Review: Padgett Powell on William Trevor

By threatening to write a profile of them, I have killed two people named Collins. One was Allen Collins, a tenable target since I went to school with him and knew what little nothings we were, coming from nowhere, with nothing, in Jacksonville, Florida, westside, more nothing than southside, before Allen became a rock star playing a guitar whose neck was larger around than his arm even at the bloody end, as it certainly was when I first saw him play. He was fourteen playing in our junior-high-school cafeteria, set up where the dirty dishes went in, winning a battle of the bands in 1966. The band was The 1% and would become Lynyrd Skynyrd within five years of this moment I saw gentle Allen Collins and gentler Bob Burns, who were delinquent-seeming guys in trouble for long hair, play so well it froze us into thinking, as their first manager would put it later the first time

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