The first AC/DC show went swimmingly, I thought. The lighting was superb – a veritable feast for the eyes – and the crowd were buzzing.
Daylight began to fade over Leipzig’s Central Stadium as the band entered from stage left. The train – two truck’s worth, remember – crashes onto stage, accompanying a cartoon crash on the big screens; pyrotechnics make the stage looks as though it is exploding. And then we’re into solid, tight, heavy rock.
Around the stadium, many of the 50,000 fans sport flashing horns on their heads, casting a devilish, pulsating red glow. Angus begins to take off his shirt – a slow, low-lighted strip during “The Jack” – and it never fails to drive the crowd wild.
The guitar solos are – mercifully – a little shorter than they used to be but there’s still a big showcase at the end, where we’re treated to ten minutes of brilliant, ostentatiously executed technique.
The crowd roar; the band leaves the stage. Then “Highway to Hell” an
d ‘We Salute You’ – with cannons upsetting the local bird life – and it’s all over. Or rather, for rock n roll truckers, it’s time to start work.
Three-and-a-half hours later, the 29th truck pulls out of the gate, heading for Munich. Haven’t we just been there? Don’t ask – there’ll be a reason I’m sure.
En route, at about 5am – I like to remind you of these horrendous hours in case you think I’m on holiday – I radio Namibian, faithfully following as usual.
Yet radio silence is maintained, leaving me wondering whether he can’t hear me over his Enya or Chris de Burgh CD. Then a splutter, and a gluttonous Namibian says, ‘Sorry Barny, I was filling my face with biscuits.’ Well, that is, indeed, one way of staying awake.
Oh, don’t talk to me about food – I made a fundamental mistake with my scone at 4pm today. Crème fraiche may look like cream…but it just isn’t the same..