It's forty-five years ago today that Dwayne Allman died. That old lack of impulse control caught up with him. Motorcycle accident.
Very bad timing, too, as though the timing in such matters could ever be said to be good. Live at the Filmore East was way up the charts, finally putting the band on the map of rock and roll. They'd had a great year, and the first real money was hitting home. Three months later, Eat a Peach was released.
Losing Dwayne was a terrible thing. He had a spark in him. Just when it was looking like his reach had outstripped his grasp, musically, he'd take a firm hold of wherever it was that he was going and shake the shit out of it. He wasn't so lucky that night on the bike (was it a Triumph? I should look that up).
I still miss him, and I don't think that I'm the only one.