One of my favorite bands of all time also.

A pillar of my high school years and one of the few bands that neither I nor my spouse, who you might know, will ever switch off the radio dial. Great essay, you nailed it.

Here is a coming-of-age story: I was fourteen and visiting my grandparents in Portland Maine when I ran into this colorful looking dude who looked a little out of place. He told me he was from Florida. “Really? Me too! What are you doing so far north?” I asked him, (which seemed like a normal question at the time). He said, “My name is Riff and I am the bass player for Molly Hatchet.” After talking some more he told me he would leave two tickets at the box office. I thanked him and went on my way.
Since it was my first concert and I wasn’t yet old enough to drive, I had to beg my father to take me. We swung by to pick up a new friend who I had met at a party a few nights back. He was a fourteen-year-old stoner who wore a t-shirt with jeans, accessorized with a chain and earring. I never considered making it a date because I wondered what northern girl would want to go see a southern rock concert? My father gave us both the usual safety warning as we drove to the concert and dropped us off around seven o’clock, agreeing to meet us at the same spot at ten. Right away, when we got there my friend wanted to score a joint. I asked him how and he said to me, “just find the shadiest looking dude around and ask him.” So, I walked up to this guy who looked like the wrestler, The Macho Man, dressed in black, with long hair, and shades. “Here’s a doobie young man, for you and your friend,” said the hippie with a slightly corrupt smile. I thanked him as he lit the joint and took my first toke ever with my glam, gay-pretender friend, and enjoyed my first concert.
“Welcome, Portland Maine to a real southern fried jam!” said the MC as the lights went down. The Outlaws were the first band on stage and they were completely musical and nearly all played guitar. They brought with them the sounds of home for me, which were in fact the Green Grass and High Tides of Tampa Bay Florida. Then came the fully-cranked and Flirtin’ with Disaster guitar sounds of Molly Hatchet sung with passion by the Whiskey Man, followed by the big man hisself, Charlie Daniels, whose belly at the time dwarfed his ten-gallon feathered hat and pointy cowboy boots. Ten o’clock came and went and sometime later, my father had talked the security guard into letting him into the auditorium where he watched the Charlie Daniels Band play their last couple tunes from the steps leading down toward the stage, which of course included The Devil Went Down to Georgia. After the throng slowly made its way out, we finally located my father on the sidewalk. As we drove home he asked how we liked the show. We were both surprised to hear him agree and say, “I could hardly see the stage through all the marijuana smoke, but that fat man can sure play the fiddle!” I will never forget the smoky sights, loud sounds, and skunky smells of that night which are all precious if not comic memories to me now. Looking back, it was just a different time.