photo by t.klick, courtesy of flickr.com
Hooray for Guns N' Roses and all, but let's not forget AC/DC. Even if Guns are the comeback story of the year (though we're not yet sold on Chinese Democracy, and may never be), AC/DC's tale is just as praiseworthy -- maybe even more so. It's one of consistency, reliability and sheer professionalism, an epic that never seems to end and doesn't falter in its enjoyability. AC/DC are a microcosm of rock n' roll as fountain of youth. Angus looks like hell offstage (what is he, 90?), but with a guitar in his hands, he's the eternally mischievous teenager and ever-present rock God, and he and his bandmates still rock with the fervor of a newly signed rock group earning its stripes.
Of course, the money AC/DC have accrued over zillions of album sales and sold out shows have enabled them to put together one humdinger of a rock n' roll spectacle -- one that flaunts their gifts and dowplays their age. For AC/DC, rock and roll remains an eternal cartoon fantasy in which the chicks are hotter than hot and easier than tic-tac-toe, the guitars louder than loud and capable of anesthetizing all that ails you and the authority figures bumbling buffoons who couldn't catch a blind man in a bear trap. Yeah, in case you're wondering, AC/DC still rock harder than Guns N' Roses ever have.
Their current sold-out tour is in support of the knuckle-busting Black Ice, their first studio album in eight years, and one that's earned them new respect and admiration from across the globe, selling nearly a million copies in the time it takes most bands to release their first video. The sold-out concert run is just as impressive -- both a greatest hits bonanza and confirmation that AC/DC remain viable as performers and songwriters. They even open with the new song "Rock N' Roll Train," and what an opening it is.
A movie screen projects cartoon images of two hotties in a speeding locomotive train. The ladies seduce Angus in various slutty ways and, playful phallic symbols garnish the imagery for naughty giggles. Unfortunately for our strapping rocker, the chicks have ulterior motives, and tie him up then vacate the train, leaving him to his doom. But thanks to the might of his cherry red Gibson SG, Young escapes 007-style and leaps the runaway train just before it derails, at which point there's a giant explosion and the curtain rises to reveal AC/DC's backdrop -- a humongous trashed train belching smoke.
When you start a show in such gangbuster fashion, you're really tempting fate, since nine out of ten bands would never be able to live up to the drama of the opening. But this is AC/DC we're talking about, and as the first song yields to "Hell Ain't a Bad Place to Be," the bandmembers assume their trademark positions and set the sky ablaze. Angus, wearing a red schoolboy outfit picks sharp, punchy riffs from his guitar, which he continually hoists to face level, especially for solos, and singer Brian Johnson makes exaggerated pained expressions as he performs. And while we, too, react in pain when he tries in vain to hit the super-high notes, for most of the evening he's right on target.
On songs like "Highway to Hell," "Shoot to Thrill" and "Thunderstuck," AC/DC are unstoppable, Young scurry-skips across the stage like Chuck Berry, guitarist Malcolm Young, inconspicuously thickens the guitar attack from the background, and bassist Cliff Williams and minimalist drummer Phil Rudd (whose cigarette dangles from his stiff upper lip the entire show) hold down the steady rhythms. As great as it all is, the show is fairly predictable -- AC/DC being the kings of consistency and all -- except when Malcolm sings the low, gruff chorus of "Dirty Deeds" (we always wondered who did that.) Yet it's completely unforgettable, like a non-stop action flick without a plot but buttressed by jawdropping special effects.
As always, AC/DC combine hard rock classics with Academy Award-worthy theatrics. Young conducts a riotous striptease, revealing his man boobs and running his shirt between his legs for "The Jack" and quasi-breakdances on his back atop a raised translucent platform during the solo portion of "Let There Be Rock." Obviously, he's the primary focal point, yet some of the visuals have nothing to do with guitar histrionics. Johnson climbs a giant descending bell for the beginning of "Hell's Bells" and sings through showers of sparks during "T.N.T." And for "Whole Lotta Rosie," an overweight plastic prostitute inflates to gargantuan proportions, replacing the crushed train. Then, while Johnson sings lines like, "Honey, you can do, do it to me all night long/ Only one can turn, only one can turn me on," Rosie's palm rubs circles between her legs.
If that isn't enough of a climax, AC/DC really shoot their wads for the show closer "For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)," which features no less than five stage cannons repeatedly blasting the sky like a symphonic orchestra for Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture."
AC/DC, we salute you.
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