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he knocked on the door announcing"Room service." He strode in confi-dently, his long hair past his shoulders,shoeless and precariously carrying ahuge tray of food playfully borrowedfrom a bellboy. "Willthat be all?,'he asked, before cracking intd a smile.It made one believe that musicians aswell as politicians can be reborn. Ashe hunched over the wheel of his pick-up truck driving to his lakeside home30 rninutes from Jacksonville, Ronniewas a vision of self-renewal.

He pointed out the track where hewas jogging two miles daily to get inshape for the tour, and he detailed thehigh-protein diet his wife was holdinghim to. Then he gave in and stopped lora six-pack, apologizing, "This is themost l'll have drunk in the past sixweeks." As the guided tour continued,

It was hls year-old daughter, Metodyr, whogave Van Zant both lneentive to soberdown and his most ioyful finat days.

!n a Iast portralt of Van Zant's close-knit kin,Ronnie was at the wheel of his prized Mercedes,brother Donnie in the backseat, wife Judy along-

40

he drove by a prison farm. .,Hey,,,he

said, "if prisons, freight trains, swampsand gators don't get ya to write songs,man, y'ain't got no business writin'songs." Once at his home, the serenityhe enjoyed around his wife of fiveyears, Judy, and daughter Melody wasclear. (He also had a daughter, now 10,by a failed previous marriage.) VanZant crawled around on the living roomrug, circling an armchair with his de-lighted daughter on it, playing ',gonnaGETCHA." "The baby's had a lot to dowith my maturing," he believed.

Ronnie showed off his own superstartoy, a '54 white Mercedes "that I foundsettin' up on blocks in a junk shop.Found out there was only nine in theworld," he explained, "and I put $11,000into it already." Then Van Zant decid-ed to try some fishing. He carried threepoles and a long sleek gun "to blowaway any gators that might come upon my land." While casually fly-castingand sipping beer, he talked about histumultuous past. "l was abusin' myselfon the road, because after all, man, ifit ain't f un, it ain't worth it." But he didn,tcondone the "fool things" like pouringJack Daniel's into the TV set until it ex-ploded. "lf you're into drinkin' andtearin'up hotels and blowin' gigs, that,sfine. But it'll take years off your life too.lain't as old as I look," he added,"and there are plenty of false teeth inour group. There's been treatment bydoctors and hospitalizations for ourdrinkin'."

The extent of treatment was under-

side and, in the rear, a sister's son, brotherJohnnie, Melody and grandpa Lacy Van Zant,who gave the boys their love of music.

standable, as his narrative of the badold nights continued. "We weredoing bottles of Dom P6rignon, fifthsof whiskey, wine and beer, and we'dall have to puke once each before goin'onstage. We couldn't even rememberthe order of the songs. Some guycrouched behind an amp and shoutedthem to us. We once looked at tapesof shows-man, we was sloppy drunk,',he f lushed. "l couldn't b elieve kidsapplauded for that shit." Otheraudiences-around his hometown,oddly-were less accepting, and hehadn't played there in six years. Ronnieclaimed he was once so zonked ,.1 spitup one of my tonsils onstage andwalked off. The people demolished ourequipment, threw botfles, and fourcops were hurt."

Later that October evening, which was