50 Years Later: Revisiting Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Striking Debut ‘Pronounced ‘Lĕh-‘nérd ‘Skin-‘nérd’

When Lynyrd Skynyrd released their fifth studio album in 1977, Street Survivors, they had effectively come full circle from their debut LP released on 8/13/73. (Pronounced ‘Lĕh-‘nérd ‘Skin-‘nérd), now a half-century old, outlines the distinctions that initially set the band apart from their Southern rock brethren of the era and continue to in retrospect.

If the motley septet’s first album for MCA Records sounds remarkably full-formed for a young band, that’s no accident. Two years before they entered the studio with mentor/manager/producer Al Kooper–he of Super Session/Blood, Sweat & Tears/Bob Dylan fame–the dour entourage had recorded seventeen tracks under the tutelage of Muscle Shoals Sound’s Jimmy Johnson (with help from the studio crew at that site who subsequently became known as ‘The Swampers’).

In The Inside Story Of The Album That Defined The ’70s, Alan Paul’s book devoted to an account of the Allman Brothers’ breakthrough album Brothers And Sisters (released the same year as this record), the author provides a pithy description of the sequence of events leading to the alliance of Skynyrd with the author of Gary Lewis & The Playboys’ “This Diamond Ring.” The man born Alan Peter Kuperschmidt became enamored of the Southern music scene while visiting Atlanta and decided to set up shop with the help of the aforementioned record label to launch his own imprimatur, Sounds of the South, the first signing to which was Lynyrd Skynyrd. 

The interview segments within the documentary Gone With The Wind: The Remarkable Rise And Tragic Fall of Lynyrd Skynyrd depict a good-natured Kooper relating his bond with the band, most especially a shared fondness and admiration for the British band Free (of “All Right Now” fame). However, the riff-heavy likes of that influence–plus the shades of unearthly wail from the late Paul Kossoff’s guitar–really don’t come heavily into play until Skynyrd effort three, Nuthin’ Fancy. 

In the interim, the well-honed fretboard musicianship of Ed King, Allen Collins, and Gary Rossington featured tandem playing on rhythm figures rather than the soloing that was predominant in so Dixie rock of the time (see the Elvin Bishop Group circa 1975). Instead, during most of (Pronounced ‘Lĕh-‘nérd ‘Skin-‘nérd), the aforementioned threesome interweaves its sinewy three-guitar attack in and out of the alternately delicate and honky-tonk piano playing of Billy Powell as well as the nimble interactions of a agile rhythm section comprised of bassist Leon Wilkeson and drummer Bob Burns (later to be replaced by Artimus Pyle). 

The carefully-balanced mix of those elements derives from a relentless work ethic of rehearsals by a fledgling group eager to make a name for itself strictly on its own terms (or at least close to them). Only in the gruff vocals of Ronnie Van Zant is there any inkling of a relationship with their seminal Southern fraternity, including most notably the ABB. 

And while that link might seem tenuous in and of itself, apart from the snarl on “I Ain’t The One,” for instance, the titular leader of the band and its chief lyricist does not exhibit  noticeable roots in singing the blues or r&b; the fact is Van Zant had the privilege of learning his lessons from two generations of musical icons.

The instrumentalists betray no palpable debt to a specific genre either. But then, as produced by Kooper, the group focused on its carefully-crafted material like “Simple Man,” reflective expressions upon which disciplined accompaniment elaborates upon the feelings in play. 

Likewise, songwriter Van Zant’s words approximate short stories on cuts like “Gimme Three Steps,” while the pointed guitar interplay of Collins, Rossington, and King is an incisive means to cauterize emotional wounds opened in something like “Tuesday’s Gone.” Such precise arrangements are a combination of crystallization and distillation of the ideas first explored in the famous Alabama recording facility. 

And no track on Pronounced is better evidence than the final one. “Freebird” was often dedicated in concert to the late founder and co-namesake of the Allmans known as ‘Skydog” (as well as their deceased bassist Berry Oakley) and, subsequent to an uncommonly ornate and elegant intro on the ivories by Powell, the mid-tempo vocal sections give way to increasingly frenetic instrumental passages that bristle with energy if not invention. 

If the instrumental ride out is not truly comparable in intricacy to that of the Brothers at their best, Skynyrd nevertheless provides a demonstration of the potency of their lineup as well as their skills in recording with Al Kooper. To that end, “Mississippi Kid” might be nothing more than a non-sequitur among the eight tracks if it weren’t for the tongue-in-cheek tone permeating a composition in the A-A-B format of the blues idiom. 

 In contrast to the full-bore advance of the entire septet prevalent elsewhere on (Pronounced ‘Lĕh-‘nérd ‘Skin-‘nérd), its all-acoustic arrangement of not only lightens the mood, but also changes the pace. It’s a most expert piece of LP sequencing, especially as it appears right before the ominous “Poison Whiskey” (a cautionary tale the band itself would not heed in the coming years).

Skilled as it sounded all around, the impact of this initial Lynyrd Skynyrd offering was somewhat muted, despite touring with labelmates the Who later in the year (on the latter’s sole support for Quadrophenia as a four-piece). But the sophomore release of the group rendered moot the anonymity of their persona.

Buoyed by the radio success of “Sweet Home Alabama,” Second Helping elevated ‘Lynyrd Skynyrd’ to a household name.

With that fame, unfortunately, came some self-consciousness on the part of the group regarding their provincial heritage: the Confederate flag became a stage backdrop at their concerts. 

The rewards of their breakthrough and the self-indulgences that came with it were also accompanied by some internal dissension plus friction with Al Kooper. Following the release of the aforementioned third long-player, the latter departed the collaboration, and guitarist King–formerly of the vaunted Strawberry Alarm Clock–took his composing and arranging skills with him when he left a bit later after a dispute with Van Zant.

Releasing the de rigeur live album, One More For/From The Road, then working further with famed producer Tom Dowd (Ray Charles, ABB, Cream) on the underrated Gimme Back My Bullets of 1976, Lynyrd Skynyrd didn’t really flounder in the interim prior to recruiting guitarist/songwriter Steve Gaines. 

But for all the ominous (prescient?) overtones in the cover image of the group engulfed in flames, the final record with a significantly-modified version of the early lineup constituted a palpable return to form. Verbally literate and instrumentally articulate, its own dual virtues echo ever-so-loudly from its cryptically-titled predecessor now five decades old.