Mick Wall - AC/DC: Hell Aint a Bad Place to Be

Also by Mick Wall

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For Malcolm Edwards

AUTHORS NOTE

When writing a biography of this nature, its important to both seek the truth, whatever that might be, and to give a good sense of balance; allow readers to see things from all sides or as many as the author may be able to muster so that they may make up their own minds about the characters and stories depicted. For that reason, I endeavoured to make contact with AC/DC and their management when writing this book, to a) let them know what I was doing and, b) to allow them the opportunity to put their side of things and respond however they saw fit.

AC/DC, though, as this book makes clear, do not engage easily or much at all with those they perceive to be outsiders. As I was told time and time again, while interviewing various managers, record company executives, musicians, producers and friends that have worked with the band at various junctures throughout their 40-year career, as far as the Young brothers who run the groups affairs are concerned, you are either part of the AC/DC clan privy to the inner sanctum and all that entails or you basically dont exist. Having also dealt with the band and their entourage, in my guise as music journalist and broadcaster, on numerous other occasions over the years, I already knew this to be true. Therefore it came as no surprise when none of my enquiries to their current management, in regards to this book, were met with any response at all. Or as one of the few current insiders told me off the record, You wont even be on their radar.

It is for this reason that, in some cases, there is no recorded response to some of the views held by others that were close to them that are now represented in this book. Fortunately, having interviewed and met various AC/DC members including Malcolm Young, Brian Johnson, Angus Young and Bon Scott on various occasions stretching back from the late-Seventies, up to present times, plus the dozens of people close to them that were interviewed specifically for this book, as well as taking careful note of other interviews they have all given to various media throughout their career, I feel the bands own views are as fairly and accurately represented as could possibly be expected. Indeed, the fact that none of the leading present members i.e. the Young brothers have had any direct involvement in this book meant that I was beholden to no one in my telling of their story. I know from my own bitter experience working with many of the biggest names in rock these past 35 years that full cooperation almost always means full compromise. And there are enough of those bloody-good-bloke fan books out there already. Instead, what you have here is the closest anyone has ever been to discovering just what the real story of AC/DC actually is, and told without fear of being expelled from the brotherhood.

I hope both you and they will appreciate the honest, blood-spilling endeavour involved.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to give his utmost thanks to the following people, absolutely without whom...

Linda, Evie, Mollie, Michael Wall; Malcolm Edwards; Robert Kirby; and Vanessa McMinn, Charlotte Knee, Ian Preece, Jane Sturrock, Jillian Young, Nicola Crossley, Craig Fraser, Dave Everley, Mary Hooton, Joe Bonamassa, Roy Weisman, Dee Hembury-Eaton, Nicola Musgrove, Peter Makowski, Ross Halfin, Joel McIver, Ian Clark, Colin Gilbey, Diana and Colin Cartwright, Anna Dorogi, Mark Handsley, Duncan Calow and Elizabeth Beier.

PROLOGUE

Highway to Heaven

T he Queen Elizabeth Hospital, South Australia, February 1974. It is the morning after the night before. When Bon awakes it only takes a moment to realise this is not the usual Sunday morning trouble he is in. Theres the hangover, but thats normal. A bump on the head and a few aches and pains elsewhere are also par for the course. Bons a drinker and a scrapper. So what, mate?

But this is different. His eyes cant focus. His body cant move. His mouth cant breathe. He twists in and out of consciousness before finally a face he doesnt recognise hovers over him, telling him the score. Youve been in an accident, the voice says. Youve been very badly injured. This is doctor-speak for You fucked up, mate. Looks like youre a goner.

The quack gives it some more lip but Bon has blacked out again. A goner, gone again...

Later... the next day, the next moment... he overhears Irene talking it through with Vince, crying... broken leg, broken arm, broken nose, broken teeth, broken jaw... broken fucking everything by the sound of it, why didnt she just come out and say it? Broken dreams, that was the real cause of the pain. Twenty-eight years old, married, just about, but going nowhere, already been everywhere, what it felt like. Hed had his chance. He knew it, everyone knew it. Nobody was supposed to talk about it but you could see it in their eyes, the way they tried not to look at you but couldnt help it.

What was left? Pop star, been there done it. Rock star, been there couldnt quite manage it. Jail, ha, ha, ha. Women? There were always women. You didnt have to be the jolly fucking swagman to find a woman. Money... ah, what was the fucking use? Everything youd ever nearly had theyd taken away. Wouldnt even let you give it to them, they just wanted to take it all then watch you wonder why.

Then Irene over the bed... Dont die, Bon, dont die...

Then Vince... Come on, mate, you can do it...

Then the whine of the machine as it flat-lined; God looking down at him, saying, Its time, Bon...

Fuck it, so what? I was already dead before they brung me in here, said Bon to himself.

God shook his head sadly. Bon looked at him square like he was going to give it to him then changed his mind. For the first time he felt... scared. No, not scared. That was for poofters. More just... worried. Seeing his mistake. Feeling sorry for Irene and Vince and his poor mum and dad.

Bon told God: I dont care about dying. You know that. I just care about... you know.

I know, said God, infinitely patient yet not willing to stall.

Ill tell you what. Give me back five years and Ill fix things, alright, God?

God, who had heard it all before, began to tune out.

Listen, you old fuck, five years, thats all Im asking for. Whats that to you? Fuck all!

God paused. God could do what he liked.

Five years, right, to sort things out, then you can have me back, all right, God?

Silence. Deep, forever deep, silence...

Five years, you cunt! To do things properly this time, learn to keep my big mouth shut and look the other way when things get a touch too much. Five years, thats all, fucks sake. Then Im your man. What do you say, mate?

CHAPTER ONE

The Clansmen

W e are going to be huge, mate. Bloody huge...

Thats what the Young brothers would tell anyone in Sydney that listened. Nobody did though. Who the hell did they think they were anyway? A couple of arse-hanging-out larrikins from the shit end of the stick. Pretty boy Malcolm with his long hooligan hair and Angus, his nutty little skinhead brother; neither of them barely more than five feet tall; aggressive little fuckers stick one on you quick as look at you.