Ac/Dc
Let There Be Rock

THE REVIEW

There are those mornings when you wake up stupid from your hair to your bone marrow & son of a bitch... right?
Oh no?!?!? Well, if that's never happened to you, then you're a square. Get out of my review right now, square. You're not worthy of reading such a masterpiece, square.
Now that we've done the entrance selection, we can begin.

I'm talking about those mornings when early in the morning around 7:30, stopped at the traffic light, you see the lady crossing the pedestrian lines and you go "PPAMME!" out loud and you see her get scared and start hurling about forty-seven point nine point eight insults per minute in the local dialect pronounced really tight, and you laugh, because that morning you woke up son of a bitch, and it's nice to vent your son-of-a-bitchness in all sorts of ways.
Or even better, at the next traffic light, you see the man in a suit and tie with the 3.000 petrol 24 valves, comfy and composed in his black leather upholstery. You approach with your 900 fossil fuel injection and give some accelerator kicks looking him straight in the eyes' balls, and he looks at you laughing as if to say "where do you think you're going with that contraption", and when you start, you see him showing off his 3.000 petrol 24 valves screeching away like mad while you turn the other way at 5 km per hour, just because you're stupid, and it amuses you to think that he's thinking "but? how? but?". After going 200 meters from the junction, you pull over to the side of the road where there's no one and shout to the gentleman on the other side going to get the newspaper: "excuse me? for the station?" and you see him crossing the whole street and as he reaches your window with a gentle air, you put in first gear and leave, just because that morning you woke up son of a bitch and stupid from your hair to your bone marrow, and there's no way around it, you have to show the world how much of a jerk you are. And it amuses you to see the gentle man transform into a curse-spitting machine that starts from your great-great-grandparents to reach your great-great-grandchildren.

And when the deaf box starts with the beautifully dragging riff, and the raspy voice of Bonn Scottland says I am hot, And when I'm not, I'm cold as ice, Get out of my way, Step aside, Or pay the price (...) That's Nothing You Can Do, 'Cause I'm Problem Child! you think "you're right, you are, Bonn!". Damn if Bonn was right.
After having success, after sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll, after being tough, the "acids??!?! .. yes!" have brought out the soundtrack of the dickhead's head, the anthem of the slacker, the foolishness set to music, the mess under stupidity. Hooray for stupidity, screw the tie. Dog Eat Dog, Bad Boy Boogie, Overdose, Go Down... cause Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be, my dear Problem Child. Angus, you sure got it all figured out, damn it. Over 50 years old and still out there fooling around, don't smother the child within you, scare the old ladies, screw around, but a lot... because it keeps you young, ugly squares. (etttièh!)