AC/DC

Named after your average (is there any other kind?) AC/DC fan’s inability to discern – and frankly give a shit – when faced with silicone or natural.  They’re simply happy to hold on to either with one hand, a stubby in the other, a chubby somewhere down below and this album on as the soundtrack.

As predictable as, well, an AC/DC album – this one has arrived. And here it is. And that’s about that.

Phil Rudd doesn’t get too jazzy – unless you consider deviating from hi-hat/snare/bass to crash down on a cymbal too jazzy (and probably at least someone in the AC/DC ranks does think exactly that – it was probably why their first bass player walked. Away). Malcolm is missed. Sure. The heart and soul and engine gone. Angus and Brian simply going through the motions (yet again) – no real hooks to speak of, where even when the AC/DC albums across the last twenty/thirty years have been mostly unremarkable, The Razor’s Edge sure had something. And Black Ice was better than it ought to be. But Rock or Bust is merely there. Here for now. And in a fan’s collection FOREVER!

The band long ago turned to brand and so this, a “new” album, is what the corporation requires. Tickets will then be sold. Silicone and natural will be in attendance. And behind them some hairy arms and a fug of that intoxicating smoke. Everything is as it should be. For it’s the law of diminishing returns that this be the weakest, laziest AC/DC album. And it is.

Now watch as the fans stay true and send it up the charts and buy all the tickets.

It’s a sub-tribe you can still easily side-step. Someone else will be playing the role of Malcolm. Someone else might be playing the role of Phil Rudd. Any anyone else could play the roles of the others – their souls disappeared long ago. Any new ideas gone now too it seems.