He smoked only occasionally On still evenings when he could Hear the nearby river murmur And swell. Who knows How fast or deep.
Handrolled, inexpertly, Always a little lumpy.
His earliest memories were of His grandfather rolling cigarettes On a handmade wooden table. Settle the shag on the paper, Like making a tiny bed. The boy watched as if beholding Some lost tribal ritual. Lick the little envelope and Lay it aside. Neat as a sealed scroll.
In the dusky porch light He'd sit on his grandfather's knee As he smoked and wove Stories no one could now remember. The boy's mother and sister Listening along.
As he smoked he was aware Of the cancer that had turned The old man gaunt and grey Before the end. The smoke stretched into the Darkness as he exhaled, Like an isthmus of fog.
He didn't believe he'd meet The old man again one day. There was only the draw and exhale. Scent of the beginning and the end.
And the smoke moving in Long curves. Both balletic and torpid. And both present and absent. But always tending toward absence.
What we know to be true can be Confirmed only through logical Deduction, claimed René Descartes, Setting the course of Western philosophy And science. He deduced (quite famously) That he at least existed —For to doubt requires A doubter; thoughts, a thinker. But beyond that, Nothing should be assumed.
For example, what proof was there That animals were conscious? They move, react, make noises. But this is insufficient, For so too can intricate machines Filled with belts and gears. Animals are "nature's machines," he wrote. Biological automata. To believe they were conscious was baseless, Irrational, sentimental. A contemporary of Descartes observed That learned followers of The great philosopher-scientist
“administered beatings to dogs with perfect indifference and made fun of those who pitied the creatures as if they felt pain. They said the animals were clocks; that the cries they emitted when struck were only the noise of a little spring that had been touched.” 1
Sometimes know I exist (and only sometimes) Through reading a poem. Now and again one arrives to meet me, And I receive evidence that there’s Someone in there to be met.
A voice reaches out And presses a palm To my naked chest. And through that other’s palm I can Feel my own heart beating Out of the silence.
So I fear that one day I might be moved by a poem, While somehow sensing Or discovering later, That it was assembled from words Without a voice.
A hand detached from a body, Groping blindly forth, With too many fingers. But still pressing its Palm to my wet heart.
And then through that palm I’ll feel just a neat, Too-regular ticking. And utter a cry caused only By a little spring That has been touched.
1. Qtd. in Rosenfield, Leonora. From Beast-Machine to Man-Machine. New York: Columbia, 1968, 54.
With my shoulder aching From the weight of my work satchel I stopped to sit On a park bench by a statue. Slate-grey bronze pushed skyward, On a plinth of concrete, high as my head. Some centuries-ago city father.
Lowering the satchel to the ground, At last, I turned my attention to my lunch: Hot chips, small bag. $6.50. Regular salt.
And then the seagulls arrived: Swivel-necked and stony-eyed, Reeled in by the steaming tang Of salt and fat.
They commenced barging and cackling, Vying for prime position Like an unwashed crowd At a three-day concert. And wailing toward me With throttled vibrato. Really putting their necks into it.
I cast out one or two chips as I ate, Watching the warm morsels met each time By a headlong rush, spearing and snatching, Claimed by the quickest draw. The losers shrieking brief lamentations, Before pivoting back To the wondrous origin.
I spotted one bird, Perhaps ten metres and Too many rows back. Close by the statue’s poo-spattered plinth. It stood on just one twiggy leg, Outmatched in this anarchy, This world of swoops and shoves, Bleating uncertainly.
I lobbed a fat chip toward him, As you do.
The feral gaze of his competitors tracked The chip's wobbly flight, Their bodies already angling, Fast-twitching to rush and tackle.
But my aim was good: Aid arrived too swiftly to be Confiscated by bullies and ruffians.
One-Leg caught it with warming skill. He split and swallowed half instantly. And with a brief flap for momentum, Glided behind the plinth To finish the rest unbothered.
But I'd been watching closely . . . The second before he vanished from view (And with my face drawing into an irate pinch) I'd seen that bird put his other leg down.
Seconds later, Having scoffed his prize, He discreetly returned to the Back of the screeching rabble.
And what do you think happened then? As his peers fretted and implored and Fixed on my diminishing supply, He pattered out to the rear flank, Swivelled to face me, Tucked one leg utterly out of sight And once again Began bleating woe in my direction.
I just stared. My charitable hand now motionless.
The garbled chorus grew louder.
One gull strutted boldly close to me But wheeled back again, As if avoiding eye contact, As if that was just a mistake. One-Leg continued mewling from the flank.
I looked down at the bag in my hand, White paper now dappled dark with chip sweat. A couple left, over-yellow like stale butter. A brittle, woody one below those. Runnels of loose salt at the bottom. I wasn't hungry anymore, anyway.
Too busy wincing, Having suddenly seen myself, Sitting there, Acting the Moral Judge of Seagulls.
And before that surely a King, Delighting in his own benevolence Toward the wretched and downtrodden.
In fact, hadn't I imagined my generosity As even more marvellous? To the birds my blessings were surely Something inscrutable, ecstatic. Like divine rain suddenly shimmering Over the parched crops of Weeping Calvinists.
Now sitting embarrassed Before the sharp gaze Of creatures already gifted With a humble knack for pattern-recognition. Canny fish-catchers With little imagination, But who know a resource When they spot one.
I tossed the remaining chips carelessly To the noisy throng and stood up Dusting salt from my hands, Perhaps a little too showily. I scrunched the empty bag into my pocket, Scrunched my face into a smile, And looked around, scanning above the fray.
I noticed the statue was darkening As the winter sun dipped, And glanced down at my watch. Then grunted as I picked up my heavy bag To start back toward work.
From the bushy fringe of the beach, the spider peered at a broad, speckled bonnet with two—just two!—eyes projecting out like polished stones. It watched the crab’s sturdy and spearlike legs traverse boulders of pale sand to within a metre before stopping. The two looked at each other for a time. The crab shuffled a little, rowing the sand around it, then bunched its legs together. It poked the air with a pincer. The spider drew its forelegs closer and shuffled its mouthparts.
The evening cold came and the spider, buffeted and stung by the sea breeze, reluctantly drew itself under a lattice of exposed roots before retreating. The salty wind wasn’t so much as feather’s touch on the crab’s thick exoskeleton; it remained longer till some shrimpy fragrance steered it by the antennae to a nearby rock pool.
That was the third meeting, and the two creatures continued to encounter each other at the edge of the beach. The spider’s thin and delicate legs were irritated by the coarse, crystalline sand. The crab beheld a slender, many-eyed creature crouched in scrubland that was, to such a crustacean, both breathlessly dry and draped with hazards.
Sometime later, the spider, scaling round rocks and leaf litter at the perimeter, came across an empty carapace, broad and speckled. It caught the scent of ants on the silent breeze and spotted one trickling away from the husk as it moved closer. The eyeholes were vacant now. The spider stopped before the shell and remained motionless for hours, as spiders sometimes are.
Finally stirring, it entered the carapace. It extended its legs from this new armour and abruptly dashed toward the surf, limbs motoring, impervious to the scratching of the rubbly sand. At the first touch of seawater its wispy legs contracted as if burned and it tipped and rolled. It overcame this instinct, though, thrust out its limbs once more and skittered upright into the damp. A shelf of popping foam collapsed toward it—met with legs wheeling from the shell like oars from the sides of a galley—but a ripple combed it back on to the shore.
The spider twitched and shook and scissored its mouthparts in a panic to free them of salt. The shell had come loose and lay studded in the wet, fizzing sand. Beads of water like great glass boils cooked sunlight into the arachnid’s dark exterior and it raced to find shelter. A mound rose into view: the towel a network of silent and cooling caves. Peering out, the spider became aware that one of its legs had become detached and was lying already half-buried in the baking grit. At some point the shelter was snatched away and the spider with it. It could only wait, and so it waited, ensconced in the dark, dry folds.
Later it traversed a pavement of cool tiles, seeking the safety of the bathroom’s farthest, dimmest edges. Chlorine deposits smouldered in gutters and divots, but some insect debris indicated the room as a survivable territory. Come darkness, it scaled wall and windowframe and began sketching strands by moonlight across a corner.
Early the next morning, a human entered and approached the web, in the centre of which the spider sat loosely like a badly stitched button. As it loomed closer, the thing’s face resolved itself: the spider couldn’t grasp its orientation, but it had a creature’s instinct for eyes, no matter how few of them or how broad and wet and globular. Somewhere below the eyes, a tract of pink flesh hoisted and blew a shriek across the spider’s body. It was dashing now—away from the web, along the windowsill, seven legs scrambling. A moment later an avalanche of tissue paper descended and the spider was tumbled into a white oblivion.
She placed it carefully on a different window ledge and watched it flee up the side of the frame, into the far corner of the sunroom. Flies show up more often in here, she thought.
Contrary to common assumptions, it’s a mercy to sleep within earshot of a highway. That way, in the small hours when your relentless thoughts course sleep from you like prey, you can rest your attention in the sound of passing cars. Just a transient murmur and the roll of rubber on cold road, like a breath drawn and exhaled. A flat tide somewhere far off, relinquishing a mirror of wet sand.
It’s tempting to wonder: Who are they? Where are they driving toat such an hour? Perhaps home after a late shift: a pocket fat with tips and a six-pack on the passenger seat, the radio pulsing hits of the nineties. Someone else, perhaps to the hospital: baby’s on the way (another voyage through darkness, not to be delayed). Another drives not toward but away: snuck out through the laundry door—just minutes ago actually. Bag was already packed. A silent goodbye to the dog (kissed the top of its drowsy head). Perhaps none of these. It’s really not for you to know. Each one only a grey ripple, a brief hollowing of spectral night air.
Nevertheless, wish well each faceless occupant, strapped tight in their dim capsule, lit only by numbers and dials. Generously, they won’t think of you at all, their headlights carving the long darkness ahead. Acknowledge a debt to these travellers, watchmen, samaritans. To those who drive as others lie still, ceaseless as blood through veins. They will hold the wheel from here. They will think the thoughts for a while, carry them away through the night.
Starring Amelia Foxton, Chiara Gizzi, and Stephen Hunter
Director of Photography: Tom Gleeson
Running time: 36 mins
Horror and humour achieve embryonic fusion in Australian director Glenn Fraser’s latest short film, Mother Tongue, written with wit and energy by Amelia Foxton. Alex (Chiara Gizzi) and Jade (Foxton) know all about parenthood from their hetero friends, who visit them only to sit slumped, exhausted—seemingly exsanguinated—by the ordeal. But this cutely clucky same-sex couple aren’t so easily put off. After repeated and steamily determined attempts at impregnation, however, they still don’t have a baby bump between them. Adoption holds no help, as the couple finds its woes compounded by process thick with prejudice.
They explore alternative options, but just how ‘alternative’ will they get? Enter Brian (Stephen Hunter), the black magic sorcerer who promises he can conjure these two a kid. He’s also a try-hard deadshit operating out of an unassuming beige-brick flat. From here, Alex and Jade find themselves entangled in the increasingly wacky world of the suburban occult because, surprise surprise, Brian may be less useless than he appears. Maybe this will work after all? However, we know from the film’s opening—from Jade and Alex’s friends—how enslaved parents are to their infant overlords, and there may be even greater sacrifices in store for this couple.
Fraser and Foxton’s film pulses along through its inspired and knowing embrace of horror tropes—here delightfully embedded in everyday domesticity. Involving and often very fun performances draw much richness from the full veins of Foxton’s script and, despite the film’s short running time, its characters are vividly drawn, with Alex the more reactive and intense of the duo, alongside the more patient and protective Jade, who finally accepts her partner’s pleas to explore every last option. The film also looks splendid, easily immersing us in atmospheres by turns erotic, alarming, and absurd. Parenthood sure seems draining, but you’ll be tickled and fulfilled by Mother Tongue.
I’m back to making some rough recordings under a new one-person hard rock project. There’s no lyrics; you can just use your imagination. The style will vary somewhat, but generally it draws inspiration from a variety of hard rock and heavy metal of an earlier vintage, including Black Sabbath, Manilla Road, Metallica and Candlemass, as well as the fictional worlds of Robert E. Howard (to whom the name is in oblique tribute).
Check out the YouTube or SoundCloud accounts via the links below and follow if you dig it 💀
As an eight-year-old, I swapped a handful of pocket money for Highway to Hell on cassette at a now defunct department store, FitzGerald’s, on Hobart’s eastern shore. If I’d even heard of AC/DC at the time it was only in passing. They weren’t on my mind when I walked in there. I have censorship to thank.
My neighbour’s older brother had several Guns ‘N’ Roses releases on CD. Among us kids, CDs were a sort of deluxe rarity. No one I knew’s parents had a CD player in their car. My parents had a CD player newly installed in their bedroom around this time, and that’s where the thing stayed. I didn’t have any CDs anyway and my parents had only one or two themselves. Cassettes were what we trafficked in—sometimes copies of copies. I had taped copies of several GNR albums and I was trying to buy one of my own. Accompanied by mum, I’d pointed over the counter to the G N’ R Lies cassette. The attendant obliged but, as was also her obligation, politely directed my mother’s attention to the parental advisory sticker on the case. Mum wasn’t having it: “No, sorry,” she told me, “You can’t get that one.” The attendant sympathetically gestured to copies of Highway to Hell on the counter to her left, with its now discontinued Australian-release cover: the lads looming and leering out the inferno as a guitar fretboard-turned-highway vanishes into the flames: “You might like this one?” she suggested. I took it, and from then on, with AC/DC, it was no stop signs, speed limits…
Highway to Hell, 1989 cassette re-release, Albert Productions. Originally released in 1979. Scan by Discogs.com
In fact, years later I bought Lies: hardly terrible but obviously at the inferior end of the GNR catalogue. Lady steered me right. I remember a polite twenty-something, maybe even a teenager, just doing her job. Whoever she was, she can’t know that she set me on a musical highway I’d still be cruising thirty-odd years later.
Having heard little of AC/DC on the radio at that age, and never watching music videos, I was left to explore the band alone. At the time I couldn’t have told you which songs from Highway to Hell were the singles. I gradually expanded my collection of tapes at a rate pocket- or birthday-money would permit. That wasn’t fast, so each album got played through over and over, really devoured and digested. This is still how I prefer to listen to the band today: album by album. Some may like Spotify to curate a dessert of hits but I still prefer the full-course meal.
And so I present, all of it according to me, the deep album cuts of AC/DC. The band might be a rock and roll phenomenon, but the fellas still have a horde of tearing tracks that are routinely ignored, underplayed or even unknown to the casual fan. What is a “deep cut” anyway? For my purposes it’ll mean a track from one of the studio albums that wasn’t released as a single. Additionally, it can’t have been part of the band’s live set for any real length of time. It also can’t be the title track: thumpers like “Fly on the Wall” or “Ballbreaker” might be underplayed, but they can’t count as deep album cuts. As we go, I’ll highlight my favourites then isolate only one “top pick”. Okay, enough Beating Around the Bush.
T.N.T. (1975, Australia only) and High Voltage (1976):
Singles: “Love Song” / “Baby, Please Don’t Go”, “High Voltage”, “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘n’ Roll)”, “T.N.T.”
Deep cut cache: “Little Lover”, “Rock ‘n’ Roll Singer”
Top pick: “Rock ‘n’ Roll Singer”
Comment: “Live Wire”, “Rocker” and “The Jack” are disqualified for getting a good run live. After “It’s a Long Way…” opens T.N.T. and the international edition of High Voltage, “Rock ‘n’ Roll Singer” maintains the momentum, with Bon barking a more anarchic account of yearning for the showbiz life. Rock and roll, stripped down and sweaty.
Comment: “Rocker”, one of the album’s best, is disqualified for its live showings, most notably on the If You Want Blood live album. The melancholic cruiser “Ride On” has developed a reputation among fans but the amusingly tasteless “Squealer” takes number one spot for me for its classic AC/DC grunt and gutter-humour.
Let There Be Rock (1977)
Singles: “Dog Eat Dog”, “Let There Be Rock”, “Problem Child”, “Whole Lotta Rosie”
Deep cut cache: “Overdose”
Top pick: “Overdose”
Comment: “Bad Boy Boogie”, far and away my favourite of the album, is disqualified again for live popularity, as is “Hell Ain’t A Bad Place to Be”. That doesn’t leave a lot on this famously raw and raucous album. Nevertheless, the headbanging ode to obsession, “Overdose”, is just the right prescription.
Powerage (1978)
Singles: “Rock ‘n’ Roll Damnation”
Deep cut cache: “Down Payment Blues”, “Gimme a Bullet”, “What’s Next to the Moon”, “Gone Shootin'”, “Up to My Neck in You”, “Kicked in the Teeth”
Top pick: “Gone Shootin'”
Comment: “Riff Raff” and “Sin City” disallowed for live popularity. Despite that there’s still plenty to pick from on the oft-overlooked Powerage (maybe it was that dreadful album cover?). For me it’s the easy-does-it, cruising momentum of “Gone Shootin'” that best hits the spot.
Highway to Hell (1979)
Singles: “Highway to Hell”, “Girls Got Rhythm”, “Touch Too Much”, “Beating Around the Bush”
Deep cut cache: “Walk All Over You”, “If You Want Blood (You’ve Got It)”, “Night Prowler”
Top pick: “Night Prowler”
Comment: Is there even a bad song on “Highway to Hell”? The pinnacle of the Bon Scott years seems to hit us at every turn with tracks filled with grunt, groove, humour and menace. And much of the menace comes from the closer, “Night Prowler”, an atmospheric and sinister sonic horror tale.
Back in Black (1980)
Singles: “You Shook Me All Night Long”, “Hells Bells”, “Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution”, “Back in Black”
Deep cut cache: “Have a Drink on Me”, “Shake a Leg”
Top pick: “Have a Drink on Me”
Comment: Can anything on Back in Black, the second highest-selling album in music history, really be termed a “deep cut”? Well, I gave it a shot anyway. Their mischievious star Bon Scott having tragically burned out, AC/DC were reasonably expected to fade away. Instead, they released perhaps their most celebrated album, featuring the upbeat radio favourite “You Shook Me All Night Long”, the punch-crunch riffing of “Back in Black”, and the swaying menace of “Hells Bells”. It also contained some of the band’s most sexist songs: what was previously schoolboy (often self-effacing) humour attained a nastier tone in “Givin’ the Dog a Bone” and “What You Do for Money Honey” (also among the album’s weaker tracks). They’d get this horny-humor balance better into the future. Meanwhile, back on the deep cut question: it’s hardly unheard of, but “Have a Drink on Me” slams as good as the singles.
For Those About to Rock (1981)
Singles: “For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)”, “Let’s Get It Up”
Deep cut cache: “Inject the Venom”, “Breaking the Rules”, “Spellbound”
Top pick: “Spellbound”
Comment: Opening with its epic, window-rattling title track, For Those About To Rock seems more than a match for its celebrated predecessor. Alas, the momentum slackens as we settle into a good if not outstanding album. I’m a big fan of “Inject the Venom”, a lumbering yet brutishly catchy tune about, apparently, administering lethal injections. However, for my number one pick it’s hard to overlook the album’s closer, “Spellbound”, a rough-edged and melancholic gem as entrancing as its title. Not too many AC/DC tracks like this one.
Flick of the Switch (1983)
Singles: “Flick of the Switch”, “Guns for Hire”, “Nervous Shakedown”
Deep cut cache: “Rising Power”, “This House is on Fire”,”Bedlam in Belgium”
Top pick: “This House is on Fire”
Comment: With the band on a downward slide commercially, the slapdash cover for Flick of the Switch probably didn’t help move any more units. Nevertheless, a raw and bruising album full of no-frills foot-stompers, including “This House is On Fire.”
Fly on the Wall (1985)
Singles: “Danger”, “Sink the Pink”, “Shake Your Foundations”
Deep cut cache: “Stand Up”, “Playing with Girls”, “Back in Business”
Top pick: “Stand Up”
Comment: With its rough-as-guts production, Fly on the Wall is often pegged as the band’s worst album. It isn’t. However, a medley of quirky videos that distracted and detracted from the Youngs’ crashing riffage did it no real favours. “Danger,” one of the album’s weaker tracks and an unfortunate choice for the first single, is cluttered by a weirdly shrill and ear-splitting solo from Angus and went over like a fart in church with the live crowd.
Here’s my two cents: don’t let Fly on the Wall‘s reputation deter you. Play it loud. Embrace the noise. It’s true that on a couple of tracks Brian sounds like he’s wailing from the bottom of a well somewhere in his native Durham. But the whole thing is characterised by a whiplashing, raucous charm. In songs such as “Sink the Pink” and “Shake Your Foundations” the lead guitar launches out in firey flourishes, supercharging an album already full of pounding, anthemic choruses. Fly on the Wall is a low-key favourite of mine, with several hidden gems, including the snarling gangster boast “Back in Business”; however, it’s “Stand Up” that sticks out most.
Blow Up Your Video (1988)
Singles: “Heatseeker”, “That’s the Way I Wanna Rock and Roll”
Deep cut cache: “Meanstreak”, “Go Zone”, “Sum Sin For Nuthin'”, “Ruff Stuff”, “Nick of Time”
Top pick: “Go Zone”
Comment: Look, I know a lot of people aren’t really fans of Blow Up Your Video, although I’m never really sure why that is. The production is a little staid, but I wouldn’t skip a single song on it. The singles are high-energy, but the album as a whole has a mix of moods and tempos, from the cocky strut of “Meanstreak” to the gloomier “Two’s Up”. I’ve selected “Go Zone” for top pick, but this is an album (ignored as it often is) that feels like it’s almost totally made up of decent deep cuts.
The Razors Edge (1990)
Singles: “Thunderstruck”, “Moneytalks”, “Are You Ready”, “Rock Your Heart Out” (Australia only)
Deep cut cache: “Mistress for Christmas”, “Shot of Love”, “Goodbye & Good Riddance to Bad Luck”
Top pick: “Mistress for Christmas”
Comment:The Razors Edge came out around the time I was getting into AC/DC, and what a time to get into them: the release of a blockbuster album that spawned their biggest hit in the States. I remember the thrill and fascination of seeing the music video for “Thunderstruck” come on TV—of seeing a band I’d heard plenty but never before seen. Razors‘ sound is polished yet powerful, and it’s another album with a range of hard rock moods, from the surging and high-spirited Moneytalks to the fearsome title track. I’ve picked “Mistress for Christmas”: it’s nothing but fun, but with a tremendous build-up and blistering lead work from Angus. Deck the halls, baby.
Ballbreaker (1995)
Singles: “Hard as a Rock”, “Cover You in Oil”, “Hail Caesar”
Deep cut cache: “The Furor”, “Burnin’ Alive”, “Whiskey on the Rocks”
Top pick: “The Furor”
One of the band’s most underrated albums, Ballbreaker features numerous songs that have that lean, crunchy and sinister sound that would all but disappear from the next album. Mysteriously cold-shouldered by critics, it nevetheless remains one of my favourites since its release. I’m really hard-pressed to pick a favourite deep cut here. But, balls in a vise, I’m going with “The Furor”.
Stiff Upper Lip (2001)
Singles: “Stuff Upper Lip”, “Safe in New York City”, “Satellite Blues”,
Deep cut cache: “Hold Me Back”, “Can’t Stand Still”, “Damned”
Top pick: “Damned”
Comment:Stiff Upper Lip really roars the engine with that title track—instant classic—but then largely settles down into a cruisier rhythm. With its steady-rolling bluesy swagger, this album has really grown on me over the years. Nevertheless, I’ll pick perhaps the slowest and heaviest song on there, “Damned”, as my choicest deep cut. Bon appetit.
Black Ice (2009)
Singles: “Rock ‘n’ Roll Train”, “Big Jack”, “Anything Goes”
Deep cut cache: “Wheels”, “Rock ‘n’ Roll Dream”
Top pick: “Wheels”
Comment: I’ll confess it here: I’ve tried hard to like Black Ice, but I found it largely disappointing then and find it disappointing today. “Rock ‘n’ Roll Train” is enjoyable enough if a little too procedural, even calming, for the first single to a long-awaited album. “Big Jack” has some legs under it, but I don’t find it a standout. And if “Rock ‘n’ Roll Train” seems a little calming, “Anything Goes” is virtually cutesy: probably my least favourite single the band have released. “Rock ‘n’ Roll Dream”, with the band again in a mellow mood, is nevertheless a nicely dreamy distraction. But thank goodness for the nasty, muscular swing of that title track, right at the end of the album, Ballbreaker-style. Fantastic. Generally, though, on Black Ice there are too many songs and too few of them stand out. One that does, though, is “Wheels”: plenty of momentum on this polished, upbeat and unpretentious rocker.
Rock or Bust (2014)
Singles: “Rock or Bust”, “Play Ball”, “Rock the Blues Away”
Deep cut cache: “Miss Adventure”, Baptism by Fire”, “Rock the House”, “Sweet Candy”
Top pick: “Baptism by Fire”
Comment: Fifteen years after Black Ice, the band was back with Rock or Bust, although sadly with Malcolm’s health preventing his playing on either the album or the subsequent tour. A much shorter release than Black Ice, Rock or Bust (despite its generic title) features songs with more overall stand-out value than its predecessor. The gorgeously snappy guitar sound brings out the groove throughout on an album that, if not a classic, still holds its own in the band’s catalogue. For your deep immersion, I suggest “Baptism by Fire”. I know they gave this one a run on the album tour but it’s not (yet?) a setlist staple.
Power Up (2020)
Singles: “Realize”, “Shot in the Dark”, “Through the Mists of Time”, “Witch’s Spell”
Deep cut cache: “Kick You When You’re Down”, “Demon Fire”, “Money Shot,” “Systems Down”
Top pick: “Money Shot”
Comment: Along with Blue Öyster Cult, AC/DC came to the rescue during the pandemic’s lockdown era by releasing new material right when it was most needed. The latter gave us Power Up (styled as PWR/UP), charged and glowing in tribute to the departed Malcolm. In case you thought they’d lost their ribald sense of humour, though, we have here not only the cheeky single “Shot in the Dark” but also the dirty grandpa devilry of “Money Shot.” “Demon Fire” is a headlong scorcher, but having its own official video raised its profile enough. “Money Shot” can take the prize.
And that’s that. Did I miss any of your favourites? If so, I’d love to hear about them. Share your thoughts below.
Thanks to editors Murray Pomerance and R. Barton Palmer, who have included my chapter on Nightcrawler (2014) and The Accountant (2016) in their exciting new collection, Autism in Film and Television: On the Island (University of Texas Press, 2022). I’m delighted to be included among scholars such as Mark Osteen, Fincina Hopgood, Alex Clayton, Ina Rae Hark, and many more, in a wide-ranging book that examines (just for example) sitcoms, Star Trek, NBC’s Community, Being There (1979), The Social Network (2010), Sherlock Holmes, Rain Man (1988), and Netflix’s Atypical.
I’m happy to announce that the collection The Other Hollywood Renaissance, co-edited with R. Barton Palmer and Murray Pomerance, will be released in paperback edition this August. This collection, first released in late 2020, re-examines the work of 24 directors associated with the Hollywood Renaissance/New Hollywood, including Terrence Malick, Brian De Palma, and William Friedkin, but also directors that have typically attracted less critical attention, such as Elaine May, Paul Mazursky, Peter Yates, and John Schlesinger. I’m hugely appreciative of the work of co-editors Barton and Murray—who have chapters of their own in the book—as well as the tremendous work of scholars such as Steven Rybin, Rebecca Bell-Metereau, Dennis Bingham, I-Lien Tsay, Con Verevis, and many others, whose intricate and compelling appraisals of their respective subjects make this book what it is. My own chapter is on William Friedkin, examining both his film style and the troubled personalities that populate The French Connection (1971), The Exorcist (1973), Sorcerer (1977), and Cruising (1980).
It's all done with mirrors 