Live Review: AC/DC

A sea of red horns gleamed against an incessantly wet sky, as opening track Rock Or Bust made the stadium look like the Devil's playground.

Angus Young's mouth hung open like a creepy uncle impatiently waiting to give you his contraband Christmas present; his die-hard rock demeanour made Keith Richards' stage presence look like a fucking royal tea party.

The show had its moments of peak ballads like Thunderstruck — tightly executed and powerful but it generally lacked energy as Brian Johnson's raspy "I've smoked Winfield Reds my whole life" pipes didn't quite connect with their notoriously famous intensity.

Given the recent drama and subsequent newly formed AC/DC it was no wonder the already overly-flogged chords resulted in all songs sounding the same. It was the minute details in their execution that had formerly made them great. Nonetheless, the mob of worshippers showed their appreciation; boobies flashed from shoulders, devil-horned fingers prevailed and wagging tongues simulated Young.

Around the halfway mark the sound from the stadium became deafening. Young used his tie as a pick and, like a junkie tying down to take a hit as if his guitar were his intravenous, the solo contributed more to ear-drum damage while Johnson circulated in this pseudo-nanna power-walk in time to the riffs; the pair had a wacky but watchable dynamism.

It was in TNT that the notes and sound were most noticeably 'off', as the track weaved in and out of pitch, the giant inflatable provocative woman masked as a distraction for the track that was not 'dynamite' and perhaps reminiscent of a scene in This Is Spinal Tap where portrayal of women artistically was well past its expiry date.

A large-scale encore of fireworks and Highway To Hell — although a fitting last track — was not enough to redeem a show that had no inflection and little direction.