|legeros.com > Writing > Sex, Rogues, and Rock and Roll|
Sex, Rogues, and Rock and Roll
By Michael J. Legeros
Angus Young action figure by McFarlane Toys
AC/DC played at the Entertainment and Sports Arena on Sunday. Sunday, April Fools Day. 'Twas my second trip to the ESA, my companion's first, and we we're both amazed at our easy of automotive access. No traffic jams, nor lines of cars. Heck, there's barely any traffic at all! (That we we're running late, having thought the 7:00 show started at 7:30, might be a factor...) Parking costs six clams, gasp, with approximately eight cars queued ahead of us. Within five minutes, though, we're strolling across drizzle-soaked asphalt, alongside another half-dozen tardy attendees. The security check is blissfully brief and we're also pleased to learn that (a.) there is an opening act to replace Slash's Snakepit, the guitarist-turned-bandleader having developed pneumonia, (b.) the unnamed act-- we never do catch their name-- has already started, which is fine with us, and (c.) the headliners take the stage at 8:00 and will probably play till 10:00. Cool. Check our watches. It's 7:30, so there's plenty of time for food, drinks, and bathroom breaks. Plus the requisite people-watching and concert-tee browsing. (Both being the best parts of the rock experience, says me.) Companion in tow, we plunge into a busy hallway, each leading the other while my pen begins scribbling in a small, spiral-bound notebook: average age of attendees: 30, souvenir most prominently displayed by attendees: flashing red horns, cost of flashing red horns: $8, cost to make flashing red horns: $0.50 cents (estimated). And of course I have to have one...
"Facilities" are the first order of business and from which my companion returns, reporting the following woman-to-another-woman exchange: "I want a picture of me in the bathroom. Wait! I need something to consume." We decline to pursue matter further. Walking again, our eyes dart from fan to fan. I observe a notably lack of Mammarian Support Devices (MSDs), but think I can live. Jeans and tees a-plenty, too, plus the sundry short skirts. Like one over there, above fishnet "hose." Appears also to be a piercing-free zone, until my companion notes that most midriffs in sight are covered. (After all, it is still April.) Plenty of food for sale-- popcorn, pretzels, Italian sausage, Goodberry's frozen custard, and something called a "Maui Wowi Smoothie Pen scribbles some more: average length of male hair: shoulder, cheapest tee-shirt price: $32, black with cover art of current album (Stiff Upper Lip), next highest tee-shirt price: $35, band logo over green camouflage. This is my second time seeing AC/DC. First was in Greensboro, in '96, for their Ballbreaker tour. (And for those keeping score at home, the current Mike Legeros Metal Concert Tally: Ozzy Osbourne, thrice; Judas Priest and now AC/DC, twice; Motorhead, Megadeth, Alice Cooper, and Black Sabbath, once; and, as opening acts, Queensryche, Metal Church, and Dokken. Also once.)
"Watch out," warns my companion, as I'm nearly creamed by a hand-pushed pallet of beer. Of bad beer, my companion corrects. (Miller Lite?) Indeed, the brew is flowing like wine tonight, with suds sellers stationed every ten yards or so. We continue walking counter-clockwise, hoping to circle the circular building, but, alas, are stopped at section #114. What goes around doesn't come around, I guess. Ha! Tap on shoulder and I'm directed to a young man in a Boy Scout uniform. With shorts. He's obviously aping the "schoolboy look" of Angus Young, lead guitarist tonight. Tap again, this time pointing out a pregnant person. Wonder what the Surgeon General says on Long-Term Fetal Effects From Short-Term Rock Exposure. Pen scribbles some more: ball cap saturation: 10 percent (male only), leather pants spotted so far: 1, overpowering odor just whiffed: B.O. or fake butter. Top of head hurting now, too. Damn flashing red horns. Well, that or cooties... Companion leans in direction of worn-looking women, passing on left and in search of the smoking area. We overhear "I'd rather have a beer before a smoke." Observe another homely honey oozing from beneath a black vest, her plus-size (but tanned!) body squeezed into a missus-sized outfit. Not exactly any androgynous crowd, either. The men are men and the women look like sluts. Pause at umpteenth tee-shirt stand to ask what makes an AC/DC ball cap worth $32. "Because it has the band's name on it?" queries the seller. He is clearly a marketing genius. (Current Concert Expenditure Tally: tickets, $98; parking, $6, flashing red horns, $8, two sets of AC/DC stickers, $6.)
7:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes 'till. Lament that crowd is nowhere as colorful as hoped for. Precious few chains, spikes, skulls, or death-metal tees. ("This isn't a hardcore group," notes companion.) That said, we're still stopped in our tracks by a skin-tight top here, a painted-on dress there (typically red), or, my favorite, some guy's total leather ensemble and yard-long hair (obvious bald spot inclued). On the female front, still observing spheres a-plenty. Speculate those ladies showing the most-est must be endowed with more than just simple self-confidence. Memo to self: investigate further. (I strive to be... well-rounded on such... titillating matters.) Notice near stairwell: "smoking area is outside." Splendid. Then some chick asks where I got my flashing accoutrements. I package my response with the requisite "horny" pun. 7:50 p.m. Ten minutes 'till. My companion and I then have a Spinal Tap moment, spending a full five minutes trying to find the stairs to the lower levels. We have "floor seats," seventeen rows from the stage, wohoo!, and four seats from the end, where a raised "runway" has bisected the section. Hanging above and slightly behind us: a giant bell. More on that later. Tap on shoulder and I'm pointed to the sidelines, at a cute little kid and his rough-looking parents. Yowza! In the row ahead of us, some guy is draining a bucket of popcorn. We could be at the movies. 'Cept, that is, for the security staff, in their bright, off-yellow shirts. Two rows ahead, a woman with eyes at half-mast. "She's feeling no pain," notes my companion. We also spot someone from work. Bam! Lights out. No dimming, no warning, just total, near-total darkness, illuminated by the exit lights and a bunch of blinking red horns. Like darker-colored fireflies. Or an entire city's traffic lights, on flash after midnight.
Spotlight on stage. Some guy with floppy hair and floppier clothes runs out. "All right Raleigh, are you ready for AC/DC?" (Band name shouted, of course.) And then, just like that, out they trot. Angus, Johnson, and the other three, waving, bowing, and barely breaking their stride as they start You Shook Me (All Night Long). Pen scribbles some more: stage set is Spartan: double stack of Marshall amps on either side of the drum riser. At each of the stage, bronze-metal scaffolding rising 20 or 30 feet. And overhead, a video screen, which begins playing black-and-white, music video-style footage of a chesty woman getting dressed. Soon, the screen'll switch to an audience cam, and finally a stage cam. So even the "cheap seats" can see. Vocalist Brian Johnson sure sounds good, I note. Too good, in fact. Could their first song be dubbed? As a sort of warm-up?? If so, Johnson's doin' one heck of a lip sync, all grimace and squint and sweaty contortions as he crawl-walks across the stage. Notice drummer's sticks have unusual, mallet-style tips. Curious. Second song is the first from the new album, the title track Stiff Upper Lip. Same is accompanied by footage of band members riding around in red Humvee. Mid-song, the screen splits in half to reveal a two-story, bronze-style statue of Angus. His fist is raised, his guitar extended, and he's balanced on one foot. Just like the album cover. (Once in place, the statue displays a mild, menacing wobble. Coooool.) Pen scribbles some more: drummer's kit is simple: bass, snare, a couple floor toms, a couple rack toms, and maybe a half-dozen cymbals. Really, what more is needed? Look up and Angus is now approaching on runway. Wow is he old! Johnson approaches next, bending forward while singing to shake hands with the fans. Why does he remind me of Rod Stewart? (And who I once ran into at Pleasant Valley, a now-closed Raleigh theater, before a Friday matinee way back when.)
"We're gonna mix and match tonight, guys" says Johnson between songs. And looks like it'll be a dependable formula: video footage, then audience cam, then stage cam, with lotsa lights and either Angus or Johnson occasionally waltzing down the runway. The next song is Shot Down In Flames. Watching Johnson's stage-wandering, I wonder how we managed before the invention of wireless mikes. 8:15 p.m. First whiff of pot. Hope any interdicting law officer is sympathetic should said second-hand wacky weed result in unintended impairment regarding motor-vehicle operational abilities. Song ends with Angus convulsing in standing position. Wonder if an unfamiliar observer would think him suffering a two-hour seizure? Johnson's accent (British?) is obvious as he asks the audience to sing along to Thunderstruck. That rapid arpeggio of now-familiar notes (it's a newer song) and the crowd responds with the requested chanting. Pen scribbles some more: Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Chest reverberating. Wow. Look up, see singer on runway again, cap pulled tight over sweaty hair. And he has an earring. "The quintessential rock concert experience?," I write. Look up again, see video screens have rejoined to the right of the statue. And its eyes are open. And lighted. I shall call him... RoboAngus. Steam, now, shooting from the giant's mouth. Spot another opening on the end of the guitar. Guess that'll shoot something else, later. The band wails, the crowd cheers, and I think about vanity and the propriety of using your own statue as a stage prop. Of course, in the case of AC/DC, arguably both the world's least-pretentious and most relentlessly consistent rock band, perhaps such a statue is not only not vain but necessary. After all, they are one of the remaining oases in a sea of changing rock styles. I say revere them. Or just him.
Chords collide with drums again. Feel clothes vibrate, now, at start of Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be. Pen scribbles some more: Johnson in close-up is almost scary: thick, pointed nose; leering, knowing grin; and those wide, knowing, squinty eyes. The stage, meanwhile, is bathed in red light. No surprise there. Angus again convulses. Turn left and look into stands. Spot guy wearing the tee-shirt of the night: "Got Metal?" Look ahead. See statue's eyes lighted again, along with red horns above them. Johnson now announcing that the next one's "for the guys down here." He also advises the ladies in attendance to "watch their backs." The none-too-subtle number is Hard As A Rock, from their last album. (As for the effect of said song on the author's penis, he chooses not to comment.) Video screens show hilarious series of clips: mating animals, old-movie sex footage, and the rising of some big, thick, long monument. At that exact moment, also realize I have no idea if I've understood even half of Johnson's lyrics. That is, beyond the words I already know.) X-rated cartoon, now, showing pants-less Viking warriors, their johnsons extended and tipped with happy faces. The crowd roars. And, on cue at the end of his guitar solo, Angus croaks into Johnson's microphone "hard as a rock." Song finish with even funnier footage: churning oil pumps, trains going in and out of tunnels, torpedoes firing from submarines, and, for the climax, an... erupting oil well. Thar she blows. And after which our host advises "okay girls, you can come back now."
Shoot To Thrill barrels next. I've become aware that I'm probably the only person here both standing still and taking notes instead of singing, dancing, or pumping their fist in the air. (I do occasionally move my lower leg in rhythm, though.) Pause to turn entirely around. Floor, first, and second-level seats seem nearly entirely filled. Wonder how many tickets were sold? Pen scribbles some more: crowd is well-behaved, no fights, confrontations, or ejections spotted. So far. Song ends, everyone claps. Are they making my chest vibrate? Two rows ahead, some girl bends over. I spy the very top of leopard-patterned panties. Huh huh huh. As a certain guitarist's schoolboy outfit reminds, we're still little boys. Leering, lip-licking, naughty little boys. Curtain now unfolds behind RoboAngus. It's the skyline artwork that's also from the Stiff Upper Lip album cover. Rock And Roll Ain't Noise Pollution is the next anthem, er, song. Same starts as amazing, one-handed noodling by Angus. Then a little call and response between axe-man and audience. Lick, shout; lick, shout. Riff, roar; riff, roar. It's a short solo, maybe two minutes, tops. As the body of the song begins, I notice the woman from work and whose now making ample use of her date's buttocks. Perhaps she's bracing herself, also feeling the buffeting vibrations of the bass drum? (Methinks she's feeling something else...) Turn around again. Entire audience appears on their feet. Wonder if their lower backs are hurting? Damn age. Remove red horns from head. Yup, still flashing.
Here comes Johnson again, tooling down the runway. Watch in amazement as several rows of attendees rush right in unison. I join, reaching for the singer's outstretched hand. He shakes the person's next to me. Oh well. Return to seat and adjust earplugs. Person from work now lip-locked with Sweet Cheeks. Get a room! Pen scribbles some more: wearing Casio "G-shock" watch, just in case things "get rough." Also note band's sound is perfect. Johnson, fabulous (if indecipherable). Angus, fabulous. The overall mix, fabulous. (Of course, I'm wearing musician's plugs and sitting directly in front of the stage, so I might be biased...) Safe In New York City next. I observe song's boogie-beat inducing involuntary head shaking in Yours Truly. The songs, I continue noting, are the same as their studio versions: no truncations, no medleys, and near-identical tempos. Pen scribbles some more: fashion report, from the row in front of us, from left to right: denim, long-sleeved shirt, not tucked; dark-colored, short-sleeved shirt; dark-colored jacket; Ballbreaker concert tee; Harley-Davidson shirt; unspecified concert tee with skeleton bones on arms. "I feel safe in New York City" repeats the chorus. Why is an Aussie-by-way-of-Britain band singing about Rudytown, anyway? On my right, some guy with sleepy eyes and a shaved head raises a beer at me. I smile and look through him. Song ends, curtain folds back. Slight pause while hero (Johnson) adjusts his accoutrements (mike transmitter). Then, another impossibly thick chord. Add a bit of random riffing and a mid-tempo stomp starts Bad Boy Boogie. Notice, now, that Johnson is wearing one of those $32 ball caps. Pen scribbles some more: set is mostly Back in Black and beyond, with only a few tracks-- so far-- from late, but equally popular singer Bon Scott.
8:53 p.m. I succumb and sit down. Ah, relief! Back feels better immediately, though noise still seeps into ear-plugged ears. I can't even guess at the amount of ringing that awaits. Still seated, I can see, via video screen, Angus hunched half-over, pouring sweat, and either breathing from or concentrating with that enormous mouth. His solo, like the song-- like all of tonight's songs-- is without flash. Aggressive notes pour out, both in short bursts and blended blasts. A musical machine gun, almost. Still sitting, I'm afforded a lower view of my surroundings. Like Sweatpants Boy in front of me. Or a woman's wide, denim-clad derriere directly to my right-- an ass-area, I'll add, occasionally fondled by her chrome-domed companion. And it's so nice, I must add, to sit and not see-- or smell-- concealed cigarettes. Companion now sitting, too. 8:55 p.m. Almost an hour has passed. Angus is bouncing around the stage. We've officially started The Solo. Time, too, for The Moon, another of the guitarist's clothing-related trademarks. Angus prances as he plays; shedding something here, flashing something else there. The crowd loves the cheeky lad, soon shirtless and seemingly ready to de-pants. He cracks them up. No buts about it. And, all along, streaming sweat. (Those closest to the shaking sprayer get their own souvenir...) Inching his way back down the runway, Angus finally lowers his lowers to reveal... American flag shorts. The crowd roars. I take notes. Yup, I guess we're all little boys, still encouraging one to do something the other shouldn't.
Per video screen, Johnson is back on stage and now wearing a black tank top. To my right, Baldy has raised his right hand to salute the band. With a beer. Song 'n' solo end with a squeal just high enough to make me wince. I check my plugs again. Companion taps on shoulder. The bell has been lowered and is sliding toward the stage. Think church-tower type, this one rust-ugly and bearing the band's logo. The song is Hell's Bells, of course. Johnson races out, grabs the dangling rope and begins hanging as the chimes begin chiming. Dong! Dong! And he's still hanging as the bell begins retracting. Dong! Dong! RoboAngus has opened his eyes. Dong! Dong! Pen scribbles some more: it's from Back in Black, Johnson's first album after Scott's death, and the lyrics from which are still debate as having been written by Scott or rewritten afterward. Dong! Dong! "I'm rollin' thunder, power and rain. I'm comin' on like a hurricane," he sings. And, this time, sings poorly. Is Johnson losing his voice? Listen closer but can't tell, as the crowd nicely compensates during the chorus. Video screens also showing stage. I ponder: is the dream job of dream jobs to tour with AC/DC as a camera operator? RoboAngus spitting steam again. Turn right and observe security staff. They look bored. And tired. And entirely disinterested. Must be a side effect of all those huge meals they must eat. Song ends in a frenzy of electrically amplified sounds. Sweat pours, Angus writhes, and crowd continues going nuts.
Getting Hot, from Highway to Hell, Bon Scott's last album. And which was produced by Robert "Mutt" Lange, who later married and subsequently produced Shania Twain, which is why her country hits sound just a little bit "familiar." Sit down again. Observe bald-headed beer-raiser observing me. Wonder, too, how many times the words "getting hot" are sung in this song. Guess that's a moot point for this band. Johnson introduces next number, a "song about a dirty woman." It's another from Bon Scott. The Jack, a slow blues (or blues-based) number about a woman who gives away something that someone else didn't want. The live version, when Johnson sings it, reworks the lyrics. And reworks them poorly, if you ask me. The chorus is another simple shouter: "She's got the jack. She's got the jack. She's got the jack, jack, jack, jack, jack, jack, jack, she's got the jack." Crowd cam has return, the screen showing a blonde woman ducking behind her date. Cut to a chick chewing gum in the lazy manner of someone stoned. Regrettably, none of the filmed females chooses to take off their top. Sigh. At least Angus is still shirtless and presently milking his guitar like an electric farmer. "Let me hear you sing," demands Johnson. I suddenly notice the surrounding odors. B.O., beer, and something... unmentionable. Phew! Crowd still singing along as Angus again stomps down the runway. The rows ahead again rush right, everyone attempting a closest possible look. I join the throng and notice that Angus looks leaner that he did just a couple minutes ago. Is he losing weight right there on stage? His ribs and neck muscles protrude prominently. Tap on shoulder. Look up. The crowd cam is eyeing an adorable little girl and her less-adorable, metal-dude dad.
She's no longer got the jack and Angus is proudly holding his guitar up high, perhaps knowing he's less a guitar god than the altar of a god guitar. Pen scribbles some more: I contemplate acting a little rebellious myself, perhaps flicking my sugarless gum in the vague direction of the security staff. Such a dangerous life I lead. Click, click, click, click. Four beats on closed high-hat and then The Riff, their most famous of all: dun, dun-nun-nun, dun-nun-nun, dun-na-na-na-na-na. Back in Black, from the album Back in Black, duh, and whose strikingly simple cover is shown on the video screen. "Yes, I'm back Raleigh" screams Johnson. Pen scribbles: when were they last her? Chorus: "Yes I'm back. Baaaaaaack. Baaaaaaack." Memo to self: throw down on drum kit on same song, at home. To my right, Chrome Dome keeps raising his hands, beer cup now in left hand and hovering just a little too close for comfort. (Don't want to stain my beloved "Beavis and Butt-head," same featuring the pair as Johnson and Young. Huh huh huh.) Adjust plugs again. Is the volume being slowly raised? Note, too, that every song has been played with the show-stopping enthusiasm of an encore number. Where do they find the energy?
Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap. A favorite of any fan and, thus, causing an even nuts-ier crowd than before. Mass fist-thrusting, now. And everyone's singing. "Pick up the phone, I'm always home, or make a social call." I wonder what the unhappy people are doing tonight? "I'll come right in, we'll get round him, and have ourselves a ball." And how nice not to hear a single, damn cell phone. Johnson now singing about his services vis-a-vis ladies who "drive you nuts." And to which he adds "for a fee I'm happy to be your back door man." Concrete shoes. Cyanide. TNT. "Done dirt cheap!" Pen scribbles some more: sex, rogues, and rock and roll. Highway To Hell, next. Yup, all of the hits are being played. We must be nearing the end. Flames on the video screen, expectedly, red light bathing stage. "We're on the highway to hell," everyone sings. Peek at watch. Still half-hour left. Real flames, now, spurting from each side of the scaffolding. Feel the heat on my face. I glance upward, suddenly curious about sprinkler systems but ultimately confident that facilities are fire safe as all get-out. (And, if I recall correctly, have a "fire watch" on hand at each event.) The highway to Hell. "You guys gonna come down with us tonight?" inquires the singer. Angus pokes his guitar between Brian's legs. And somewhere Satan smiles, obviously a fan himself. Again tapped on shoulder. Companion points toward RoboAngus. A giant, blow-up doll has appeared. Two-stories high and dressed like, well, a stripper. Why it's Rosie, star of Whole Lotta Rosie. Or, as Johnson describes her, "she ain't exactly pretty, she ain't exactly small." And then, amazingly, she beings dancing, all double chins, peeking nipples, and cash-stuffed garters. This was worth the trip. Pen scribbles some more: who does Rosie look like? Think Monica Lewinksy, twenty years and as many pounds later.
Chorus includes repeated repeatings of the words "whole," "lotta," and "Rosie." Like that's a surprise. And, come on now guys, we've all "known" a Rosie, haven't we? The crowd couldn't be happier, I jot, as the band races toward the finish line-- both end of song and concert. Is it all about the finish line, I wonder? Are all rock concerts the best at the end, when the most popular songs are played and the performers receive their most unqualified adulation? Let There Be Rock begins. I watch aghast as people leave early. Inconceivable! Johnson sings about the beginning of rock as an audience of several thousand unknowingly says "thank you" to a legion of lesser-known bluesmen, who, lo those many decades ago, planted the very seeds of the genre. This one has a shuffle beat, fast, with an abrupt pause or two, for a short squeak from Angus. Pen scribbles some more: someone should invent a way to convert electrified sound back into electricity. Wouldn't that be a kick-ass way to recycle! Sit down again as back is still sore. Must be time for Yearly Replacing of Shoes. Pen scribbles some more: observe following after accidentally glancing at floor: popcorn kernels, plastic cups, one set of discarded ear-plugs, and a puddle of something sticky that mercifully contains no observable chunks. Key word, observable. Angus has returned to the runway. I move right with the crowd, again examining the convulsing guitarist as, this time, he's raised into the air by a scissors-style platform. That boy sure can play! Thinking to myself, I'm ten feet from Angus Young, the Angus Young, presently shirtless, spraying sweat, and big mouth a-huffin' in full-tilt guitar-boogie mode. There are worse places to be on a Sunday night in Raleigh, North Carolina. Now he's on his side, spinning in circles like a certain Third Stooge. Notes shower, keys change, and his guitar still chuggin' along he retreats to the stage. Yup, they've earned my $50. Behind and above him, his bronze likeness is now spinning and spitting smoke. RoboAngus is alive. Oh, such glorious racket. Our parents proudly would hate it.
Angus again in air, this time on elevator on side of scaffold. Crowd roars at more one-handed musical magic. His statue explodes in fireworks and flames shoot from the giant RoboGuitar. And then they're done. "Thank you, good night!" Yeah right. Lights out again, with fewer red flashing horns. Even more people leaving early. The idiots. Companion notes that the sticky substance to my right is, indeed, puke. Great. How many more songs will they play, I ponder. Two? Three? And anything new? 9:56 p.m. So begin the encores, smoke shooting upward from the middle of the stage as Angus also rises. TNT, with opening chorus: "Oy! Oy! Oy! Oy!" The crowd chants along. Johnson identifies himself as "public enemy number one, if you know what I mean." We do, thinks a crowd collectively empowered for one night only as bonafide, back-in-black, rock and roll bad-asses. They've gotten in touch with their inner Angus. I turn and look around. Lots of people seem stone-faced. Are they bored or just worn out? Another song is starting as I turn back toward the stage. It's the final number of the night-- a messy, mishmash of notes that isn't entirely identifiable until we see six, count 'em six cannons rising from the top of the amp stack. For Those About To Rock (We Salute You).
It's Johnson's song, from Johnson's first album after Back in Black.
It's also arguably their most popular song, whose lyrics we all know by heart:
"Stand up and be counted, for what you are about to receive; we are the
dealers, gonna give you everything you need." One row ahead, two guys
practice plugging their ears. They know the cannon are coming. The ultra
slow-tempo song lurches forward, Johnson straining, Angus screaming, and the
first climax commanding "fire!" Split-second pause. BOOM! "We...
salute... youuuuuuuu!" Roar from crowd, wide-smile on my face, and
pen feverishly scribbling: it's all about shooting off, isn't it? Our mouths?
Our guns? Our...? "For those of you," BOOM!, "for those of
you," BOOM! And, guys, we salute you. House lights for the last
time, but not before a blizzard of confetti, that final frenzy of colliding
sounds, and one grinning, geeky guy with a notepad thinking "I can die
now." Or at least until tomorrow. Cue the Stones, Fade to
Black tape, boom boom boom boom, Mick sounding like Alvin through these
ringing, previously ear-plugged ears. Puke stains stand revealed as we press
toward the exit, to climb concrete stairs that feel longer than any ever climbed
in my life. Plus one Coke-bottle bespectacled geek commenting on my comments to
my companion, regarding the quality of Brian Johnson's later-wavering voice. He
notes the band's "No Bull" laserdisc (actually DVD) shows a better
example of Brian at his worst. What a geek. At least my glasses are
Cover Art Abbreviations
Total number of titles: 140
Total number of titles containing the words:
|Rock And Roll||6|
|Venom, Blood, Bone, or Hard||5|
|Girl, Girls, Love, Lover, or Rosie||10|
Number of songs originally sung by:
|Brian Johnson (BJ)||86|
|Bon Scott (BS)||52|
Copyright 2001 by Michael J. Legeros
Copyright 2017 by Michael J. Legeros