AC/DC
Rock N Roll Train

THE REVIEW

It may be entirely recycled, widely worn out, totally overused, a rock'n'roll riff-apparition that reiterates and replicates itself to the point of complete and ultimate nausea in a perpetual self-quotation (cloning?) that holds the hallmarks of the astonishing if not the seriously pathological.

We are consecutively faced, for at least four or five abundant decades now, with one of the most self-referential and impenetrable musical stubbornness coined from the pyramidal kingdom of Tutankhamun to today: a recurring sound-Lazarus that, on occasion, incredibly "rises (though staggering visibly) and walks." We have, I believe, well-founded reasons to suppose that even "Black Ice," releasing in the coming weeks about eight years since the abundantly neglectable predecessor, will not move the highly consolidated hard rock-canvas by a single perceptible millimeter towards paths that have not already been more than widely trodden and that qualitatively have increasingly yielded little satisfaction for the listener.

Despite and upon objectively accepting this, it must be admitted that the monotonous vocal rasp emitted by Mr. Johnson mixed with the monocellular electrically charged, magnetizing main line expelled by the Young Angus within the iron-rail single that acts as a forerunner for the new work of the most static music-kangaroos of the mass-marketed globe, slaps, shakes and literally jolts [forgive this possibly reading noble damsels] the greasy behinds with pleasure (rather than not).

Prefrontal rock lobotomy.