E-Mail This Article to a Friend AC/DC straight, no chaser Appreciating the raw purity of rock and roll, when an album was just an album BY ALAN OLIFSON

VH1 HAS ALREADY produced two installments of I Love the ’90s. At this rate, I Love Three Weeks Ago can’t be far behind. In a culture so desperate to commemorate things, I am shocked that a major musical anniversary just passed with no fanfare.

February 19 was the 25th anniversary of Bon Scott’s death. Bon Scott — as anyone who is, or ever has been, about to rock knows — was the original lead singer for AC/DC. While I realize we can’t roll out the nostalgia wagon for every rocker who’s choked to death on his own vomit in the back seat of a Renault, Bon Scott’s passing is particularly significant. His death led directly to the release of Back in Black. Recorded by AC/DC two months after Scott’s death, Back in Black is a rock-and-roll wake of the highest order, and one of the best rock albums of all time.

I was 10 when Back in Black came out. It was the first real rock album I ever owned. As with most things I discovered in the fifth grade, my introduction to AC/DC involved shame and other kids’ laughter.

Some "cool" kid — who probably first heard the album while sitting in his older brother’s bedroom underneath a black-light poster of a crouching jaguar — brought a copy to school and was playing it for his friends. Since I had an older sister who introduced me to Donna Summer while sitting on her canopy bed, I didn’t travel in such social circles. I wandered by just in time to hear the album’s opening refrain, the clanging of a giant bell: "Gonnnnnnng. Gonnnnnnng."

Fifth grade was not a good year for me. My inability to catch a baseball, coupled with my tendency to cry at the drop of a hat, made me an easy mark. So why I decided to butt in on this listening party, I don’t know. But I did.

"Why are you listening to a bell?"

"It’s ‘Hell’s Bells’ ... duh."

Blank stare.

"Don’t you know Back in Black?"

The kid’s tone could only be met with one answer: "Duh, yeah."

"Liar ... this is Back in Black. The AC/DC album. You’re so stupid." Then, as if on cue, the opening guitar riff kicked in, like a musical foot to the balls.

Needless to say, the next day I had my mom take me to the record store.

When I was 10, buying an album was a full-immersion experience. There was no MTV back then; it was Olde Tyme days. Everything I knew about a band, I learned from their album. The cover art, liner notes, pictures on the record sleeve — it was all a window into the mysterious world of rock and roll. I had never been to a rock concert, but I could tell you what one was like: a dangerous, out-of-control event overflowing with blood and boobs where the band worked the crowd into a frenzy of hedonistic rage. (My first real concert was, of course, a major disappointment. No album ever included pictures of half-asleep teens standing in line to buy concert T-shirts while their friend threw up in the bushes.)

There were no parental-advisory stickers in 1980, either — though a glance at the Back in Black song list should have raised questions. Questions like, Why does my 10-year-old need to hear a song called "Let Me Put My Love into You"? Luckily, my parents weren’t troubled by such an attention to detail.

I put the album on and pored over the song list.

"Giving the Dog a Bone." That sounds catchy. I have a dog. He chews on Milk-Bones. I wonder if AC/DC is talking about Milk-Bones. No, they’re probably talking about those big, white, cartoon bones. I’ll just listen ...

She take you down easy

Going down to her knees

Going down to the devil

Down down to ninety degrees

Oh, She’s blowing me crazy

Till my ammunition is dry

Oh, She’s using her head again

I had no idea what these guys were talking about.

Still, Back in Black was a revelation. I couldn’t get enough. I spent the rest of fifth grade buying up the whole AC/DC catalogue like I’d just discovered the Gnostic Gospels of Nag Hammadi.

Sadly, when my record collection made the leap from vinyl to digital, AC/DC didn’t make the cut. Partly, my tastes had changed. I preferred the Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, stuff that was a bit more subtle. After a certain age, when you’re familiar with current felony statutes governing rape, it becomes uncomfortable to sing along to:

Don’t you struggle

Don’t you fight

Don’t you worry

’Cause it’s your turn tonight

Let me put my love into you, babe ...

Plus, I had simply burned out on their albums. Now even when I do catch a bit of "Hell’s Bells" or "You Shook Me All Night Long" on the radio, I don’t really hear it. It just goes to some part of my brain that’s dedicated to automatically processing Back in Black. The same way I process "When are you getting married?"

Still, the album deserves a 25th anniversary. It stands as one of the last great rock albums before everything changed. Before every single release required a video and a behind-the-video special, and the wholesale demystification of rock and roll began.

I recently stumbled across a special on the making of Green Day’s "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" video. Now, I think Green Day are a solid rock outfit. (Some might argue they’re punk, but I draw the line here: if you sing about shoving a microphone up someone’s ass, you’re rock; if you actually shove a microphone up your own ass, you’re punk.) After watching 30 minutes of Green Day putting on eyeliner, complaining about grueling days of photo shoots, and discussing the director’s "vision," I wanted to throw Dookie and American Idiot out the window. Play the damn song. Jesus. Sometimes rock just needs to be heard, not discussed.

My memory of AC/DC isn’t tainted by videos or interviews. They remain pure. Then again, I did make the mistake of seeing them in concert a few years ago. And it could very well take another 25 years to get the image of a 60-year-old Angus Young playing shirtless out of my head.

Want to know what Alan Olifson’s listening to now? Find him at www.olifson.com