Train sized riffs, men in boys' clothing and no "tea towel music" absolutely guaranteed.

AC/DC
Flanders Expo, Ghent
14 October 2000

"I've got the easy gig, at the back," offers AC/DC's Malcolm Young, the greatest rhythm guitarist in the world. "Angus and Brian , they got the tough one, substaining the energy level for two hours. And it's full on there's no let up".

He's not wrong. This evening's concert in Belgium, at the start of their Europen tour, takes place in a corrugated iron shed in Ghent and lacks any moments of let-up whatsoever. From the gentle opener, You Shook me all night long - a song which in AC/DC terms is a light warm-up but by any other band's standards would be an earthquake inserted into the face through the eyes - to the closer For those about to rock, this is a propper rock show. In fact, four songs contain the word "Rock", while no less than three contain the word "Hell". It is also very loud: a situation made worse by AC/DC vocalist Brian Johnson's repeated requests for the crowd to come closer to the stage for a through deafening.

AC/DC are performing tonight with some cannons, a big bel;l, an inflatable doll and a statue. By the end of the show the stage resembles a giant's antique shop. But, at the start , there is nothing except the band, who still comprise a shrieking witch-voiced Geordie, a shaking, fit-seized lead guitar-playing schoolboy; a bass player (who replaced some other bass player); a drummer (who, owing to the twists and turns of AC/DC's history, is his own replacement); and an iron-faced, wiry rhythm guitarist who fills in all the gaps and is - perhaps more than the others - the core of AC/DC.

It's Malcolm Young's riffs - the plunging monolithic intro to Back in Black, the insane clown boogie of Whole Lotta Rosie, the joyful fuckwit march of Highway to Hell - that define these songs, not Angus Young's wanking octopus solos or Johnson's brain-shredding voice. Those two are showmen; Malcolm IS THE BEEF.

Sitting in a Belgium hotel on the morning of the show, dressed in a vaguely white T-shirt and jeans older than the world, the rhythm guitarist is modest, preferring to break rock convention by praising the group's drummer, Phil Rudd.

"I couldn't pump like that unless Phil was there." he insists. "But everyone's aiming for the same goal. We're always looking to take it that step higher. We strieve to win' Heh heh he."

Many see Malcolm as the boss of AC/DC. He claims otherwise. "There's no boss in our band. There's just a band," he says through a firestorm of Benson & Hedges smoke. We're our own persons and we all make the decisions. It's not like a football manager comin' in - and you know what we can do! Heh heh heh!

Unlike other rock bands. AC/DC are both deceptively simple and make the listener feel happy (they also the only metal band to write songs about Hell that sound fun). No-one can dance to rock, but if one could, it would be to AC/DC. They swing.

"We like Louis Armstrong" nods Young. "I mean we're not just saying that. He was a great guy, he swings even just his voice, forget his trumpet."

Young cannot remember the moment AC/DC sound - huge, bouncy riffs with salacious lyrics and a monstrous half-party, half terror vibe - was born, but he knows why it was born.

"What we noticed at that time was it was all coming out of that Woodstock, long solo thing. But people were dancing at our shows, having a good time with the birds. We said let's do the rock 'n' roll songs, Chuck Berry and the like, it's only 12 bars. It all came from playing simple and getting 'em to dance. They don't have to think, they just get up and dance."

He inhales some more smoke "And if you got more than three chords, you may confuse this audience," he adds thoughtfully "Heh heh heh!"

There is nothing to confuse this audience , save possibly the weird funkiness of Rock 'n' roll aint a noise pollution, or Angus Young's habit of starting most songs with an anticipatory guitar twiddle: an adjustment that suggest something very loud is going to happen.

In fact, the oddest thing tonight is the way the stage goes dark for several seconds between each song, suggesting either that the lighting rig works on very cheap batteries or - more likely - that the set is being filmed in song sized chunks for easy video editing.

Nothing distracts from the entertainment, however, not even a huge statue of Angus whose eyes light up and which breathes smoke, craply. But then, who else would have a statue of a guitarist onstage? Mogwai? Who else's symbol is a fortysomething adult dressed as a schoolboy? Only Jeanette Krankie and Angus Young occupy this position in culture.

The show rumbles on. About three songs sopund like they are going to be Rock n Roll damnation but turn out not to be. Tonight offers no surprises, execpt that it is utterly great.

"We're still us. We couldn't change big time," claims Young. "Basically the foundations are all the same. It's us five years on. A few more grey hairs, a few less hairs. And wrinkles."

No wrinkles are apparent onstage, although when he plays without his schoolboy cap Angus looks a little like an addled Fraiser Craine. Vocalist Brian Johnson stalks the stage in a crouch, like he's crossing the road cradling a tiny egg in his hands. Malcolm stays in the back, grinning quite a lot. Phil Ridd drums for a while in glasses - which is cool, if a bit Dave from Blur.

Back in Black is played, the normal hyperactive video screen showing the album sleeve for the duration. Johnson swings off a bell like a huge bugie. Angus goes up on a platform and comes back down again. Malcolm does nothing flashy at all. And there is no ballads.

"Never into that at all," protests Young. Even in the '70's when label people would say, You guys could do a slow ballad, just clean up. Tea Towel music, Bon Scott (late AC/DC vocalist) used to call it, you know. For the housewives doing the dishes. Heh heh heh!"

The last part of the show is. of course the best. Anyone who can hear Back in Black, Highway to Hell and Whole Lotta Rosie played in sequence without making socially inapporpiate body movements, swinging out of tune or generally not wishing the moment to last forever or until he or she has no more ears, must be ill in some way. A finale of Let there be Rock merely confirms what we all know.AC/DC are the best rock band in the world.

The crowd stream out and we head backstage to meet some of the biggest idiots in Europe's media, including an oaf with a backpack full of beer that he keeps trying to get the partly teetotal band to drink. Malcolm passes by, still grinning. Perhaps the secret of AC/DC along with train-sized riffs, is humour. "It's tongue in cheek. It's never really meant to be taken seriously," he laughs. "It's the fun thing of rock 'n' roll. Chuck Berry again - he was the man. If you take it serious, it's time to think about the gold watch. "Heh Heh Heh!"

****

Review by David Quantick
Edited by Mark Blake
Q Magazine December 2000 issue

Stiff Upper Lip Tour Special