March 18 2003

Aussies don't fly too high, but they fucking roll across the earth like nobody's business. And if you were an AC/DC fan who didn't know the founding fathers of the land down under were limey convicts – prisoners of bullets, brawn, and beer, not conscience; the country was a continent-size halfway house – it sure made sense when you found out. The first time I heard "Highway to Hell," three minutes and 26 seconds of nitro-burning freedom, I boosted a brand new IRoc from the lower lot at Sun Valley Mall and drove 90 all the way to Stockton just to celebrate in a style they'd appreciate. Back around 1980, there was punk and there was AC/DC, who were to rock and roll what beer, glue, bad weed, and Patty Caracappa were to the first week of summer vacation, which is to say, just about everything.

AC/DC formed in 1973, and if you could swallow Angus Young's lame shorts-and-suspenders drag and the screaming vocals of Bon Scott – a garage-sale version of Robert Plant – you knew they were great. If you couldn't, it took until 1979 to figure it out, when Highway to Hell dropped and made you do all kinds of stupid shit. AC/DC knew all about that. Check out Scott, who drank himself to death, not over a few years or however long it takes to drink yourself to death, but in a few days, on a colossal bender. See ya, Bon; it was your birthright.