Thursday, July 30, 2009
When you imagine what a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert might be like, with its down-home charm and its even down-homelier fans, you might be tempted to fill your mental picture with a barnful of vicious, judgmental stereotypes. That’s simply wrong, and I’m here to tell you that– Well, that your assumptions are absolutely correct, all of them, and you can bet your commemorative Robert E. Lee plates on this.
From the word go, things just fell into place. We’re talking two Confederate flags in the parking lot alone, flapping proudly under the afternoon sun, and this was before I even stepped off the car. The vehicle in question was a shiny new Dodge Ram, which Deadpan had generously offered to ferry the crew deep into red county, and seconds after disembarking, a fellow with a thick drawl wandered over, marveling at the make and model. Truly, the truck was like a hick lodestone.
You may wonder about proper attire at such an event, and the answer is yes. In instances where shirts were actually worn, they took the form of fan apparel, Confederate flags, and even a recreation of the General Lee, complete with Confederate flag head wrap. And there was a comforting consistency to it all because the concert itself applied a similar aesthetic to its graphical wizardry. Lynyrd Skynyrd had managed to yoke the Adobe software suite to a hypnotic stream of antebellum flags, spinning guns, and even a blackface cartoon clip, in what I presume was a deep, nuanced meditation on race relations in the entertainment industry. At this point the Professor reminded me to be thankful that Vietnam was over, since I was likely the only Asian dude in a three-mile radius. Then, fade to “Freebird.”
Jesus! Or “Rock N Roll Jesus,” specifically, because Kid Rock then took the stage and all was set right. He’s a consummate showman, first and foremost, and whereas Skynyrd proffered a genuine strain of redneck, the brand of redneck Kid Rock sold was the calculated kind. His band actually had black people in it, a veritable concession given the audience, yet he also performed a song list that resonated with the diehard Skyn Heads–is that inappropriate?–and when the first strains of “Cowboy” swept through the amphitheater, the crowd lost its mind. There was an authenticity to the moment. I could see the appeal. I’m glad I went. I’m also glad I didn’t die there.