Gregg Allman’s close friends have always called him Gregory. His brother, the guitarist Duane Allman, who died in a motorcycle accident in 1971, called him “baybrah,” a contraction of “baby brother.”

But on tour in the late 1960s and the 1970s, the heyday of the Allman Brothers Band, when he wrote songs like “Midnight Rider,” “Melissa” and “Whipping Post,” Mr. Allman’s nickname was Coyotus Maximus. Women threw themselves at him, and he devoured them. He didn’t have the heart to turn many away.

One of the great virtues of “My Cross to Bear,” his slightly better-than-average rock memoir, is how frank Mr. Allman is about the perks of being a tall, blond, intricately bewhiskered white rock god in skinny jeans who can bellow the blues like a black man. “Foxy ladies,” he recalls, wheezily, “there was oodles of them.”

Mr. Allman’s book is so wriggling with amorous women that it can resemble a Feydeau farce performed mostly in panties. The band’s early road manager made a chart with the legal age of consent in every state, and made sure each member had a copy.