Let’s get the perfunctory, quantifiable markers out of the way first. Rock Or Bust is a great album. An album in the truest sense of an album, from long-time proponents of the form – admirable holdouts from fragmented digital platforms (inevitably relenting long after other titans), delivering holistic artefacts, obstinate in the face of a rapidly shifting four decades of music history and trend, ephemeral or otherwise. This is the best, or at least equal best, AC/DC album since the all-conquering Black In Black – the resounding initial salvo of vocalist Brian Johnson, the most successful, if not the only successful, instance of a lead singer substitution, swift to carry momentum in the wake of the tragic, too soon, passing of legendary frontman Bon Scott.
AC/DC is a band built on riffs. Bloody good riffs, mind you. Since the beginning, back in 1973, Malcolm Young’s been the engine, the unassuming figure in a bluey behind his schoolboy brother and powerhouse vocalists, left of stage live, left speaker channel on record, unleashing rock‘n’roll in its purest form. The uncertainty surrounding Mal’s retirement, rumoured for months, then confirmed ahead of the announcement of Rock Or Bust,was disconcerting, to say the least. How could they go on? How much attrition can one band endure before collapsing?
The no-bullshit rock‘n’roll comes from a no-bullshit workmanlike ethic, even as they lay claim to being one of the biggest bands of all time. Mal out? Nephew Stevie in. Phil’s late to recording? Give him one day or he’s out on his arse. Phil’s got himself into some mischief in New Zealand? We can go on with or without him.
“In rock‘n’roll we trust / It’s rock or bust.” The title track doesn’t mince words. Doesn’t mince riffs, neither, belting a stop-start pugilism, similar to Back In Black, embellished by a bit of Angus squeal on the chorus. Track two, lead single, Play Ball makes more sense here instead of sports promo sync bait. Rock The Blues Away is bluesy, rock-y. The double entendres are almost single entendres. That’s the language of AC/DC: wry, dumb, brilliant.
The album clocks in at a tidy 11 tracks, shaving the slight bloat of previous LP Black Ice, working again with producer Brendan O’Brien – who’s proven to be as worthy a complement to the band as Mutt Lange (let’s not mention Rick Rubin’s misfire) – putting each element in its right place, loud without waging loudness war. It does everything an AC/DC album should, in the right measure, paring back the flashes of modernity that crept into Black Ice.A hard rock record, with crisp guitar, a smoky air of blues, aided by Johnson’s weather-beaten howl, which somehow, sounds better than ever.
I don’t know how I became an AC/DC fan. It makes sense. I grew up in a small, working class, farming hub town, but AC/DC was never an overt presence – my formative years shaped by a diet of hip hop, Beatles and Bowie. I wasn’t averse to AC/DC, but I didn’t embrace, not until some strange sublimation, I wound up with a wardrobe full of AC/DC tees (many sleeveless) in my Carlton (The Big Smoke, as they call it back home) terrace rental, upset that I could only afford tickets to two of three Melbourne shows during the Black Ice tour. I believed in AC/DC then, against the odds. I believe in AC/DC now, against the odds.
BY LACHLAN KANONIUK
