AC/DC: DEATH POOCHES LICK THE COSMIC MILK BONE

MAY '82-When Bon Scott went to Kangaroo heaven, somebody had to take his place. Chosen was Brian Johnson, whose unique name may serve as a key to his one-of-a-kind vocal style as well! Sylvie Simmons uncovers vital info about those wacky Aussies and makes it home in time to watch TV, knit doilies and wonder about life 'n' stuff! That may not be in the story, but we just bet!

They all look like they’d benefit from a Jerry Lewis telethon. Seventeen thousand diseased and uncontrollable bodies. Imaginary guitar soloists are standing on metal folding chairs, twitching. Imaginary guitar soloists who’ve had one too many Quaaludes have fallen off the chairs midway through a strenuous riff and are twitching on the floor. The floor’s sticky. The air’s sticky, a nice mix of Indianapolis pizza, beer and whiskey, most of it second hand. Headbangers never see their hair again when it sticks to the floor like flypaper. An exuberant bunch, half of them would be the spitting image of Angus Young if they rolled up their jeans and took off their shirts. Not such a bright idea on a night like tonight in Indianapolis, cold enough to freeze the balls off a wallaby. Then it wasn’t such a bright idea to line up outside in Arctic weather to make sure of the best seats, but that’s what 17,000 adolescents have done, with only a bottle or two to ward off frostbite. Inside there’s so much 100% alcohol in the air you’d be scared to light a match in case you put half of Indianapolis’s young male population quickly out of their misery. But these madmen take the risk anyway, flicking their Bics the moment the bell starts tolling behind the black stage curtain.