Some things in life are hard to talk about openly. For example, sex. And money. When men talk about sex or money, we tend to resort to cliches or jokes or hyperbole. The actual subjects, I suspect, are too personal and complicated, and require an uncomfortable degree of vulnerability. It’s much simpler for us to talk about sports, for example, where the personal stakes are lower, the risk of shame is non-existent and the statistics insulate our feelings. Music is a little trickier. But we talk about it, incessantly, anyways: Who are your bands? What are your favorite albums? Did you hear this? Did you buy that? Are you a Stones guy? A Dylan guy? A Clash guy? A Phish guy? A Blur guy? A Smiths guy? It’s subjective — yes — but also organizationally useful and personally defining. Music is one way that men talk about feelings, without really talking about our feelings. And it generally works for us. Except, of course, when it comes to the matter of Lynyrd Skynyrd.

It feels kind of impossible to talk objectively about Lynyrd Skynyrd. First, there’s the myth of the band — the ghost that died in October of 1977. More than any American Rock group, save for perhaps Nirvana, Lynyrd Skynyrd is defined by death. Even if we can get past that dark pall, we still have to deal with the Confederacy of the matter — which is easy to shout about but harder to actually discuss. And then, even if we disabuse ourselves of their symbolism, there’s still the matter of versions 2.0 and 3.0, which arrived in 1987 and are still, if only slightly, with us today. There have been over thirty credited members of Lynyrd Skynyrd, and more than half of them arrived after 1987. Is the band that will finish their farewell tour sometime in the near future still “Lynyrd Skynyrd?” In the twenty first century, is Lynyrd Skynyrd even really a band anymore? Or are they a brand or an institution, like the Harlem Globetrotters? 

The details of the conversation get very messy very quickly. And so, it’s important to first define the assumptions we are operating under. Before we pass go, I think it’s critical that we consider the rhetorical question that is also the existential question: When we talk about Lynyrd Skynyrd, what are we really talking about? Obviously, I have no great answer, but how about:

1. Lynyrd Skynyrd were 70s Rock canon and Southern Rock royalty. 

This is how they were presented to me in the mid 1980s, when a friend’s older brother pressed play on their Greatest Hits cassette. Had they never reformed and had the world ended in 1986, this is also probably how I would think of them today. As best I can tell, Skynyrd have one album that is (probably) rightfully considered a masterpiece. They have two or three more that are excellent records. And they have a dozen songs that -- if taken individually -- stand proudly alongside anything The Allmans or ZZ Top made. Compared with their counterparts from the UK, there are surprisingly few enduring American Rock bands from the 1960s and 70s, but Skynyrd is objectively one of them. At their best, they were much closer to The Band than they were to Molly Hatchet. But, if only it were that simple. If only we could have gotten a Cameron Crowe biopic starring Bradley Cooper as Ronnie Van Zandt and we could have been done with the matter.

2. Lynyrd Skynyrd were a tragedy.

I guess I should have started with this one, but it seemed both too obvious and too sad. Suffice it to say, Skynyrd has been defined by the day that Ronnie, Steve, Cassie and the crew died. It was a terrible, terrible thing.

3. Lynyrd Skynyrd were a post-Hippie work in progress. 

Whether we believe that the Confederate flag bit was their idea or their label’s idea or whether the intent was ironic or sincere or something else, it is evident that Skynyrd were more complex and more progressive than the most cynical cliches imply. You can read the old interviews or listen carefully to “Sweet Home Alabama” or “Saturday Night Special” and hear the ambivalence and empathy they were holding -- one that was born inside the crucible of progress and counterculture but also burdened by the weight of the South. They weren’t literally standing at The Crossroads, but they were real close.

4. Lynyrd Skynyrd were a bunch of talented, but ornery, drunks.

They fought each other. They wrestled like teens and they punched like grown men. Ronnie once knocked Billy’s teeth out. For years, Billy feared his lead singer’s wrath. When he survived the plane crash, he felt momentary relief that Ronnie hadn’t — at least he’d be spared the next beating. They fought club owners. They fought other drunks. They drove bikes and cars into trees. The fact that most of the original members died young is not the surprise. The surprise is that they made it to 1977 and were functional enough to continually practice and improve.

5. Lynyrd Skynyrd were the fathers of Alternative Country. 

Sure -- it’s easy to talk about The Byrds and Gram Parsons and Gene Clark. But, honestly, Chris Stapleton and Sturgill Simpson, and even Steve Earle, Whiskeytown and Jason Isbell have more in common musically with Skynyrd than they do with their quieter, more agreeable influences. 

6. Lynyrd Skynyrd are the basest instincts of modern conservatism. 

Unlike the band that died in 1977, the reformed version -- and especially the twenty first century incarnation -- exists only to celebrate the past. They’ve become stridently regressive, in spite of the fact that both their success and their survival were born from personal and cultural progress. In that way, Johnny Van Zandt’s Skynyrd has become a denial of fact.

7. Lynyrd Skynyrd are a brand.

They’re a band. Yes. They make music. Yes. But, first and foremost, they are a brand. They sell t-shirts and koozies and WWE pay per view events. And, in that way, they effectively tapped into a powerful consumer psychology that would eventually coalesce nationally and birth everything from our forty-fifth president to conspiracy theories to much worse. Whether shrewd in their repositioning or dull and regressive in the content, their brand has proven enduring and valuable.

8. Lynyrd Skynyrd are the last gasp ashes of a once great band. 

They are still frequently competent. Occasionally better than that. But they are only barely “Lynyrd Skynyrd.” The whole idea reeks of necrophilia and, with each passing year and each new death or debilitation, the story is rewritten as a “survivors story” or a “tribute” to the past. But that’s a crock. Since the 1980s, Lynyrd Skynyrd — the signifier — has increasingly lost its former magic and functions as a dull betrayal of its former, greater, self.

9. Lynyrd Skynyrd — fifty years on — are actually pretty good.

I was loathe to consider this possibility, much less admit it. It would have been much easier if they were a covers band for the best Hooters in Vegas or if they were just the permanent headliner for Hank Williams Jr. But they’re not. They’re still a great band.

Depending on how you look at them, Lynyrd Skynyrd might be any one of those things. They might be all of them. They might be a million others I’ve not considered. But, also, every one of those perspectives is steeped in blinding biases. Skynyrd inspires that sort of divide. I don’t know a single person who’s like: “Skynyrd? Yeah, they’re OK, I guess.” I know (one or two) people who adore them. I know many people who cannot stand them. And I know that most people never think about them. But I do not know anyone who listens to their music, considers their significance and comes to a middling conclusion. Also, the further you follow their long, sad, fucked up journey, the more polarized your perspective seems to become.

In spite of those warnings, however, and with some gnashed over trepidation, I decided to go almost all the way with Skynyrd. I started (again) with their 1973 debut and landed, many years later, on their most divisive, third act album -- “God and Guns.” This is everything you think it is -- and more. It’s part Nu Metal, part Heavy Blues and part middle-aged Honky Tonk. It’s an album that is completely disinterested in the future. In fact, it thinks the future probably sucks. It’s an album that could soundtrack Fox Sunday football. It’s an album that did soundtrack WWE Smackdown vs Raw 2010. It’s a rebuttal to Obama. It’s a prediction of Trump. It’s the album that Poison wishes they could have made if they were a better band and less concerned with being liked. It’s the last album that keyboardist Billy Powers played on before he died. It’s probably their second to last studio album. And to complicate matters, it’s absolutely not terrible. It may even be good -- even when it’s awful.

And so, without the possibility of a singular, but fair, assessment, I figured the only right thing to do would be to consider “God & Guns” from three different perspectives: 

1. First, as a true believer.

Death can’t kill them. On “God & Guns” Skynyrd manages to lovingly bridge the music and culture of their past with the sound and worldview of the present. Gary Rossington, Rickey Medlocke and Sparky Matejka bring out every guitar we’re accustomed to -- Heavy, Slide, Acoustic, Rock. But wait -- there’s more! John 5, from Marilyn Manson, drops in for extra Nu Metal crunch. Don’t be scared off by that suggestion, though. They go back and forth between yesterday and today, with Johnny’s familiar voice keeping things anchored due South. In both sound and content, this is Lynyrd Skynyrd updated for the new millennium. And they sound as relevant now as ever. 

There’s plenty to go around for everyone. “Still Unbroken,” their tribute to Leon Wilkeson, sounds heavier, like Staind or Disturbed. It’s a relentless opener -- an anthem for underdogs and survivors. “Southern Ways” and “Simple Life,” meanwhile, are straight, classic Skynyrd. The title track begins with a quiet intensity, rebutting Obama’s limited view of the South, before exploding in a storm of guitars in the second half. “Simple Life” stays true to its title. And “Gifted Hands,” the closer, is a beautiful and fitting tribute to pianist Billy Powell, who played on the album, but died before it came out.

On the whole, I found “God & Guns” to be more likable than most of what gets played on Modern Country or Mainstream Rock radio. I’m certain that critics won’t agree, but that’s their loss. This is the sound of a well oiled, Classic Rock band, updated for modern times. Now on Sanctuary Records, the home to so many Heavy Metal greats, Skynyrd has discovered exciting green field between Southern Rock and Heavy Metal. I’m not sure if this is an instant classic, but it’s close. It may not match their 1973 to 1977 run, but it’s as good or better than anything they’ve done since they reunited. A-

2. Then, as coastal critic.

This is a genuinely scary, regressive album with a straight through line to January 6th 2021. That being said, the performances are generally good to very good, even when the songs are rote or dull. All four of the guitarists (including Marilyn Manson’s John 5) bring something unique and the late Billy Powell’s keyboards offer a familiar, low key counterpoint the erstwhile heaviness. But the playing is not the problem. Even the songs, which are occasionally fun and generally well formed, are not the problem. No — the problem is the spirit and message of the record. “God & Guns” is disingenuous. It’s craven. And it’s dumb as fuck — unless, they are trying to remake themselves as Heavy Metal for Neocons and Evangelicals. In which case, it might be brilliant, but still disingenuous and craven. The 1970s version of this band was born in a moment of great cultural change and progress. They were imperfect men, but they struggled to improve. They believed in progress and, at least according to “Saturday Night Special,” were ambivalent about or opposed to handguns. But that was 1975. And this is 2009.

On “Simple Life,” Johnny Van Zandt nails the song that Bret Michaels wishes he could have nailed first. And I do not mean that as a compliment. It lacks the Honky Tonk of the Skynyrd we loved, but it has the weight of Heavy Blues, like AC/DC. As a song, it’s not half bad. As text, however, it sounds both very proto-MAGA and antithetical to those very things that has sustained this particular band in the face of impossible tragedy -- change and evolution. Somehow ignoring that inconvenient truth, the younger Van Zandt brother sings: 

Well a lot of people are saying

We're changing for the better

Well that don't interest me

I like the simple life

The way it USED to be

Elsewhere, they cover themselves on “Southern Ways,” which directly lifts “Sweet Home Alabama,” without adding anything of value to the story. It’s enough to make you miss the summers of Kid Rock. They pander on “Skynyrd Nation.” And on “That Ain’t My America,” in their desperate attempt to sound like a good ole fashioned Southern Rock band, they resemble Poison divided by Lee Greenwood. 

I can say sincerely that “God & Guns” is highly competent. The veterans are great at their jobs. The riffs are sturdy and the hooks are hooky. The slide guitar is appropriately wistful and the solos are emotive or fiery or both. Even the songwriting, while derivative, does not lack melody or form. But, in contrast, there is none of the surprise and delight here that we got from later Allman Brothers Band, who are perhaps their best comparable. With 2009 Skynyrd, there is only familiarity. And, meanwhile, they have been lapped by Isbell, Stapleton and Simpson.  

It’s hard not to suspect that Johnny Van Zandt is both the dull feature and glaring bug of this band. As a singer, he has just enough character to play the part, but none of the range. As a frontman, I suppose he has all of the fraternal resemblance but not a whole lot of charisma. And as a lyricist, he sounds like a copywriter for Fox News’ advertising department. If you’ve always loved this band and if you watch conservative cable news several hours each day, then this album will sound like a godsend. But, for anyone else, this is a mediocre record made by an above average band with a very famous name who are inhabiting some of the skin of a once great, if complicated, band. They’ve painted red what used to be red, white and blue.  D+

3. Finally, as objectively as possible.

I really wanted to not like this album. In fact, I wanted to hate it. This album is not for me. It’s for die hard fans, younger WWE viewers and older Fox Newsies who remember Skynyrd from the first time around. But, if I’m being honest, this album is more than half good. When it’s bad, it’s more ideologically terrible than it is musically fraught. But, even then the songs are generally sturdy and the playing excellent. Yes -- “Still Unbroken” is a shameless McMahon family advertisement disguised as a tribute to a former band member. And, no, I don’t watch Smackdown. But, it is effective at building mood and pairing Nu Metal with Southern Rock swamp. And, yes -- the title track scares the living shit out of me and I relate to it in zero ways. But, also, it’s got that crystalline, twelve string folk vibe that Bon Jovi nailed on “Dead or Alive” and it’s hard to deny that effect. Most of this record may be derivative -- even of themselves -- but (unfortunately) that’s not the same thing as being shoddy or unlistenable.  

Fortunately, there are a couple of numbers -- including “Unwrite that Song” and “Gifted Hands” -- which are delightful and uncomplicated. But, those are the exceptions. The balance of the album is either musically valid but spiritually regressive, or simply lackluster. “Little Thing Called You” is a hatetful cliche wrapped in some tepid swamp Blues. And “Simple Life” and “That Ain’t My America” are dull, future campaign songs for governors Ron DeSantis and Greg Abbott. 

In that “God & Guns” plays to our deepest fears and basest desires, there is something pornograophic about it. But that does not, unto itself, imply that the music is inferior -- in comparison either to their peers or to their former selves. If “God & Guns” is an embarrassment, it is only so to their more progressive fans or critics. To loyalists, it is completely admirable. There is nothing here that would sniff the bench of their Greatest Hits album. But, I suspect that advocates would find a home for the title track on Volume Two. 

If I can be even nominally objective, I’d suggest that the problem with twenty first century Skynyrd is probably it’s singer. He has the job by birth right and his voice (and hair) bears some resemblance to his brother. But his vocal range -- especially as he nears fifty -- is diminished. On “Storm,” when the song changes octaves, Johnny reaches and then screeches. In middle age, he can only hit fastballs. And, by fastballs, I mean meatballs. And so, he sticks to mid-tempo or slower. And he sings about what he believes in his bones. And what is safe. And comforting. And it’s all perfectly adequate. And probably delightful to a couple hundred thousand true believers. But underneath the above average Southern Rock is a whole lot of sadness and carnage that require mourning. Mourning cannot be forever, though. And it cannot be the enemy of progress. B-

by Matty Wishnow