"AC/DC Universal Adapter"
The band, AC/DC has always sung about women, rent collectors, "bad men on the run", and hell.
Tip your "pint" back sharply, press your palm against the frosted glass windows and join the boys-- hooting and aping on the brass rail by the bar. Yes, your boozy uncles with elder "school boy" antics, like working-class mischief and a game of billiards with a pipe in their mouths as a parody at respectability. Their plate has always been meaty guitar bits that switch with v-fingered power chords, like a game of chess when you move along the knights and bishops, knocking them off each other like pool balls colliding with harmonious, yet crunchy riffage that lands in the gut of one's "side pocket", what intuitively makes sense like an old dog-gnawed boot.
Jeans, t-shirts, and kangaroo-hoppin' morals from "the down-under". There are algorithms that know not to deviate "too far from the formula", sort of a brass-knuckles B.B. King mirror image of punk rock itself with a stripped down, raucous sound that spends less time snarling epithets like the leering rictus of Johnny Rotten's shortcomings, but delivering the music with eminent good humor and unwashed charm. . . . . and unlike Sid Vicious, they can actually play their instruments.
Politics is a posture, sneering a sham. . . . . mellowing out into a chagrined milquetoast activism about "saving the environment". This is rock n' roll, the juice turned up with enough voltage to light a city, the cannons shooting enough pyrotechnic concussion blasts to make Queen Victoria cover up her ears down there in her stately grave. And everlasting in the living memory of heavy metal rodents everywhere, standing out there in the festival crowd of life, chittering over the cheese of victory. Hail, Hail!
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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
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(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
© 2010 by Insufferable Industries
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