There’s a certain calibre of performers for whom just turning up is impressive enough to warrant a glowing review. The Ozzys and the Keefs of the world – and undoubtedly, AC/DC. They are the cockroach rockers of our time, who, like sharks that stop swimming, cannot physically stop touring, or they’ll die.
Walking into Wembley for the PWR UP tour, you can see why they’d never want to, because they don’t attract a casual crowd. By about 4pm, every second person I saw on the tube was wearing devil horns. I lock eyes with one man opposite me, naturally wearing as many badges as was physically possible to cram on a jacket, and notice he’s bleeding profusely from his leg.
I’m thinking a scrape in the mad clamour to get on the train, until he pulls up his trouser leg slightly to reveal a fresh AC/DC tattoo that’s leaking crimson ink all over the Jubilee line. “Last minute decision,” he shrugs. But it feels as intentional a declaration you could get, and it’s emblematic of the feeling in the crowd the entire night. For a lot of the fans, their love for the band is decades in the making – bone deep. In some instances, it’s quite literally in their blood.
That’s one really charming element of the night, the hand me down experience dad’s all over the place are having with their sons and daughters. Next to me is a young kid at his first ever gig, whose enthusiastic dad keeps hoisting him up on his shoulders. Every time he comes down, he turns to his dad wide-eyed and tells him how great it is. Because I’m sentimental, that’s the take home element. You’ll read about the show being plagued by audio issues, but quite frankly, it barely mattered. Slightly muddied vocals are made semi-redundant when 80,000 people are singing ‘Highway To Hell’ together.
Another element that’s pushed me to completely ignore the spotty audio is the fresh perspective I had watching the show. Not only was I standing next to a kid having the time of his life at his first ever concert, but one of my friends was in the exact same boat. It’s so easy to get lost in considering things like the pacing of the setlist, the visuals, all the standard reviewing check boxes, that you forget how gigs feel to someone who’s never been to one. To my left and my right, I got to see the entire night through completely fresh eyes.
In all fairness, it was through those same fresh eyes that I did come to realise there was something a bit off with the audio. When The Pretty Reckless open, my friend leans over and tells me he can’t make out a single word. Taylor Momsen marches around anyway, and in lieu of crisp vocals takes to reminding the crowd they’re about to see “AC fucking DC!” and say various things about the virtues of rock and roll to elicit a response. It’s almost unfair that all Angus Young has to do is shuffle onstage in a tie and shirt and it’s completely blown out of the water.
Shuffle is actually the wrong word, because he’s duck walking around the whole time doing inexplicably long solos (at least a good twenty minutes on ‘Let There Be Rock’). But their entrance itself it’s actually quite lowkey. Judging by the pyro budget that makes itself apparent in the encore, they probably could’ve blasted him out of a canon without making much of a dent, but there’s really no sense the visuals are doing any heavy lifting. Yes, there’s footage of fire, speeding cars and the ever present bell onstage, but we’re all here to watch Young and Brian do what they do best, and it’s nice they don’t lean too heavily into gimmicks to do it.
They’re also completely unstrained when it comes to packing out the night with hits – we’ve already had ‘Back In Black’ and ‘Thunderstruck’ about five songs in. There’s every classic you could want, and by the end of each song you’re left wondering how on earth Johnson can talk afterwards.. By show of solidarity, the audience belts lyrics at the top of their lungs – drowned out only by literal cannon fire and pyro towards the triumphant close.
In an interview in 2020, Young said when he gets on stage, it’s all about playing to the kids that have been dragged along by their parents rather than the old timers: “I go, ‘Okay, a lot of these older ones out there, they’ve seen me before. They know what you’re about,” he explained. “But that new kid, he’s not seen me before.’ And I’m going, ‘I’m gonna impress him. I’m gonna play for him.’ And it pumps you up. That’s all I need to do. I see some younger faces, and I go, ‘Here I come.’”
It’s impossible to say he didn’t fulfil that aim last night. I know for a fine fact it’s not the slightly over-egged solo or the rough audio the kid next to me will remember. It’s being bathed in the glow of fireworks as he sings ‘For Those About To Rock’ on his dad’s shoulders. Glimmers of cheesiness, swagger, and fire colour the entire night, the sure-fire classic rock recipe that made AC/DC stadium stalwarts they are. After 50 years, it’s in their bones.
