AC/DC were, are and always will be a 70s rock band. They wore jeans and drank beer and sang songs about chicks. They weren’t pretty and they weren’t smart, but they knew every Chuck Berry riff and they knew how to throw a party – uncomplicated guys from an uncomplicated time.
If the 70s had lasted forever, flavourless mush like Flick Of The Switch and Fly On The Wall would’ve been just fine. Among the whirls, bells and bongs of a pinball arcade or on the clunking eight-track in the dashboard of a weed-belching boogie van, what difference could there really be between Hells Bells and Sink The Pink? No one would notice. AC/DC were part of the architecture of the 70s. Their sweaty mugs were on your walls and their iconic logo was on your chest, and that’s just the way it was. But then the 80s happened, and it screwed everything up royally.
