It’s been fifty years since Lynyrd Skynyrd released their seismic debut album Pronounced Lĕh-‘nérd ‘Skin-‘nérd, and they’ve come a long way since then. From the swamps of Jacksonville, Florida, and the sweltering tin shack – affectionately nicknamed “Hell House” – where they used to rehearse, to the titans of southern rock they are today, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s story has always been one of grit and grief, triumph and tragedy, underscored by their hard-driving southern blues.
Lynyrd Skynyrd – Blackberry Smoke
OVO Arena Wembley – 19 July 2025
Words: Rhiannon Ellis
Photography: Ash Nash
Performing in the UK for the first time since the passing of their last surviving founding member, Gary Rossington, in 2023, the band arrived in London, not as the devil-may-care renegades of the ’70s, but as custodians of a sound forged in humidity and heartbreak, one that has outlived the men who pioneered it. Their show at London’s OVO Arena on Saturday was a meditation on endurance, loss, and legacy, as much as it was a celebration of their 50-year tenure.
Lynyrd Skynyrd
Through a haze of smoke and flashes of bright-white light, a screen came to life. Excited whooping from the crowd quickly turned to a hush as grainy archival footage, harsh environmental shots, sun-faded photos, and crackling radio clips told the story of a band built from scraps and sweat. From Hell House rehearsals to induction in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the montage served as a testament to how far the band has come and how much they’ve lost along the way. This wasn’t just preamble, but a statement of purpose. A reminder that they’re here to honour a 50-year legacy and all the tragedies and triumphs that entails.
Emerging from the wings, Johnny Van Zant, younger brother of the late Ronnie, sporting his trademark cut-off black denim battle vest, led the charge into Working for MCA. Van Zant has been fronting Lynyrd Skynyrd since the late ‘80s. After nearly forty years, his voice now carries a weathered honesty, more that of a raconteur than a rock ‘n’ roll rebel.
A few lapses in timing in the first verse were quickly forgiven once the barrelling, mid-tempo groove and sweeping riffs kicked in. Rickey Medlocke and Mark Matejka traded the first searing solos of the set, whilst newcomer Damon Johnson laid down a solid rhythmic battery. The crowd’s response was polite rather than raucous, perhaps another casualty of the all-seated arena set up, although smatterings of brave devotees did buck the trend, rising to their feet to sway along to the opening classic.
What’s Your Name, with its boisterous piano lines courtesy of Peter Keys, brought a burst of sing-along energy; even those in the crowd firmly glued to their seats responded with appreciative nods and half-hearted foot taps. Still, it set a nostalgic tone, bridging the swagger of boozy ‘70s bravado with the finesse of a band that’s learned balance and restraint. The follow-up, That Smell, one of the more fatalistic songs in Lynyrd Skynyrd’s canon, evoked a slow-boiling menace. Matejka’s leads here were sharp, mournful, and paired with the swamp-thick riffs and eerie backing visuals to emphasise the song’s creeping paranoia.
I Know a Little brought some levity. A fast-tempo blur of honky-tonk piano and jazzy swing. Peter Keys took his turn in the spotlight here, hammering out elaborate piano lines that danced above the rhythm sections’ joyful fretwork like cigar smoke in an old southern saloon, adding flourishes that bordered into ragtime territory. The band seemed to be enjoying themselves just as much as the audience.
The band barely paused before chugging into Saturday Night Special. Thick guitars, an uneasy groove, and an ever-prescient message keep the song feeling current. Lynyrd Skynyrd aren’t one to lecture; they just play hard and let the weight of the music speak for itself.
The fun-loving boogie of Down South Jukin’ gave way to a powerful one-two punch of barbed southern grit, with the snarling Gimme Back My Bullets and Cry for the Bad Man, the latter an underrated gem that Johnny owned vocally. The bluesy lament of The Needle and the Spoon provided a sombre reminder of the band’s tragic history. A cautionary memorial piece drenched in a haunting groove. Despite the short turnaround between songs, Van Zant made sure to squeeze in as much crowd interaction as possible, checking in to ensure the crowd was having a good time.
Then, an emotional climax. Tuesday’s Gone was dedicated to the recently departed Gary Rossington. The room stood still as the band played with solemn grace, delivering a tender performance backed by a bittersweet montage of photos and footage of the late, great icon.
Having set a reverential tone for the home stretch, Simple Man arrived like a sermon. Rows of fans stood, arms outstretched, singing the lyrics with a religious fervour as torches waved in confirmation that the Lynyrd Skynyrd philosophy of humility, integrity, and simplicity still resonates. (Or, maybe, you just can’t beat the classics!)
Gimme Three Steps, a mischievous roadhouse romp, brought the tempo back up to a cool bop. Then came Call Me The Breeze, a J.J. Cale cover that’s become a late-set staple for which Blackberry Smoke’s Charlie Starr returned to the stage. Trading riffs with Rickey Medlocke and Mark Matejka, Starr’s bluesy tone added a distinct texture without stepping on any toes. It was a joyful, free-spirited jam, and the camaraderie was palpable. A moment that felt bigger than the song itself. Like a passing of the torch.
Sweet Home Alabama marked the end of the main set. A moment that felt as inevitable as it did electric. The song has long transcended its status as a hit single, now existing as more of a cultural artifact than a composition, as celebrated as it is scrutinized. Regardless of any debate surrounding its overexposure, lyrical ambiguity, or place in the southern rock mythos, live, it still commands the room. Uniting band and audience in one chorus, allowing Van Zant to stand back and enjoy.
Medlocke’s and Matejka’s guitars jangled with precision, balancing muscle and melody, while Damon Johnson added subtle layers of rhythm that anchored the groove. Peter Keys’ piano work sparkled beneath the wall of guitars, giving the song its signature honky-tonk twang without being overbearing.
After a brief exit, there was, of course, only one way this night could end. Having resisted the urge to scream “play Free Bird” all night, my patience was finally rewarded. The lights dimmed, and the first unmistakable notes of Free Bird rang out. Damon Johnson took up the slide with delicate admiration, echoing Gary Rossington’s immortal phrasing, while Johnny Van Zant stood vigil at centre stage, illuminated from behind by the names of the bandmates lost along the way.
From the second verse of the incomparable classic, the lights softened and the screen behind the band showed, larger than life and achingly real, Ronnie Van Zant. The original voice of Lynyrd Skynyrd singing out the night, his vocals rising from archival footage and melding with the refrains of the latest incarnation of the band he co-founded so many years ago. The arena fell silent, as if to preserve this transcendent moment. For a few touching bars, the past and present collapsed into one.
“A furious, full-hearted refusal to let the Lynyrd Skynyrd legacy fizzle out.”
The silence was shattered by the blistering guitar solo that made this song legendary, and the arena exploded back to life. Medlocke, Matejka, and Johnson surged into a three-guitar climax, their instruments screaming with defiance and joy. A furious, full-hearted refusal to let the Lynyrd Skynyrd legacy fizzle out. The tempo kicked into overdrive, lights spun wildly, and the stage became a glittering maelstrom of sound and sweat. Medlocke played like a man possessed, tearing through fretwork with expert sureness, while Johnson’s searing tone paid tribute without imitation. Matejka’s clean, razor-sharp lines anchored them all.
Lynyrd Skynyrd executed a perfect end to a show steeped in history, heartache, and survival. Paying tribute to what was lost, yes, but also to what endures. They may not look the same, they may not sound quite the same, but the heart is still there, and it is pounding as fiercely as it did in 1969.
Blackberry Smoke
Blackberry Smoke, veterans in their own right, kicked off the evening with their confident blend of smoky country, soul, and Lynyrd Skynyrd-style, fuzzed-up southern rock. Led by the ever charismatic Charlie Starr – never without his signature mutton chops – it’s hard not to be charmed by the Atlanta-based quintet.
Formed in 2001, with eight studio albums under their belt, Blackberry Smoke are no strangers to crowds of this size. Frontman Charlie Starr wryly recalls the band’s first foray into our nation’s capital in 2013, where they played to “a crowd of 25 people” at Camden’s Barfly; “Happy Anniversary,” he jests. This must seem a distant memory now, while entertaining thousands in support of Lynyrd Skynyrd, an honour they’ve rightfully earned.
The quintet brought a tight, razor-sharp focus to their 11-song set, leaning into a high-energy, no filler philosophy, absent of the usual longer jams that punctuate their sets. What was left was an eagerness and intensity that only emphasised the band’s road-hardened finesse and musical chemistry.
The infectious boogie of Little Bit Crazy set the tone immediately. A foot-stomping, hip-swaying mix of working-class swagger, rootsy riffs, and a sense of roaring pride in being a little rough around the edges. Hammer and the Nail came in hot on the heels, a shot of honky-tonk spirit, followed quickly after by Good One Comin’ On, a song as warm and nostalgic as a summer road trip, a real feel-good start to the night.
Waiting For The Thunder snarled across the arena, its heavy riffs as ominous as Starr’s lyrics, invoking a Southern Gothic aura of destruction and dismay at gods that don’t answer. Somewhere between desert-psych and Georgia groove, the apocalyptic weight gave way to a psychedelic instrumental break where Paul Jackson and Starr traded fuzz-soaked licks while bassist Richard Turner locked in and kept the low-end thunder in check.
The set’s centrepiece, Sleeping Dogs, opened with a slow-burning southern drawl, but quickly dissolved into something looser, dreamier, and more ambitious. The extended midsection slinked effortlessly into a stylised cover of Long Haired Country Boy, a nod to The Charlie Daniels Band. The band shifted gears from smoky defiance to languid groove with the kind of confidence that only twenty years on the road can provide. Starr’s delivery was both playful and practiced, backed by supple bass lines and gently rolling organ swells from Still, before melting back into Sleeping Dogs’ final chorus, as if it had always belonged there.
It was One Horse Town that really brought the crowd to life, with those in the know singing along from the opening verse. Another mid-song interlude, this time Lowell George’s Willin, gave the thousand-strong arena an air of intimacy, not unlike a campfire sing-along.
“Blackberry Smoke felt less like an opening band and more like the heir apparent to the southern rock throne.”
The tongue-in-cheek Ain’t Much Left Of Me signalled the end of an exuberant performance by Blackberry Smoke, but not before another segue, this time into a smouldering cover of Led Zeppelin’s When The Levee Breaks, delivered with haunting conviction and gravitas.
By the set’s close, Blackberry Smoke had done more than warm up the crowd; they’d gained converts. Their music isn’t revolutionary, but they’re not trying to be. They offer a twist on timeless Americana with just enough modern sheen. They’re not out to reinvent the wheel, but rather, slap some fresh alloys on a vintage Chevy. In a night that so emphasises legacy, Blackberry Smoke felt less like an opening band and more like the heir apparent to the southern rock throne.
