The Faith

This is something I stuck up on My Space many moons back. But it seems kind of topical, so I'll run with it once more.

Could this be you?

Emotions run high when someone dons a rock T-shirt these days. I’m thinking about the time I went to the friend of a friend’s nightclub, where the DJs specialise in cheesy 80's anthems and you find yourself dancing to things you think you’re too cool for. I hadn’t actually been planning to go out that night - I was drained after running a stall in Portobello Market all day - but seeing as the club’s promoter himself walked me in through the swing doors and onto a jam-packed floor of folk dancing themselves dizzy, I decided to stay. And what fun I had, still dressed to sit on that cold stall in a denim skirt, Wonderwoman boots and an AC/DC T-shirt.

The last item sparked up a conversation in the ladies’. What’s this obsession with AC/DC, a drunk Ozzie asked, the lipstick she was applying missing her gob by a mile. AC/DC were Australian - did I know that? Actually love, three of the original line-up were born in Scotland like me, so we’ll call it a draw.

And all evening folk came up and asked where I’d got my T-shirt, especially women who always have problems finding rock shirts that don’t come any smaller than beergut. All was well until I looked up to see three young men encircling me. “AC/DC, eh?” sneered one of them. Yes, I smiled. Shame the DJ hadn’t played my request for Rock n Roll Aint Noise Pollution, I was about to say, but...

“So. Have you got any of their records, then?” he said, bucked up by his mates. Yes, I do have some of their records, I replied, though I’ve had a bit of trouble getting hold of the Australian import of High Voltage. And did you see them last year at Hammy Odeon, I asked the lads. They hadn’t. Shame, I commiserated. The sound-check was phenomenal as well, and the after-show party.

That saw them off. But at least I hadn't been strip-searched!

The next day I told my friend Tina about this, who said that she could see their point. With Top Shop selling those Motorhead T-shirts and rock enjoying a renaissance, there’s bound to be a few impostors, she added.

This got me thinking. There’s Andrew, a friend to whom I lent the beanie hat I bought on the Stiff Upper Lip tour in 2000. One frosty evening he was approached by an unsavoury character who demanded if he knew anything by AC/DC, seeing as he was wearing a woolly hat with their logo on it. Luckily Andrew was able to air guitar and sing along to the opening lines of Highway to Hell, seeing as I’d had the foresight to tutor him in case this kind of thing happened. And there’s Simon who’s taken it upon himself to be one of the Undercover Rock Squad. He storms over to girls wearing those Top Shop Motorhead T-shirts and reduces them to tears when they can’t hum the Ace of Spades.

So where do we draw the line? Are these people who wear rock regalia for fashion’s sake plundering The Faith, or are we taking ourselves just a little bit too seriously? Answers on a postcard, please.

For those about to rock... salute us!

Six summers ago, word got out that AC/DC would be doing a small gig at London's Heavy Metal Temple, Hammersmith Odeon, as a thank you to four thousand lucky fans. They'd already played a few dates supporting the Stones in Germany and at the SARS Benefit in Toronto. I can't help but wonder if Jagger etc stopped to consider the wisdom of this support act in a land that spawned the Scorpions, but then he probably thinks he knows best. I like to think that it took some effort for him to do the good sport act at the after-show party - Catrina, my former co-worker in Japan, tells me that after the last cannon popped its cork on For Those About To Rock, there was a small exodus from the park at the SARS show.

I was lucky enough to get a couple of tickets for the Hammy Odeon and it all turned into a two-day event. First of all a friend and I went to the see if we could blag into the soundcheck, only to find out that fifty others, mainly large German men, had had the same idea. Our group blag was successful and the road cew let us in on the understanding that we didn't bother them for autographs, etc. Next day I took new friend Smiler along as my guest. We had to queue to pay for our tickets that we'd reserved along with four thousand folk who looked like they'd booked the morning off work, or simply not turned up. There were two people drinking a bottle of Cava in the queue, and they answered to the names of Smiler and Emsk. At the show itself we gradually worked our way to the front of the balcony, where we had a great view. And after that we followed the large Germans, with whom we'd now struck up a friendship, who lead us Pied Piper style over the rope into the after-show party. In actual fact the party was simply after-hours drinking in the Hammy Odeon bar and the band were already back at the hotel in their pyjamas supping hot chocolate, but who cares?

A selection of large Germans - accessoried down to the last Acca Dacca belt buckle.

AC/DC at Hammersmith Odeon, October 2003

Sadly, times like these are once-in-a-lifetime. Acca Dacca are huge and have been more rock aeons, so Hammy Odeon gigs are a thing of the 80s. Nonetheless, coming to see them tonight at the O2 Dome in London's Docklands is still a thrill. I like the fact that they're predictable. There's no concept album or prog-rock extravaganza waiting in the wings. As the saying goes, if it ain't broke...

As usual, women are vastly outnumbered. Our little group is 3:1 male. I'm quite happy with that, partly 'cos it's the first time in gig history that the queue for the gents snakes all the way to the bar while the ladies is empty. There's also a large contingent of balding men with small boys which goes to show that the rock baton is being handed on. And hopefully some mums and dads have brought daughters as well.

Plenty of reviewers will tell you that AC/DC have ignored musical genres that have, apparently, been far more influential, i.e., important, like punk. Others will mention that they're a lads' band. ButI can't help but think that the guys you meet at their shows are a much nicer bunch of blokes than the pretentious wankers I used to meet at punk gigs. I'd also favour a pint with Brian and Angus (well, mine's a dry white wine actually) than the gruesome suburban - but so trying not to be - Siouxsie Sioux, a so-called pivotal Woman in Rock, but whose recent appearance in the BBC's Queens of British Rock made me cringe. Or the mega-talented Courtney Love, who I rate highly but find a little scary.

A review appeared in The Guardian, the U.K.'s equivalent of the New York Times, in which the reviewer, God bless him, sounds peeved that Acca Dacca missed their chance to make some kind of social comment against war on their track War Machine. But I thought the accompanying cartoon, played out on enormous screens depicting a cartoon bomber dropping a whole lotta red SG guitars, parachuting rock women plus a tank driven by the band themselves, was comment enough. Dearie me - who did you think you were seeing, The Clash? Then there was another article that appeared in the same paper, which is worth a read and is pretty funny though.

I dunno, all this analysis. Hell's Bells!

Here we are...

And here they are...