How I ended up in the back of a car being driven by Lynyrd Skynyrd’s drunken bassist Leon Wilkeson, sat next to two speed-crazed bikers, one wielding a gun, eludes me even today.
It was October 1976 and my third encounter with these hell-raising southern rockers. Here I was in some low-rent bar in Concord, California, seeking solace in Leon’s company. The fact that the larger-than-life bass player always sported eccentric headgear, wore bikers’ patches and either had his face buried in a mound of narcotics or was suckling a bottle of bourbon, didn’t ring any warning bells.
