A Whole Lotta Rosie -- an appreciation.
The Song: A Whole Lotta Rosie (AC/DC)
The Band: AC/DC
The Album: Let There Be Rock (1977)
In the 1970s, Australia was a blessed nation. And it was for no other reason than they sidestepped the Summer of Love completely, and went to straight from Ozzie and Harriet to Altamont, the bootleg-horse-tranquilizers-and-zip-gun-duels-over-kilo-bags-of-stems-and-seeds-
up-against-the-wall-motherfucka-hippy appeared sui generis from the red clay, without the leavening of love beads and Nehru jackets. Fucking right on!
There was also in the 1970s a brief window when everybody at a rock show – performers, the audience, the management, the security – dressed like roadies. Everybody looked like roadies. And everybody had sex like roadies.
And this song is a celebration of dirty roadie sex, only the roadie is actually the weasel faced dead lead singer of AC/DC, Bonn Scott. (He of the Voice, the Voice of a man whose daytime occupation is fapping to the lingere section of an old Sears catalogues, while his nights are given over to the loving arms of a couple bottles of Robistussen.)
Dirty Roadie Sex is about availability, with quantity and quality being the same thing. Everybody had roadie sex. Jenna Jameson speculum acrobatics would just lead to giggling and Tantric Sting sex was the province of poofters and eggheads. No, roadie sex is doing what comes naturally. If you have to think about it, it ain’t worth doing. Sure there is a certain enthusiasm for baroque improvisation (introducing mud sharks into the festivities for example) but that's just the fries that come with the shake, so to speak.
Everybody got in the act, gimps, lepers, tardos. It didn’t matter. Beauty was what you offered, not what you looked like. Rosie herself is an uproariously upholstered gal, “42-39-56/You could say she got a lot.”Aye, you could say that, Bonn. And you can be sure those are imperial measurements, chappie. No pansy metric horse squat here. Fiona Apple, get thee behind me! And eat sammich for once!
Before I start sounding like Camille Paglia, let’s get down on the song, because this is why I called you all here this late, stormy night. Bonn Scott is of course in full priapiatic glory, roaring his devotion to the Venus of Walungurru. Meanwhile, Angus must have absorbed a lot of Phillip Glass, ‘cause he goes for a strident dirt bag minimalism. The entire song is one goddamn fierce call and response riff at a machine like groin thrusting cadence, perfect for a love song of sensitivity like this one.
The Band: AC/DC
The Album: Let There Be Rock (1977)
In the 1970s, Australia was a blessed nation. And it was for no other reason than they sidestepped the Summer of Love completely, and went to straight from Ozzie and Harriet to Altamont, the bootleg-horse-tranquilizers-and-zip-gun-duels-over-kilo-bags-of-stems-and-seeds-
up-against-the-wall-motherfucka-hippy appeared sui generis from the red clay, without the leavening of love beads and Nehru jackets. Fucking right on!
There was also in the 1970s a brief window when everybody at a rock show – performers, the audience, the management, the security – dressed like roadies. Everybody looked like roadies. And everybody had sex like roadies.
And this song is a celebration of dirty roadie sex, only the roadie is actually the weasel faced dead lead singer of AC/DC, Bonn Scott. (He of the Voice, the Voice of a man whose daytime occupation is fapping to the lingere section of an old Sears catalogues, while his nights are given over to the loving arms of a couple bottles of Robistussen.)
Dirty Roadie Sex is about availability, with quantity and quality being the same thing. Everybody had roadie sex. Jenna Jameson speculum acrobatics would just lead to giggling and Tantric Sting sex was the province of poofters and eggheads. No, roadie sex is doing what comes naturally. If you have to think about it, it ain’t worth doing. Sure there is a certain enthusiasm for baroque improvisation (introducing mud sharks into the festivities for example) but that's just the fries that come with the shake, so to speak.
Everybody got in the act, gimps, lepers, tardos. It didn’t matter. Beauty was what you offered, not what you looked like. Rosie herself is an uproariously upholstered gal, “42-39-56/You could say she got a lot.”Aye, you could say that, Bonn. And you can be sure those are imperial measurements, chappie. No pansy metric horse squat here. Fiona Apple, get thee behind me! And eat sammich for once!
Before I start sounding like Camille Paglia, let’s get down on the song, because this is why I called you all here this late, stormy night. Bonn Scott is of course in full priapiatic glory, roaring his devotion to the Venus of Walungurru. Meanwhile, Angus must have absorbed a lot of Phillip Glass, ‘cause he goes for a strident dirt bag minimalism. The entire song is one goddamn fierce call and response riff at a machine like groin thrusting cadence, perfect for a love song of sensitivity like this one.
posted by Greg Mills at 11:26 PM
2 Comments:
Must respond.
Whole lotta Rosie in a carniverous behemoth of a song, and from the band I have long been infatuated by, AC/DC.
While all my friends prefered 'serious' artists such as
Nirvana, Pearl Jam or whatever.. I continued with the Dirty deeds and powerage high voltage of the 'DC.
Long may that collection of CDs bring tongue in cheek enjoyment to my cynical face.
Kudos.
You get the sense that during the Bonn era, when they got round to playing Rosie in concert, midway through Angus could command anyone in that stadium to kill and they would, gladly.
Which is kind of nice.
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