Summary
IF I had to have the name of a band shaven into my scalp, I suppose it would be AC/DC. They were, after all, the soundtrack to my youth. On a family holiday, I refused to spend a penny of my hard- saved cash so, on the last day, I could splurge on seven albums, which was anathema to my father, who pointed out they could be taped for free. When The Tube unveiled its "heavy metal" special, my mates and I waited breathlessly for the band's long-promised appearance and made do with a 30-second clip of Bon Scott, in a pulpit, dressed in angelic garb, declaring: "Let There Be Rock." Kerrang! was devoured each week for snippets of news, with pictures cut out and Blu-tacked to my bedroom wall, while the rare cover stories were re- read until the magazine hung in paper ribbons.
We haunted the quarterly record fairs held in the Mitchell Library in Glasgow for rare imports, such as Jailbreak '74, on which Scott sang the mournful Ride On, and those bootlegs, muffled illegal recordings of live performances, which sounded as if the recorder had wangled a seat in the car park, but which we cherished for inching us that much closer to the band.See the full content of this document
Extract
A Cut Above As We Go Live On the Highway to Hell
In 1986, Christmas slipped down to the summer, when my favourite author, Stephen King, decided to ask his favourite band to write...
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