Songs from my father: AC/DC live in Wembley

The first time I properly think of him on July 3, 2024, is in the most tasteless of places. The band have opened a dive bar in Camden, day drinkers are drinking, and the awkward thoughts of the neighbourhood drunks are being dropped like garbage. AC/DC branding climbs up the walls, ‘Show Business’ blares from speakers far too big for the room, and old videos of the band are projected onto any surface that can bear their image. I’m enamored with the ridiculousness of it all, and know he would be too, telling me facts about albums sold, trying to convince me Bon Scott is better than Brian Johnson, and complaining about the price of a pint in Camden. His rugby shirt is in my bag, which I grip tighter as I look around.

When our parents show us what music they like, we seem to move in one direction or the other. We either embrace it wholeheartedly or we reject it completely. Both approaches shape a large part of who we end up becoming, and it all boils down to what we think is cool. When my dad first showed me footage of AC/DC playing “Thunderstruck,” Angus Young with one hand in the air, duckwalking up and down the stage, nothing was more attractive to me. From that day on, I was a lover of rock music.

One of my first rock gigs was in Manchester when my dad and I saw Kiss. ​​I had my face painted as Paul Stanley and he as Gene Simmons. We also saw Slash a couple of times, as these were before the Guns N’ Roses reunion when he was touring with his first solo album. We never saw AC/DC though. As I walked down Wembley Way that day, excitement in my veins and alcohol on my lips, I couldn’t help but accept the overwhelming sadness of not having him with me.

I am convinced that the music your parents loved when they were young will bring you comfort at some point in your life, whether you accept it or reject it. And it doesn’t have to be when they die. In fact, we associate memories with music every day, which is quite natural since we are constantly surrounded by sounds and therefore constantly associate them with what is happening around us. However, our perception of memories differs depending on how spectacular or unspectacular the event is.

There are undoubtedly songs that remind you of summer, and as summer approaches, you start to play these songs more often. It doesn’t have to be associated with a specific moment, but summer as a whole is associated with this song, and therefore when you hear it, you think of long days, sunscreen, and sweat.

We also associate other songs with more specific moments. If we take summer as an example, some songs might apply to the entire season, but then there was that one summer when you met (insert name here) and when that happened, a specific song was playing. That means you associate that track with that one specific experience. The feelings surrounding that person, be they negative, positive or, as is most often the case, complicated, come to the surface every time that song is played.

In this case, your parents are summer. No, your parents are summer, winter, spring, and fall. When you listen to the music they like and tried to force on you, it becomes a warm blanket, no matter how much you liked it or not. When you leave home for the first time, when you go to college or move to another city, and, inevitably, when they die, that music will remind you of them and your relationship. This makes the music either something you want to hear, something you can’t hear, or something that fills you with conflicting feelings.

The crowd screams like voodoo victims. No one is onstage yet, but the lights have dimmed and the tension is rising. Eyes are glued to the void, caught in joyous anticipation. Each breath is awkward, inadvertent, and quiet. The seats are too far down and too high to see the end of either, so I sit, phone clutched to my chest, taking notes, floating in a sea of ​​obsession. I write about everything around me; words like “atmospheric,” “cinematic,” and “anthemic” itch at my thumbs, but instead of music, I can’t bring myself to type them. Instead, I take notes about the crowd: packed, the atmosphere: palpable, and the drink prices: too high. The dim stage lights change color, an animation of a speeding car appears on a screen, and the opening chords of “If You Want Blood (You Got It)” fill the stadium.

Normally at this point it is my job to criticise and give you an insight into what the concert was like and you as a reader who was either at the concert, attended another concert or wishes to be at this concert will read this and either decide if you share my opinion, look forward to seeing the concerts or imagine yourself there. I cannot do that this time. Reviews are subjective anyway; I have been to concerts in the past that I have hated and others have loved and vice versa, but the two hours that AC/DC were on stage I was so stuck in my own head that in order to give you insight I would tell you all about myself and then still try to justify how I felt. I don’t intend to do that, firstly because I don’t want to and secondly because you wouldn’t enjoy reading this (I have led a very mundane life).

All we can say is that I was no longer at Wembley when this music started playing. The crowd: gone. The atmosphere: non-existent. The drinks: whatever is in the fridge. My dad was sitting on his electric recliner, leg rest up, a can of Fosters in the cup holder and a bag of pork cracklings on a side table. I was sitting on the sofa, constantly moving because it’s made of the worst leather, a can of Coke on the side table that has gradually turned into another Fosters over the years. AC/DC’s ‘Jailbreak’ is on the TV and he is telling me the story of seeing the band again in Sydney; I am absent, annoyed by the repetition, but safe, comfortable and happy. I don’t miss him at the moment, I am over the moon to have known him and grateful that he passed on his love of music to me.

The band finishes with “For Those About to Rock We Salute You”, the roar is loud and the night is over. As always at Wembley, the journey home is a nightmare; the tube is packed and the air is stuffy. But no one cares; people are still talking about the concert and the excitement doesn’t seem to be waning.

I hold my father’s rugby shirt in my hand. It’s almost clenched with tension, afraid to let go of it and of this night, this moment. Since his death, I’ve felt closer to him than ever before. We are constantly connected through music, a bond that doesn’t break no matter how much time passes. His was in Sydney, mine in London. And it’s time to pester everyone with an AC/DC story for the next 60 years.

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