After all, who takes AC/DC seriously? Funnily enough, it turns out that at least one respected member of the legal community does. When this lawyer -- call her Madame X -- heard that said writer gal was covering the AC/DC show at the Oakland Coliseum, she practically got down on her knees and begged.
"Oh please, can I come with you? I love AC/DC. I've probably seen them 20 times."
Huh?
"You'll see," said Madame X, dressed in her grown-up work clothes. "They rock."
Oddly enough, it turns out that Madame X isn't the only one filled with secret AC/DC lust. Another friend -- call him Mr. MusicSnob -- is also driven by an incongruous desire to see the uber-metal band. "Can I get a ride with you? I've never seen them." His voice is filled with such urgency that skeptical writer gal is amazed.
"What? You want to see AC/DC? You who worship the Velvet Underground and the Butthole Surfers? You?"
Mr. MusicSnob is resolute, so much so that he calls daily with helpful reminders that he'll be accompanying us across the bridge to the Oakland Coliseum. When the day of the show arrives, a sense of heightened giddiness creeps into the brain of even skeptical writer gal. If these two -- one a respected lawyer, the other a certified music elitist -- are thrilled at the very thought of AC/DC, skepticism is beginning to feel like a very lonely place, at least compared to tingling anticipation.
Driving over the bridge, Madame X remembers her first AC/DC show fondly, telling of cannons firing, fists a pumpin', lighters aloft. She plugs "Back in Black" into the CD player of her luxury car; memories of Chevy vans, ditching school and bongloads of dirt-weed spring to mind. We sing "You Shook Me All Night Long" with gusto. We know all the words.
At the Coliseum parking lot, tailgaters hang out in clumps around tricked-out trucks, mysteriously whooping and hollering in unison. In line to be patted down, a pair of Beavis and Butt-head soundalikes can't stop punching each other in the shoulder and snickering. "I hope a chick frisks me, " says Butt-head. "Yeah, that would be cool," replies his pimple-faced pal.
Inside, the crowd bursts into spontaneous roars of cacophony, waves of noise that erupt for no apparent reason. Like most modern-day monster rock metal shows, there will be no alcohol served tonight. Just as well to keep all this energy about the music, instead of the beer -- besides, clearly a lot of folks front-loaded in the parking lot.
Piped-in music fills the arena: "Cat Scratch Fever," "Locomotive Breath," "Louie Louie." Whistles and footstomping grow more insistent until -- at last -- the lights go out, plunging us into blackness. The triumphant roar is like a live beast newly escaped from its cage in the moment before the jailer is devoured.
On a giant movie screen the familiar, ugly faces of Beavis and Butt-head appear; the MTV anti-heroes are trying to get backstage at an AC/DC concert. When a cartoon of Angus Young, the short-pants wearing lead guitarist, greets B&B, the crowd howls delight. And when Butt-head tells him "Hey, stop taking all the chicks, man. Leave some for us," the screams of exultation are deafening.
But all things are relative: compared to the clamor that erupts next, punctuated by a growling engine building in intensity, breaking glass and a giant wrecking ball that careens through a massive stage set, the previous shouts and bootstomping are the merest of whispers. And when Angus himself propults his diminutive body onto the stage, pointing his guitar like a submachine gun at the crowd, the bodies rise to their feet as one.
A sea of pale outstretched arms reach toward Li'l Angus, all dressed up in his trademark black velvet school-boy's uniform and sneering mouth made of rubber. He's clearly the star here, although singer Brian Johnson has a voice that's as definitively AC/DC as his long-dead predecessor, Bon Scott. Johnson's lyrical delivery has been described elegantly as "in the tonal range of a sadistically trussed magpie," and he snarls the words with true metal-head panache.
AC/DC will never be known for the deep complexity of their lyrics. Many, if not all songs, rely on endlessly repeating catch-phrases ("Back in black, yeah I'm back in black") and wah-wah-wah wailing guitar licks. But after all these years, their energy remains implausibly red-hot; these fortysomething musicians are having the time of their lives, in spite of having played 15 shows in 22 days.
Conversation with Madame X is reduced to a series of hand gestures and confused cries of "What?" Mr. MusicSnob has long since disappeared into the backstage area where (of course) he has connections.
Just when it seems that the energy level can't get any higher, with an entire arena on their collective feet, the boys crank it up another notch. One fully expects the genuflecting and chanting of "We are not worthy" to start at any moment. The three supporting players -- Angus' brother Malcolm on rhythm guitar, original drummer Phil Rudd and bass player Cliff Williams -- act out their parts perfectly, doing the standard rocker boy posture with modified hair flip.
When Angus does his copyrighted shuffle-kick-strut, the distinctive odor of sulphur makes the now stifling air of the arena even closer. It's a group grope, metallic high mass, a way to revel in being a rebel surrounded by several thousand like-minded acolytes. Danger without risk, rebellion without action, louder than fuck, forever and ever, world without end, amen.
It's a long set -- 21 songs -- and loud enough to move every arm hair individually and careen right through the foamy cushion of earplugs into those last two remaining brain cells. Angus teases the crowd by playing with his school-boy shorts, finally yanking them down to reveal red, white and blue silk boxers. There's bumping, grinding, posturing and preening, but surprisingly little profanity, considering that the term "cock-rock" could have been invented with AC/DC in mind.
These perpetual teenagers have an innocence about them that's almost touching. They're not so much dissolute as they are determined not to ever grow up. "Stupidifying" -- that's what Madame X calls it in a rare moment when her voice can be heard. When the six cannons go off for the grand finale, a salute to we who are about to rock, being stupidified doesn't seem like such a bad thing at all.
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