Southern Soul with a Ghost in His Throat.
Gregg Allman didn’t just play music—he bled it. His voice wasn’t clean or polished—it was torn, trembling, and beautiful. He took gospel pain and blues heartache and gave Southern rock its soul.
He lost his brother, battled demons, buried love, and came back each time with a song. He didn’t speak often, but when he sang, the whole South leaned in. He wore sorrow like denim—broken in and honest.
Verdict: SphstRDnck, pure and unfiltered.
Mystic grit. Swamp-born wisdom. A voice that still haunts the hills.