As much as it may pain my hipster-leaning friends to hear me say this, I love AC/DC, and I always will. I’m not going to stand in line to get tickets for their third visit to The Fargodome, but that doesn’t mean I don’t crank the volume every time “Back in Black” comes up in rotation. My friends, whose disdain for the band’s music runs deep, just don’t understand my love.
Similarly, it’s hard for me to understand them, or anyone who hates this band for that matter. I just don’t get it. Hating AC/DC is like hating puppies or warm blankets. All are comforting, familiar, reliably awesome. The main argument the anti-AC/DC crowd lobs at fans is that all of their songs sound the same. Perhaps, but that’s part of the charm. It’s also why a lot of fans love the music—it’s reliably awesome.
AC/DC is also pure fun. Do you hate fun? If you hate AC/DC, you must hate fun. I have to believe the band knows what they do is part-schtick. They have to know they’re one of the all-time greats at pandering to the base. But where’s the harm in that? When it comes to classic rock, I say there isn’t any. “Shoot to Thrill,” baby… fun is fun is fun.
Above all, AC/DC is an accessible hard rock band whose music can be heard at almost any occasion you can dream up. Why? Because their songs are undeniably catchy, fist-pumpingly energizing, and somehow all-American (even though they’re from Australia).
Before this turns into an all-out love fest for AC/DC, let me get to the meat of the matter. My four-month-old son lit up when I introduced him to the joy of AC/DC rock… immediately. I mean, I love my son, but he really helped his case when he looked up at me with a giant grin literally four bars into “Let’s Make It.” I’m so thankful he loves puppies, warm blankets, and all things nice in this world.
AC/DC’s album “The Razors Edge” was one of the first CDs I ever bought. I recorded it onto a cassette tape so I could listen to it while I mowed lawns in the summer. It played constantly throughout three summers of my life. Every song was vividly memorized, so much so I knew at what point in the album I’d finish mowing each of the several lawns I took care of. Rarely do I bond with something—or someone—as much as I bonded with those 12 tracks. So you can imagine the nostalgic joy I felt when my son couldn’t stop himself from smiling as Angus Young’s signature smooth-yet-crisp guitar wailed through the speakers.
Hells Bells no, my son knows how to rock, and I love him so much for it.
Beyond the instant affirmation that he knows how to rock, Mack proved his musical chops with some quickly shed tears at the first sound of Bright Eyes, which rudely interrupted our impromptu living room rock show. (I’ve been meaning to delete that garbage for a long time, and I apologized to Mack for nearly ruining his first AC/DC experience.) A sad, hipster baby that likes Bright Eyes is something you’d only see in an episode of “Portlandia.” Hells Bells no, my son knows how to rock, and I love him so much for it.
What this really means is I finally live under a roof with a majority pro-rock crowd. Yes, you thought this post was all about AC/DC and my hard-rocking, ass-kicking baby, but you were wrong, silly reader. This was all about me, and I’m about to rock… feel free to salute me.