was funny when the cops came in and looked at us like we were mad dogs." But it wasn't so funny several months ago at New York's Beacon Theater, when Bass Player Leon Wilkeson tossed his smashed guitar into the audience, lacerating the face of a girl in the front row.

Drummer Artimus Pyle's recent target was the Macon Hilton, which failed to Include sugar with his room-service order of iced tea. "First I demolished the louvered doors," he recalls. "I tried to throw the TV out the window, but it wouldn't fit. So I splintered everything else." He sighs: "Whew, it always feels better without that tension."

Impromptu Pillage. With a $40,000 line of credit, plus $2,000 pocket cash carried to take care of impromptu pillage, Road Manager Ron Eckerman, 24, promptly pays damage bills averaging $1,000 a month. That does not heal all wounds. In many cities, none of the major hotels will rent rooms to Lynyrd Skynyrd. When the band is booked in Atlanta, for example, they stay at a resort an hour's drive from the city. Wilkeson is not concerned. "We're hot now," he says. "Let's keep running."

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.