In an unstable world, it is good that some things never different. AC/DC is one such thing.
For counting and 36 years, the quintet has trafficked in a blues based form of hard rock ‘n’ roll served up with a naughty wink. They do not pander with power ballads. They do not experiment with drum loops. And they most certainly do not rap.
The band’s 1980 masterwork “Back In Black” is, according to the Recording Industry Association of America, the fifth best selling album of all time in the United States, at 22 million copies and counting. Many of the songs on that album would work just as well on any other AC/DC album – except, perhaps, a couple of lame late-‘80s efforts – and vice-versa.
As evidenced by AC/DC’s Wednesday night show at a not-quite-full New Orleans Arena, not only does the song remain the same, but the presentation as well. Lead guitarist Angus Young, at 54, still vamps in his crushed-velvet schoolboy uniform. Vocalist Brian Johnson still wears his working-guy tight jeans, motorcycle boots, sleeveless shirt and flat cap.
As for the rest of the band, drummer Phil Rudd, bassist Cliff Williams and guitarist Malcolm Young look like guys who collect tickets at a traveling carnival’s Ferris wheel. They could easily pass for members of their own road crew.
But collectively, they rank among the tightest, most dependable rhythm sections in rock. They are why AC/DC songs are so popular in strip clubs; their groove speaks directly to the hips.
They formed three legs of a tripod. Malcolm Young and Williams stood rooted in place on either side of Rudd’s kit, except when they ventured forth in unison to add backing vocals. Vocal chores complete, they retreated to their stations. During Angus’s finale of a solo, they stood patiently, arms folded across their instruments, until their contributions were again required. As usual, they resumed exactly in place and in time.
So it went for two hours. Hundreds of souvenir red devil horns flickered red throughout the arena; one could also purchase an Angus Young school boy tie for $35. An opening cartoon starring our heroes in a PG-13 adventure aboard a “Rock ‘n Roll Train” gave way to the song of the same name and a smoking, life-size locomotive that served as the stage backdrop.
As far as arena rock props go, the train managed to walk that fine line between awesomeness and Spinal Tap-esque excess. So, too, the giant inflatable floozy – her bosoms were taller than the Young brothers – that straddled the locomotive during “Whole Lotta Rosie.”
During his traditional striptease in “The Jack,” Young dropped his shorts. In years past, he flashed a full moon. In his only concession to advancing years, this time he revealed only a pair of AC/DC boxers.
Otherwise he was his manic old self, a perpetual motion machine whose solos in “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” and elsewhere were spot on. Happily, he is a rock guitarist who still remembers how, and why, to solo. His sources go back to the dawn of rock ‘n’ roll and beyond. The hard blues that cranked over the P.A. as the pre-show music is an obvious influence. His duck walk is straight-up Chuck Berry.
Unlike, say, Eddie Van Halen, Young remains in full possession of both his abilities and the willingness and focus to deploy them. “Let There Be Rock” ended the regular set with an epic Angus guitar excursion. Camera operators had the good sense to project a close-up of his fingers on the 30-foot-tall center screen, so all could bear witness to the details.
Johnson was, as usual, the whole arena’s best mate. How, at 62, he sustains his voice – it is the sound of gravel being gargled – for two hours a night, let alone a months-long tour, is a mystery. He ranged back and forth across the stage and the runway that extended halfway across the arena’s floor, grinning, enjoying himself and making sure those in attendance did as well.
With few exceptions – the sleazy, slow-blues bump ‘n grind of “The Jack,” the bombast of “For Those About to Rock” – AC/DC sticks to a familiar tone and tempo. Material from 2008’s “Black Ice,” the band’s first studio album in eight years, coexisted amicably with the classics. “Thunderstruck,” questionable in its studio version, benefited from a live treatment.
No one does AC/DC better than AC/DC, and they are as potent as ever. The staggering riffage of “Hell’s Bells,” the nearly-tipping-over-the-side-of-the-freeway rush of “Shoot to Thrill,” the curt, snarling guitars of “TNT,” the dirty boogie of “Whole Lotta Rosie” – it’s all still intact.
Early on, in “Back in Black,” Johnson changed the “I’m back” line to “we’re back.” But AC/DC has never really gone – or faded -- away.
For counting and 36 years, the quintet has trafficked in a blues based form of hard rock ‘n’ roll served up with a naughty wink. They do not pander with power ballads. They do not experiment with drum loops. And they most certainly do not rap.
The band’s 1980 masterwork “Back In Black” is, according to the Recording Industry Association of America, the fifth best selling album of all time in the United States, at 22 million copies and counting. Many of the songs on that album would work just as well on any other AC/DC album – except, perhaps, a couple of lame late-‘80s efforts – and vice-versa.
As evidenced by AC/DC’s Wednesday night show at a not-quite-full New Orleans Arena, not only does the song remain the same, but the presentation as well. Lead guitarist Angus Young, at 54, still vamps in his crushed-velvet schoolboy uniform. Vocalist Brian Johnson still wears his working-guy tight jeans, motorcycle boots, sleeveless shirt and flat cap.
As for the rest of the band, drummer Phil Rudd, bassist Cliff Williams and guitarist Malcolm Young look like guys who collect tickets at a traveling carnival’s Ferris wheel. They could easily pass for members of their own road crew.
But collectively, they rank among the tightest, most dependable rhythm sections in rock. They are why AC/DC songs are so popular in strip clubs; their groove speaks directly to the hips.
They formed three legs of a tripod. Malcolm Young and Williams stood rooted in place on either side of Rudd’s kit, except when they ventured forth in unison to add backing vocals. Vocal chores complete, they retreated to their stations. During Angus’s finale of a solo, they stood patiently, arms folded across their instruments, until their contributions were again required. As usual, they resumed exactly in place and in time.
So it went for two hours. Hundreds of souvenir red devil horns flickered red throughout the arena; one could also purchase an Angus Young school boy tie for $35. An opening cartoon starring our heroes in a PG-13 adventure aboard a “Rock ‘n Roll Train” gave way to the song of the same name and a smoking, life-size locomotive that served as the stage backdrop.
As far as arena rock props go, the train managed to walk that fine line between awesomeness and Spinal Tap-esque excess. So, too, the giant inflatable floozy – her bosoms were taller than the Young brothers – that straddled the locomotive during “Whole Lotta Rosie.”
During his traditional striptease in “The Jack,” Young dropped his shorts. In years past, he flashed a full moon. In his only concession to advancing years, this time he revealed only a pair of AC/DC boxers.
Otherwise he was his manic old self, a perpetual motion machine whose solos in “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” and elsewhere were spot on. Happily, he is a rock guitarist who still remembers how, and why, to solo. His sources go back to the dawn of rock ‘n’ roll and beyond. The hard blues that cranked over the P.A. as the pre-show music is an obvious influence. His duck walk is straight-up Chuck Berry.
Unlike, say, Eddie Van Halen, Young remains in full possession of both his abilities and the willingness and focus to deploy them. “Let There Be Rock” ended the regular set with an epic Angus guitar excursion. Camera operators had the good sense to project a close-up of his fingers on the 30-foot-tall center screen, so all could bear witness to the details.
Johnson was, as usual, the whole arena’s best mate. How, at 62, he sustains his voice – it is the sound of gravel being gargled – for two hours a night, let alone a months-long tour, is a mystery. He ranged back and forth across the stage and the runway that extended halfway across the arena’s floor, grinning, enjoying himself and making sure those in attendance did as well.
With few exceptions – the sleazy, slow-blues bump ‘n grind of “The Jack,” the bombast of “For Those About to Rock” – AC/DC sticks to a familiar tone and tempo. Material from 2008’s “Black Ice,” the band’s first studio album in eight years, coexisted amicably with the classics. “Thunderstruck,” questionable in its studio version, benefited from a live treatment.
No one does AC/DC better than AC/DC, and they are as potent as ever. The staggering riffage of “Hell’s Bells,” the nearly-tipping-over-the-side-of-the-freeway rush of “Shoot to Thrill,” the curt, snarling guitars of “TNT,” the dirty boogie of “Whole Lotta Rosie” – it’s all still intact.
Early on, in “Back in Black,” Johnson changed the “I’m back” line to “we’re back.” But AC/DC has never really gone – or faded -- away.
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