It really doesn’t get any better than AC/DC
But the bona fide rock God we saw in a scarlet jacket, matching shorts with a cap and a tie at Glasgow’s Hampden Park the other Sunday night is squeaky-clean, blue blooded music royalty. Angus Young and his band AC/DC. There’s a reason why Glasgow is the greatest city on earth, it’s like a drunk Disneyland for grown-ups. The last gig we saw up there, The Stone Roses at Glasgow Green in 2013, felt like a good natured poll tax riot. So this time we were ready for anything.
We got last-minute tickets to see AC/DC, the biggest rock band in the world, and they were absolutely sensational. They really are as good as it gets.
Nobody, but nobody, can play guitar quite like Angus. The hairs on the back of your neck get tired from standing on end for two hours while he’s on. He’s the star of the show but never says a word all night long, although nobody would be in the least bit surprised if he made his guitar talk.
And at the time of writing, 36 hours after the band left the stage to a colossal roar so stirring it made the floodlights rattle, my hearing is yet to return to normal. Okay, so three-quarters of their set was written, recorded and released about 40 years ago. But with tunes so rousing they could make a corpse twitch, who cares?
I was going to say AC/DC are about the only cultural gift Australia has bestowed upon the world, apart from Mad Max and swearing at cricket.
But co-founders Angus and his brother Malcolm (now sadly suffering from dementia) were born in Glasgow, bassist Cliff Williams is from Essex, current drummer Chris Slade is Welsh, original singer the late Bon Scott was Scottish-born and his replacement Brian Johnson is from Gateshead.
So Australia, just a post-apocalyptic road warrior and sledging then. Anyway, when Angus launched into Whole Lotta Rosie, a song about the late lead singer’s one night stand with an obese Tasmanian woman, Hampden Park burst.