|May 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Three|
His black hat and fierce voice helped the rebel
in each of us establish a niche in a society that was just
getting through the hangover of the peace and
Ronnie Van Zant led the charge for the disillusioned workingman.
He spoke for those who saw the concrete slowly creeping onto Main Street USA—and were pissed off about it.
He was from the south.
He was proud of that fact.
He was not a racist.
Those who thought he was a racist were guilty of the very thing he was accused of.
And for all us sixteen and seventeen year old kids that listened intently to Ronnie’s tales of violence, death, and the frustration of society’s machine, which was being run by bureaucratic bullshitters and three-piece pencil pushers,
Van Zant was the broach of the prideful disenchanted—A remembrance to a time when a simple man with simple vices could go about his business and not be scrutinized or labeled.
|RETURN to May 2005|