POP REVIEW : Lynyrd Skynyrd Takes on New Life at Irvine Meadows

Before Lynyrd Skynyrd’s show Friday night at Irvine Meadows, the caustic refrain from Warren Zevon’s 1980 song, “Play It All Night Long,” kept running through this listener’s head, voicing the challenge of the evening:

“Sweet Home Alabama, play that dead band’s song. . . .”

Was the reconstituted Lynyrd Skynyrd going to be a living rock outfit for the ‘90s? Or was it going to play a “dead band’s song,” calling up the lost past in some forlorn, nostalgic seance?

By the time “Sweet Home Alabama” rolled around to set up the inevitable “Free Bird” finale, Zevon’s refrain had been fairly well erased by two hours of persuasive guitar rock featuring a band that sounded very much alive.

The resurrection of Lynyrd Skynyrd has been gradual. In 1987 and 1988, “tribute” tours brought back the still-popular old material that had featured singer Ronnie Van Zant (he and two other band members died in a 1977 airplane crash, ending Lynyrd Skynyrd I). With their first album of new songs, “Lynyrd Skynyrd 1991,” the erstwhile tribute-payers (four of them members of the ‘70s Skynyrd) are trying now to become something more.

The effectiveness of their new material on stage signaled that they have a shot. “Lynyrd Skynyrd 1991” doesn’t have anything to match the array of old favorites that dominated the concert, but the show’s six new songs never sagged. In fact, “Keeping the Faith” and “I’ve Seen Enough” were stormy highlights, sparking an audience that boogied almost as happily to new material as to old. With straightforward takes on romance, family and social malaise (plus the occasional obnoxious comment from a redneck viewpoint), the new material follows the pattern of down-to-earth realism of ‘70s Skynyrd.

Johnny Van Zant, who was a 16-year-old rock novice when his brother was killed, echoed Ronnie’s definitive Southern rock vocal style--husky, drawling, unpretentious, and full of heart. While he wasn’t a commanding presence (the stocky Van Zant looked like a chunky Hamlet in his loose black shirt and black tights), he didn’t have to be. Having stirred his own tasteful ingredients into a song, Van Zant could turn the stove over to a blazing troika of guitarists and let the grease start sizzling.

Ed King (who played with a clean, cutting, fluid tone), Gary Rossington (a contrasting grit marked his sound) and Randall Hall produced harmonies or counterpoints with a guitar attack that never sounded cluttered. They came up with some powerful passages that reached epic proportions during dark, driving highlights like “Saturday Night Special,” “That Smell,” and the blitzing finish to a 12-minute “Free Bird” (the song ended on what may have been the most-repeated final chord ever, which normally would have been annoying, but on this occasion seemed like a fitting ploy to make a moment last). Propelling this seven-man Skynyrd (plus two female backup singers) was a strong new drummer, Kurt Custer.

Without forced antics or calculated displays, Skynyrd’s members showed that they were having a good time. Bassist Leon Wilkeson kept changing hats from song to song, mainly favoring a silly gray top hat. He and Hall performed with exuberant body language. From time to time Rossington would pair up with another player to go on a silly-walk sashay.

Van Zant’s idea of a grand flourish was to hold aloft a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and take a swig; in the show’s funniest moment, King grabbed the bottle and sloshed whiskey over the singer, then handed it back to him. Before Van Zant could gulp, Wilkeson ran up to grab a swallow before anything else got spilled.

The show didn’t offer great stylistic range, mostly moving back and forth between stormy rockers and lighter boogies, with several songs sounding like cutouts from the same pattern. But a couple of well-placed ballads offered contrast. The homespun philosophizing of “Simple Man,” which Van Zant delivered soulfully, carried far more emotional weight than today’s typical flick-your-Bic power ballad.

Van Zant didn’t have much to say between songs (he stuck mainly to ‘let’s hear it, California,’ crowd exhortation stuff), except when alluding briefly to “Ronnie and the band” in a couple of intros. The sense of the past still being present reflected a healthy regard for heritage, but the new Skynyrd also needs to come up with some between-songs stories of its own to tell, about the here-and-now. In that sense, the show did resemble a tribute to the past, rather than a step into the future.

The obnoxious redneck side of Lynyrd Skynyrd surfaced during “Sweet Home Alabama.” The song itself has a buoyant spirit and an on-target disdain for Neil Young’s shrill, self-righteous “Southern Man” and “Alabama.”

Taking pride in one’s birthplace is a fine thing, but expressing it by projecting a gigantic Confederate flag behind the band during “Sweet Home Alabama” leaves a sour taste with anyone who cares to remember what the Confederacy stood for. Lynyrd Skynyrd, which also emblazons the stars and bars on souvenir T-shirts, would no doubt argue that this charged symbol, the banner of a slaveholding society, is just an expression of regional spirit. Others have a different interpretation--including the yahoo who ran toward a group of his friends outside the amphitheater after the show, waving a Skynyrd T-shirt and yelling, “White power!” If Skynyrd wants to share icons with that ilk, it can keep waving its blessedly defeated flag.

Second-billed Junkyard was a mixed bag. It was fun watching guitarist Chris Gates, a hulking fellow who looked like Hoss Cartwright brought back in rocker duds. He and Brian Baker churned out some tough, no-frills guitar work in a ‘70s-metal-blues vein akin to the Black Crowes. But singer David Roach was no bonanza for the L.A. band. With his thin, screechy voice,

Roach, like several singers now fronting young bands with pretensions toward ‘70s blues-rock grit, sounded like a lo-cal version of Humble Pie’s Steve Marriott.

Little Caesar, which opened, is like a lot of other Los Angeles grunge-metal bands in affecting a down-and-dirty attitude. While its material was unremarkable (other than a heavy-set version of “Chain of Fools”), the band cranked confidently.

Veteran guitarist Earl Slick (a former David Bowie sideman who is a new addition to Little Caesar) spun out lead licks, freeing rhythm player Louren Molinaire to cavort erratically. Ron Young had a serviceably gritty, R&B-inflected; voice, an amiable manner, and a tattoo collection ornate enough to be hung on the wall of a Mandarin restaurant.