I snuck out of the convention I’m attending in Macon to visit Duane Allman and Berry Oakley’s graves side by side in a beautiful old Confederate cemetary on a hill overlooking downtown. I went with a friend of mine who’s a real “old head” like me and who I knew would appreciate the moment.
In a Spinal Tapesque moment, as we stood silently contemplating the irony and the tragedy that these two great musicians would die so young in motorcycle wrecks almost exactly a year apart, my friend started to hum “Tuesday’s Gone” by Lynyrd Skynyrd.
“That’s not the Allman Brothers,” I thought.
“What the hell are you humming?” I asked.
“Free Bird, dude. Free Bird.”