One more before we depart for Ireland.
I was very sad to learn, this morning, of the death of Malcolm Young. I'd been equally heartbroken to hear about his dementia. Can you imagine spending your life and career writing and performing music and then not being able to remember how to play the very instrument you wrote it all on? An unfathomably cruel fate for a musician, and a tragedy for his loved ones.
I’ve mentioned AC/DC a few times here before, although unfortunately often in the form of a complaint. I winced when they got in bed with Walmart, and I scowled when they somewhat dispassionately discharged Brian Johnson from their ranks after his physician warned him against further touring, lest it permanently destroy his hearing. I frowned upon the news that they hired Axl Rose — of all people — to limp into Brian’s place to fulfill their touring obligations, but I respected their ironclad will to fulfill their commitments.
Those petty grievances aside, however, I cannot underscore how vital a role AC/DC played in my life as a nascent music fan. While lazily lumped in with all things heavy metal, AC/DC transcended genres — much like their storied peers in Motorhead and the Ramones — and furiously executed their art under the singular banner of simply “rock ’n’ roll.” But unlike those two other worthy ensembles, AC/DC managed to wholly infiltrate the zeitgeist, vaulting them to a more elevated level of stardom. Everyone knows an AC/DC song, although if you really want to separate the die-hards from the dilettantes, put on a selection from prior to 1979’s Highway to Hell, and see who more accurately air-guitars or croons lasciviously along with the late Bon Scott.
As their primary songwriter, Malcolm Young practically scored the soundtrack to my youth. Their high voltage anthems may have usually been about getting loud, laid and loaded with their wheels, whiskey and women (activities that were largely foreign to me as a young lad, albeit not for a lack of trying), but there was something about their immediately distinctive sound — invariably underpinned by the burly foundation of Malcolm Young’s rhythm-guitar — that indelibly resonated with me.
We shall not encounter their like again.
My friend Brian spotted the below of Malcolm and Bon amidst the wilds of the internet, and it struck all the right chords, pardon the pun.
Rest in peace, gentlemen.
Recent Comments