Shooter Jennings stepped onto the small memorial stage with quiet resolve, the crowd falling into hush as he adjusted the worn strap of his guitar. “This one’s for Ozzy,” he said, voice low but steady — not as a rocker, not as Waylon’s son, but as a friend honoring a fellow outlaw of sound. There were no big amps or flashing lights, just a stool, a mic, and a song that once echoed across barrooms and broken highways. He began to play “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys,” and the irony wasn’t lost on anyone. Ozzy was never a cowboy, but he lived like one — fierce, untamed, and unapologetically himself. As Shooter’s voice cracked on the final verse, it felt like a torch was being passed, one rebel to another, under the watch of silence and memory.
Shooter Jennings stepped onto the small memorial stage with a quiet resolve that said more…
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