AC/DC is without question the most testosterone-driven rock band of all time. When they aren’t playing the most blatant penis-y macho riffs in the electric guitar’s history or offering sexual innuendo as thick as fax paper, they’re literally singing about giant, hairy, swinging testicles (“Big Balls”, “She’s Got Balls”, etc). I’d also like to remark upon the oddity of having to write the preceding sentences in the present tense. AC/DC is still at it, 35 years after they first geared up to take over the world with school boy outfits and waging tongues. 

One thing has been proven time and again during AC/DC’s reign as the undisputed gods of hot, greasy, table-pounding bar anthems: These guys love to sing about the pure majesty of rock in all its forms. If you have chosen rock, and/or its counterpart roll, as your life’s ultimate career path, please be advised it’s a long way to the top. However, you will still be saluted by this quartet of rockers who firmly believe the genre they thrive in is not noise pollution. Indeed, “let there be rock!” is what AC/DC declares, sounding very much like a group of shirtless, sweaty Marie Antoinettes. Ironic only because I think Phil Rudd would have a considerable amount of trouble getting into Versailles. 

Incredibly, the death of AC/DC frontman Bon Scott in 1980 did not stop the Young brothers and their pals from hitting mankind over the head with an endless supply of oversexed muscle car music (and mankind loving every stupid minute of it). The plucky lads recruited Brian Johnson, a guy who, as far as modern science knows, is the only person in our vast universe capable of accurately replicating Scott’s surly, razor-sharp snarl. Fans accepted Johnson the minute they heard his herniated howling on Back in Black. Thank the lord AC/DC didn’t stick with their first replacement choice, John Denver (it’s true, I read it on Wikipedia). 

In the mid-to-late ’90s, while AC/DC lay dormant between albums like some kind of five-headed Australian Godzilla, a new group of explosive musical rabble-rousers broke out of Norway and set their sights on global musical domination. Collectively, they bore a name as powerful and suggestive as their forefathers from Down Under: Gluecifer. The high-octane dual guitar sound these Oslo natives championed was siphoned directly from Angus Young’s gas tank; unfortunately, Gluecifer’s metaphorical dragster would not travel the same distance as AC/DC’s. Still, the band would leave a nice set of skid marks.

Like Sydney’s most famous export, Gluecifer seemed a tad preoccupied with the four letter R-word, simultaneously branding themselves the “Kings of Rock” and “Rock ‘n’ Roll Assholes” who sat loftily on the “Rock Throne.” The next go-to song subject for these guys was not always sex, though (which seems odd given the fact their individual names appeared to be cribbed from the back of a porno). Glue was known to offer off-kilter musical visions of clown beatings, drug dealings, buffet addictions, Star Wars characters, and at least one bitter tale of an annoying Bon Jovi fan. If we are to believe their body of work, Gluecifer never had much luck in the sack. One of their most well-known songs was “1994”, a year in which they apparently “didn’t score.”

Bedroom antics aside, no one could deny Gluecifer’s ability to churn out driving, lip-curling, fist-pumping ’70s-style hard rock with the best of them. Injecting a little finesse into the old formula via Biff Malibu’s distinct, dramatic voice, these guys gave dyed-in-the-wool ’70s rock fans big, juicy boners with their first handful of records (which, like AC/DC’s early catalog, came to America in strange bits and pieces). The Glue were recognized as major players on the international rock scene alongside such biggies as the Hellacopters and the Hives from Sweden. For some reason, though, America didn’t really cotton to Biff and the boys like they did AC/DC. Maybe the vocals weren’t gruff enough, maybe the riffs were soaked in a little too much punk residue, maybe US rock fans just weren’t ready to worship a couple of guitarists named Poon and Raldo. Whatever the case, the “Kings of Rock” never made much of an effort stateside after their 2000 deal with Sub Pop fell through.

No one in Gluecifer ever died (thank god), but the band was laid to rest in 2005 after 11 years of blowing post-Nirvana grunge grime off music venue walls across the planet. While their legacy will undoubtedly never be as great and looming as AC/DC’s, at least they got out of the garage and managed to goose the tried ‘n’ true rock formula with an approach that didn’t necessitate constant references to tits, dicks, and sticky teenage romps with the neighbor’s hot-to-trot daughter. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Thirty-five years of hot dog/bun tales never really hurt anyone, I guess. It was just refreshing to hear one weighty rock anthem outlining a violent and unprovoked attack on greasepaint-wearing circus performers. 

Watch: “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC [at youtube.com]

Watch: “Take It” by Gluecifer [at youtube.com]

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