For those of you who ploughed through last year’s exploits, welcome back to the AC/DC Black Ice Tour. For new recruits: beware! Language may be a little colourful, and I don’t tend to pander to the politically correct.
For newer readers, you might as well know straight off the bat that there will be nothing here about the band. What they do backstage or in their private time is exactly that – private.
There may, however, be the occasional reference to those dashed cannons firing at the end of the show. When parked on the back of the stage the veritable deluge of reverberation evinces a weary sigh from me; it means that truck loading is imminent.
So let’s recap: Namibian and Little Dick are both on the tour, as is German Holger and a few other characters that you may recognise. Namibian’s health has held up over the winter in northern England, and he continues to wax poetical.
In fact my flamboyant acolyte has come out with a couple of absolute corkers recently. ‘It’s only about an hour to Sofia from the Serbian border,’ I said the other night, recalling the journey from last y
ear. ‘Not even that,’ he replied with his usual aplomb. ‘Maybe an hour and a half.’ These conversations deserve to be shared, no?
Speaking of which, a corpulent Bulgarian policeman collared me the other night, furiously waving one of those giant reflective lollipop sticks. ‘Too fast,’ he chided, waggling his finger in mild disapproval as the dust settled and the smell of brakes pervaded the still air.
He had a fair point actually but this is, after all, a rock ‘n’ roll tour. I had tried observing the speed limit but, after a taxing day dealing with Serbian border clerks, the speed had crept up…until, once again, I’d arrived at my preferred velocity: flat out. Naturally Namibian had followed, as though glued to my trailer doors.
So there we were, two trucks at the side of a Bulgarian road, in trouble with the cops. Weighing this chap up, I thought it best to brazen it out. ‘I know, It’s an AC/DC tour,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, how are you?’ Coupled with an impish smile, this successfully disarmed him.
T
he infraction – nay, bending – of the rules was overlooked, and talk turned to touring merchandise. His eyes lit up at the mention of an AC/D CD. It’s wonderful, isn’t it, that there are still countries where one can bribe one’s way out of a misdemeanour?
But I didn’t simply stop at giving him an old Back in Black CD, bought for a couple of euros in a second hand store. No, no, no. I signed it to him… from me. Ha ha, as though I’m in the band. “Rock and roll ain’t noise pollution…”