Back In Black - AC/DC

 

Provenance: No big story behind this one, I'm afraid. The story is that this is the sixth-biggest selling album ever, and it's by AC/DC. 

Review: This one should be easy, no? It's baby's first hard rock record. It's part of the headbanger's canon. No self-respecting air-guitarist would go without.

However, I have been a bit of a contrarian in the past, making sport of sacred cows such as Deep Purple and Kiss. At least I haven't doled out any shoeings as a pose; my opinions may seem wrongheaded to you, fair reader, but they're forged in white heat of honesty. So with that being said, what do I find amiss with Back In Black?

Er, nothing much. It's pretty fantastic.

As a fan, I hold the uncontroversial opinion that Bon Scott was the greater frontman whilst maintaining that Back In Black is the best overall AC/DC album. This, despite the fact that, with the advent of Brian Johnson, its shorn of many of the aspects Scott brought to the band that made them so indelibly AC/DCish - the boozy bonhomie, leery (albeit often self-deprecating) innuendo and a bucketload of sleaze. Johnson is a different beast altogether, a man who sounds on the brink of imploding every time he opens his mouth, as strained and intense as Scott was relaxed and cheery. Upon listening today, it struck me as it never has before that Johnson actually sounds a fair bit like Dan McCafferty of Nazareth, another fella who sounded like he was dying every time he sang.

So what makes Back In Black so good? Some obvious points - catchy, precision-tooled riffs in every song; a big, roomy production coupled with unfussy music; the eye-popping weirdness of Brian Johnson; and the fact that, amidst the heavy blooz 'n' bluster, there can be detected the occasional stab at grandeur. There's a quality approaching stateliness in 'Hell's Bells' and 'Rock 'N' Roll Ain't Noise Pollution', a quality that even the tautology of the latter's chorus line cannot diminish. Back In Black was the first AC/DC album after Scott's passing, and the tolling of the bell that signifies the start of the album pulses with a rare power, no matter how many times you care to listen.

I should also observe that some of the plus points I've briefly sketched out would prove the seeds of AC/DC's downfall as a creative force, even as they became the stadium behemoth they are today. As with Def Leppard's Hysteria, also produced by Mutt Lange, Back In Black is shorn of any twisty intricacy - not that AC/DC would ever be confused with Bach, but this is definitely them at their most stripped-back. It works here, bold riffs against a stark canvas, but on later albums where the ideas weren't quite up to snuff, it began to sound boring.

Likewise, where Brian Johnson sounds quite demented here, there's little variation from album to album. Again, the effect wore off, and whilst a better singer in technical terms than Bon Scott, he doesn't possess Scott's ability with mood, colour and shading. Feel free to disagree with me on this, but I've listened to a whole lotta DC, and these are the conclusions I've reached. Also, whilst commendably keeping the spirit of sleaziness alive, 'Let Me Put My Love Into You' and 'Givin' the Dog a Bone' barely reach the qualifying bar for single-entendre. Still, very good rock songs both!

Listen to me, harping on about all the things AC/DC did subsequent to Back In Black. Suffice it to say, I can't add much to the fund of knowledge about the album - it's there, it's brilliant, and right now around the world fumbled attempts at 'Back In Black' emanate from one thousand guitar shops. I suppose it's remarkable in the sense that it's both an elegy and a celebration, yet never comes across as either mawkish or, at the other end of the spectrum, inconsiderate. How do you mourn the death of your revered frontman? By making one of the greatest rock and roll records of the era. 

High Voltage - AC/DC

 

Provenance: Somewhat murky; this is my first AC/DC album, and I suspect I bought it myself in Bournemouth's Essential Music. 

However, a tiny voice buzzing in the back of my mind tells me that my dad possibly bought this for me on a whim? Which is odd, as his tastes veer more towards Frank Zappa and the mighty Gryphon. Meat 'n' potatoes Antipodean rock was part of the household ambience until my brother and I indicated that we wanted to make a ruckus on drums and guitar respectively.

Incidentally, we liked AC/DC because it sounded simple to play, but then we could never get the rhythm of 'T.N.T.' correct and gave up. Does this suggest hitherto underrated rhythmic complexity on the part of messrs Young, Young, Scott et al? Or utter ineptitude from our side when it came to playing even the most basic of rock 'n' roll songs? You be the judge!

Review: Despite Twitter's brain-rotting qualities, around about the time of the 2016 US presidential election, some online wag once commented that "Donald Trump is probably the first president who likes AC/DC", meant to be a fairly unflattering comment on both. Intriguingly, whilst it appears that AC/DC may have actually written a song about Donny Deals, we don't know if the Trumpster has ever cranked 'Thunderstruck' or 'Whole Lotta Rosie' in the Oval Office, Trump Tower or Mar-A-Lago. We do know that the 45th president of the USA was one of the first people to purchase Guns N Roses' Use Your Illusion albums and that he rates the music video to 'November Rain'. Horses for courses - me, I think, like the song, it's excessive, tacky and overblown.

It's worth noting that High Voltage was not exactly a collection of original material; rather, it was a cut 'n' shut job of the band's previous two Australia-only releases. Let's just say you can't hear the join - there's no big evolution, Incredible String Band-style, between their first album (confusingly also titled High Voltage) and the next (which is called T.N.T. but is the first time we hear a song called 'High Voltage - keeping up?). Taking a gander at the two Australian releases, the material from T.N.T. that wound up on this album is stronger, though that does include 'The Jack', a song I consider utterly devoid of merit.

Were AC/DC really so primitive? Well, yes. This is pretty much an album of foot-stomping, blooz-based rockers without a particular surfeit of chord voicings to contend with. However, there's plenty going for it; for a start, the Young brothers somehow alighted on one of the meanest, crunchiest guitar tones this side of the International Date Line, which means even when they're vamping away on something simple like 'Rock 'N' Roll Singer' or 'She's Got Balls', the music has a kicky, muscular feel to it that is quite irresistible.

There's also a kind of genius at play in the sheer economy of the sound - it's raw and uncluttered, and to my ears all the tones from guitars and bass come solely from amplifier settings being tweaked. This really stands out in 2021, given the amount of preamp and production-stage effects most guitar parts are wrung through in modern music. Every instrument and voice thus has room to breathe, the biggest beneficiary being Phil Rudd's drumming, which is basic to the point of being Stone Age, but is executed with a truly organic sense of feel and groove.

I will admit that the combination of Bon Scott and AC/DC's lyrics are an acquired taste. Personally, I like his winking, leering good-time delivery, but at times the words make me want to hide. Aside from, 'The Jack', the most tedious and wretched joint here, 'Little Lover' and 'Can I Sit Next To You Girl' set my teeth on edge. However, Scott comes into his own when yelping about how hard AC/DC rock (always a fertile subject), especially 'It's A Long Way to the Top', 'Live Wire' (my favourite Scott performance on High Voltage) and 'High Voltage'. He's also good at playing the dangerous gunslinger on 'T.N.T.', the best track here - from its chewy guitar hook and the chanted 'oi!' intro to the braggadocio of the lyrics ("So lock up your daughter, lock up your wife / Lock up your back door, run for your life / The man is back in town / So you don't you mess me 'round") it simply whips ass.

Oh, and whilst the colour palette may be a little spare, AC/DC do achieve one notable feat, which is making the bagpipes sound bearable in popular music. Something even the maestro, Paul McCartney, failed to do. Undoubtedly a nod to the Scottish roots of half the band (Forfar-bon Scott is, apparently, the bag-botherer in question), its inclusion in 'It's A Long Way...' is extraordinary, propulsive, droning and huge. I have seen another band, Finnish folk metallers Korpiklaani, do an okay job with bagpipes, but this is the only example I actively like (NB: it seems that Korpiklaani have ditched the instrument; it seems that only one of the thirty-four people to have been in the band could blow pipe; they've kept the accordion, though - hmmm).

AC/DC would, of course, go on to dominate the world of hard rock, most notably with the record-breaking Back In Black, and would arguably compose better music. However, as a manifesto for a tough, scrappy bunch of barroom rattlers, High Voltage hits all the marks. Yes, they got bigger - but did they ever sound more vital?

11 - The Smithereens

Provenance: I'm screwing my eyes up in concentration here as I struggle to work out how I've ended up with only one Roy Harper but three Smithereens albums at the time of writing. Hell, I have two (should've been three) Autograph albums.

There's a mere wisp of an idea blowing around in my brainbox that it relates to a message board thread about great local bands who never really got the national exposure they were due. I believe the Smithereens received a couple of mentions from New Jersey based posters; enough to pique my interest at any rate. Autograph aside, that message board's hit rate has been decent, and evidently Smithereens albums weren't exactly going for a king's ransom as I bought three in one fell swoop.

First impressions aren't good though, are they? That's some really desperate cover art. Why they even went with an Ocean's 11 theme is mystifying, as there's nary a hint of Rat Pack to be found anywhere in the Smithereen's back catalogue, as far as I'm aware. The only thing I can think of is that the New Jersey-based band shared a home base with some of the Chairman of the Board's friends, associates and acquaintances.

Review: Not bad. Not the kind of thing I would usually go for, but 11 is listenable enough to be on my iPod as a change of pace. 

How would I describe the sound of the Smithereens on 11? They are right up there in the 'superior bar band' category that is topped by the E Street Band, and often includes acts such as Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Graham Parker & the Rumour. Definitely, then, an impression that this is music played by blue collar strivers, though with less of the soul influence than some of the acts in the genre. You could also say that they're college rock-adjacent, though at the noisier end of the spectrum; you could imagine the Smithereens playing on a bill with Camper Van Beethoven before slinking off to the bus to listen to AC/DC. Lastly, there's a discernible power-pop strain to 11, as most of the tracks are built around strong, catchy melodies. 

So, some nice influences in the mix, but the fact that I can so readily locate them probably contributes to why they were never world beaters - a lack of originality. Undoubtedly decent crafters of song, the Smithereens just lack that spark or originality or a signature twist that says "this is a Smithereens record." No great shame in that at all. Instead, we get rock music with its foundations on display, rendered here very competently, sometimes superbly, and almost always enjoyably. 

Oh, oh, I'm so downbeat! Look, here are the good things - firstly, singer-songwriter Pat DiNizio devotes himself to writing about love and loss in an admirably single-minded manner. Romance is always a good topic in popular music, and it's served very well here on the quieter tracks such as 'Blue Period', tracks that invariably use the cool major-minor trick I consider to be the hallmark of all the best love songs. I've been listening to a lot of 1960s pop recently, and I'm hearing a lot of what makes the best of that era so appealing; alongside the cute chord changes, there's some neat harmonising and judicious use of female backing vocals to be found - 'Baby Be Good' features all three.

The late DiNizio also wins out as the front for all this material, as he sounds like the kind of guy who had his heart broken a few times. He can sound defiant, such as on the stadium rocker standout 'A Girl Like You', but mostly he's the friendzone incarnate. Perhaps not the most flattering characterisation, true, yet 11 would suffer if the Smithereens' singer was some alpha-male heartthrob. All this comes to a head on the curious 'William Wilson', which despite being in possession of an ambiguous lyric, comes across like a Gen X retread of the Kinks' hero worship number 'David Watts'. (DiNizio's own explanation of 'William Wilson' hardly helps - it's variously about Brian Wilson, an Edgar Allan Poe story and the founder of Alcoholics Anonymous.) 

Another point in the Smithereens' favour is that 11 benefits from a punchy, chunky production sound. Just as the best power-pop often possesses a hint of venom amidst all the prettiness and candyfloss, DiNizio's wimpy descants strut from the speakers like puffed-up beachfront beefcakes. It's all rather larky! 

It's just a shame, then, that even on such a short collection - it clocks in at under 35 minutes - 11 runs out of puff on the last two numbers. Firstly, 'Maria Elena' features what sounds like an accordion. I don't even care if it isn't an accordion (I think it is), I dislike accordions in rock music almost as much as I dislike whistling. Leave accordions to zydeco musicians, French street performers and Peter Sarstedt, that's what I say. Finally, 'Kiss Your Tears Away' means that 11 wheezes to its conclusion - no amount of jangly, raga-inflected guitar can save what is a soporific and low energy workout, even if DiNizio is at his most sensitively simpering best. My advice would be to skip back to the start and give 'A Girl Like You' one final blast - it's just that good.

Night Songs - Cinderella

Provenance: When I was eighteen I went to see Blue Oyster Cult at The Brook in Southampton. I distinctly recall seeing a rather statuesque young lady alone in the crowd, and being both a) a bit cocky and b) entirely oblivious to the notion that she might not want to speak to me, I went over and introduced myself. She was a first-year student at the local university and, as it turned out, welcomed a chat as none of her peers had answered the call to see 'the Cult' live. We talked music, and it turned out she was especially enthused on a band called Cinderella, particularly a chap called Eric Brittingham.

I didn't get anywhere beyond talking about our mutual enjoyment of rock music as I suspect that sharing the same number of syllables in our names was about the only thing I and Mr Brittingham had in common.

Wind the tape forwards a few years and you'll find me sat in my tent checking the schedule at Sweden Rock Festival. Ahoy hoy, what's this? Cinderella playing a late afternoon 'cold beer' slot? Was I going to check them out? Too bloomin' right! And yeah, Cinderella were cool even though Tom Keifer had a goddamn baby voice.

Review: From looks alone one would reflexively lump Cinderella in with the spandex 'n' Aquanet glam metal mob. And indeed, there are certainly a few signifiers of that era present on Night Songs - noise-gated drums, trebly guitars, wailin' vocals. Yet that only tells half the story - because on this album, you can hear the serious intent of solid blues-rock musicians trapped within the glittery carapace of butt-rock dandies.

Unfortunately, this is the album's fatal flaw. Although Night Songs contains some great songs and sterling performances, it is hamstrung by a gauzy production job courtesy of Andy Johns. It's not as if Johns is a bad producer - he helmed the desk on Television's Marquee Moon after all - but I can only conclude that here he was making a misguided attempt to keep up with the zeitgeist. A strange decade, the 1980s; you had albums that sound immaculate - better than anything being produced in the present day (Sade's Diamond Life, Donald Fagen's The Nightfly, hell let's thrown ABC's Lexicon of Love into the mix too) - but for every bejewelled wonder you also had about three albums that sound like a clutch of synthesizers rattling around the bottom of a shipping container.

The good news is that the rather enervated production can't hide the quality of tracks like the rambunctious 'Shake Me' ("aaaAAAalll night!") and the monumental 'Nobody's Fool'. It's interesting to note that instead of a shack-shaker to kick off the collection, whoever sequenced Night Songs opted for the moody prowler 'Night Songs', a track very much in the mould of AC/DC's 'Hell's Bells'. A freaking bell even chimes during the intro, and it doesn't escape notice that Keifer is singing in the same range of a certain Brian Johnson of, er, AC/DC; shurely shome coincidensh?

It sags a little in the middle with 'Once Around the Ride' and 'Hell On Wheels', two generic rockers that would've sounded more than passable if they had some balls. Was glam metal one big emasculation fever dream? Lots of castrati-high vocalising and gender-bending raiment all in the service of men aggressively asserting their masculinity via some of the most sexist lyrics ever yelped into a microphone? I don't know where I'm going with this.

If you aren't disposed to like either heavy rock or freeze-dried production jobs you're not going to find Night Songs particularly palatable, but you might be able to look past its obvious faults and glimpse the promise of something quite wonderful. Also, when I mentioned 'blues-rock' in the fourth paragraph, I am of course talking about blues rock in its whitest iteration; there's nary a whiff of the Mississippi Delta about Night Songs. But an album that burns down the home stretch with pulsing dandruff-looseners like 'Somebody Save Me', 'In From the Outside' and the mighty 'Push Push' deserves respect. Good stuff all in all, but Eric Brittingham can do one.

Ballbreaker - AC/DC

Provenance: In the sultry summer of 2004 I lit out with two other splendid fellows to the now-defunct Arrow Rock Festival held at Lichtenvoorde, in the Netherlands. I shaved my head clean and grew a goatee so I would resemble Rob Halford, who had very recently rejoined Judas Priest and were to headline the second night.

I had the time of my life at Arrow Rock, meeting some good folk, braving the weather to see some surprisingly good bands (Ten Years After and Golden Earring exceeded expectations), learning that mayonnaise is the only thing one should put on one's fries...

...and enduring the oddly dystopian setup whereby music was being played through scaffold-mounted speakers in the campsite all night and day. The one song I remember playing incessantly was 'Moondance' by Van Morrison. But that was nothing compared to our neighbouring camper. He roared in early on the second day with his motorcycle club and set up camp next door. We learnt from him that he was unable to buy an Iron Maiden album as he kept asking music store owners for 'ee-ron may-ee-den'. We learnt that he was in "one of the biggest" Creedence Clearwater Revival tribute acts in the Netherlands.

And we learnt that he really liked 'Cover You In Oil' from AC/DC's 1995 album Ballbreaker. Really, really liked it. To the exclusion, or so it seemed, to any other music. He would sit on his deckchair, can of Gouden Zegel in hand, CD player in his lap, listening to 'Cover You In Oil' over and over again. It would reach the end and he would skip back to the start. Sometimes, when he was drunk or slow we'd get a couple of seconds of the next track, but his fingers would find the skip backwards button and we'd be back on 'Cover You In Oil'. This went on for three days straight.

Later that summer, I imagine, I was going around my parents' place singing 'Cover You In Oil' as some kind of ironic joke to myself which backfired when they in turn bought me parent album Ballbreaker for Christmas.

Review: AC/DC are one of those acts that loom large over the rock landscape. They've got their superfans, they've got those who love their big albums (I fall into this category), and you've got those who may not even like Acca Dacca but feel obliged to profess a nodding acquaintance and approbation of their major works. It just doesn't do to profess to be a rock fan and be dismissive of AC/DC - like long-dead playwrights or ageing matinee stars, they are accorded an almost automatic respect for their achievements. Certainly, in this writer's opinion, at their best they were (are?) electric - but as with Iron Maiden (or Ee-ron May-ee-den), I'm minded to say that AC/DC have too much filler in their catalogue to be considered the creme de la creme.

So to Ballbreaker, which I haven't listened to in a long time. I admit that because of my prejudice about AC/DC's uneven output I was worried that this would be a grind. On that count, I have been pleasantly surprised. Producer Rick Rubin has the right idea at keeping arrangements sparse and stripped down - guitars sound like guitars, drums sound like drums and Brian Johnson's helium 'n' leather vocals sound ripe and lusty.

What about the songs? They're...not bad, in the main. Here's my main gripe with Johnson-era AC/DC - everything is done at a fairly stately processional. Many of these songs are fine in isolation, but nothing grabs you by the throat or induces a bout of self-administered whiplash as 'High Voltage' or 'Riff Raff', for example, do. As such, everything on Ballbreaker takes a little bit of huffing and puffing before it gets going. I don't mind it at all if it takes a while for a big old hunk of rock to get revved up, but this album screams out for song that socks you with a haymaker at the outset.

Happily, then, if you like mid-paced blues-rock, you'll be thrilled with Ballbreaker. 'Hard As A Rock' is catchy and fun, even if by this stage AC/DC were trading on single entendres for their yucks. My Dutch friend should've been a bit slower off the mark when skipping back to his favourite ditty because 'The Furor' has a tasty, minor-key descending chord progression that is possibly the most interesting thing on the album. 'Boogie Man' is 'Night Prowler' 2.0 but, again, taken on its own merits a decent tune. The quality dips a little on the second half of the album, and I find something vaguely annoying about 'Hail Caesar', but not enough that I would hit the shuffle button if it came on in the car.

Now for a minor gripe, one which I have alluded to already. AC/DC's lyrics have never aspired to poetry, but in the early days their sleazy doggerel held a similar appeal to the priapic doublespeak found in a Carry On... film. Alas, there is little here that Sid James would cackle over, so obvious are the sex metaphors. Obvious, and tired. Listening to 'Love Bomb' and 'Caught With Your Pants Down' actually shaved a few points off my IQ (and the latter isn't helped by straining to sound like 'Whole Lotta Rosie' without an ounce of the original's manic energy). But for all my complaints, the sound coming out of my speakers is tough and lean, and whilst unambitious, the songs are hooky enough to maintain interest for the most part. It's not brilliant, but Ballbreaker really isn't too bad at all.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention 'Cover You In Oil' again. It's an early track, so once I'd listened to the album all the way through, in homage to my Dutch biker acquaintance I skipped back and gave it another listen. It's punchy, possesses a swagger that's not so evident on the rest of Ballbreaker and has a chorus that is dopey enough to sing along to. I've now heard 'Cover You In Oil' more than almost any other person on the planet. Almost. I truly hope that somewhere in the Low Countries, a man with a greasy mullet and a luxurious moustache is sat in a Laz-E-Boy, supping on a Gouden Zegel and hitting the 'back' button at the first hint that 'The Furor' might start playing.