AC/DC and Me
We’ve all been thinking about AC/DC’s place in the cannon of western civilisation’s contributions to our artistic betterment as a species for quite a while now. I know a day doesn’t pass when I don’t think about it. I’m pretty sure they put a cassette of “Back in Black” on a satellite or something for alien lifeforms to find. Quite sure of that. I’m also pretty sure they’re beaming “High Voltage” to the other galaxies most of the time. They’re that important to you, but also to me, here’s how.
Science
I love AC/DC. I really do and so should you. But I love AC/DC especially in summer or when the spring rains finally melt into the full on haze of summer.
The first time I worked at a place where I was the only person without a PhD (they had a theologian as staff philosopher for fucks sake) I was once asked by the super nice guy (PhD Chemistry) in the Bauhaus shirt what music I was into. I responded, well, AC/DC. I followed that I believed there to be mathematical truths to their music. This is obvious in that every song in there decades of existence sounds basically the same and awesome. His returned look was curious. Inquisitive, unsure, as if his whole world view had been turned upside down. Pretty sure about that. He walked away without saying much.
Hacks with Class
A while ago, Ashley Madison, the dating website for the unfaithful, had their computers hacked so that when they were booted the user would see a screen valorising the hackers and then started played AC/DC’s classic anthem, as they all are, “Thunderstruck.” The ransom note said that if Ashley Madison wasn’t shut down, hackers would release customer data on the internet. So yes, the thousands of cheating wives and husbands would have their names and identities released out into the bright wide open for the entire world and their respective partners to see. And employees got the day off while hearing a really rocking tune.
What strikes me is not just the song choice, but that the hackers also understood the universal truths therein. They understood the play between justice and mortality, between the self-reflective gaze of the other and what emptiness feels like. They knew that those employees, sitting at their desks would question everything they thought to be right. They would wonder what they had done with their lives while under the employ of a cheating facilitator. They would sit there, rows and rows of cubicles, all computers rendered useless save for playing a rocking tune calling them to question the ethics of our modern day and age.