Back in Black: Welcome to your half-life

Unfortunately, this missive has nothing to do with the state of the residential market.  It remains “dead, buried and cremated”.  This was originally written over a year ago.  The Brisbane market, at least, is in a better position now.

Back in Black, one of the best “comeback” albums of all time is 30 years old.  Thirty years!  There is nothing, apart from seeing your kid’s baby photos, that reminds you more of how old you are than the significant anniversary of a favourite record.

I was in year 11 when this gem came out – a bundle of bluster, testosterone, zits and bad dance moves (some things never change) and can still remember the excitement when first hearing that ominous introduction to Hell’s Bells, the opening track.  It was a competition in our neighbourhood, in western Sydney, to see who could play You Shook Me All Night Long the loudest.  I even went into hock and bought a fancy new graphic equaliser to enhance the sound.  Those were the days.

I went to see AC/DC the following year, supported by The Angels and Rose Tattoo, and last year went to see them again, with my eldest teenage daughter, at ANZ stadium.  I would have gone twice had I been able to get tickets.  It rained during Thunderstruck during the first concert, after all.

It then comes as little surprise to find out that Back in Black is on high rotation in my car or whenever I am at home by myself.  Julia, my wife, likes Foreigner, which goes some way to explaining why she married me.  No taste at all.

Back in Black is an album of power, asserting class values and music’s ability to invigorate attitudes that some might not find palatable.  It is sexist and selfish, but it’s also ironic and piss-taking.  It was, and still remains, wild colonial convict music; in a word – Australian.

It is the first album I would grab in a house fire or take to a deserted island.

Assuming one could actually play music on a deserted island, what record would you grab first?  Better still, next time the conversation starts tanking at a barbecue or dinner party ask your friends to name their top 10 albums.  No compilations or live CDS are allowed, just original works.

Heck, work is (was, that is) so slow at present; why not jot down your list right now.  I bet you will want to revisit it within the hour.  I did mine – see below – several days ago, and am still not happy with it – there is no Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Eagles, Cold Chisel, Steve Earle, John Mellencamp, Rolling Stones, The Who, Joe Walsh, Cowboy Junkies and only one album from Tom Waits.  It is much harder than you think.

1. Back in Black, AC/DC
2. Born To Run, Bruce Springsteen
3. Mule Variations, Tom Waits
4. LA Woman, The Doors
5. I, Flathead, Ry Cooder
6. Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd
7. Late For The Sky, Jackson Browne
8. Some Days You Eat The Bear…, Ian Matthews
9. Beneath This Gruff Stuff, John Hiatt

10.  Cosmo’s Factory, Creedence Clearwater Revival

Remember, rock ‘n’ roll ain’t noise pollution.

PS  This year, statistically at least, I reached my half-life.  I now have fewer days in front of the horse than riding in the back of my cart to paraphrase another favourite artist, John Mellencamp.  Also April, our eldest daughter turned 18 a few months ago, and she is “out and at them” down in the apple isle, and her sister – Savannah – who at just 16, is on a 12-month exchange in Finland.  Proud yes!  But sometimes you just feel old –  well, older at least.