Deconstructing 'Thunderstruck'

Ten years ago - the scene unfolds. There I am with my family, in BC Place stadium in Vancouver, British Columbia. The occasion is the 2015 Women’s World Cup. The crowd is filling in, the teams are warming up, the music is pumping.

One song ends, you’re anticipating kickoff, and the tension builds.

Then - against all logic and prediction - the DJ cranks up AC/DC’s signature anthem - Thunderstruck. The speakers pulsate, it’s LOUD.

I remember laughing infectiously. Really? This song is what someone decided should keynote the pinnacle of women’s sport?

But the crowd loved it. I swear I could see the players bopping their heads, Abby Wambach doing a little strut. It ramped up the atmosphere and I must say, it was perfect.

Since then I have been moderately obsessed with this Rock-n-Roll oddity. Why does this dated, embarrassing artifact of male swagger and foolish energy constantly ring in my head?

Take a listen:

I’ve watched the video dozens of times. Thunderstruck is on heavy rotation on my various playlists. I’ve spent too much energy exploring the many alternate renditions of this Rock classic. Moonshine banjo version. Classical music cello version. Baby coo version. Star Wars battle version.

I need help.

So today I am going to excavate this ear-worm of a song. Take it apart, interrogate it, and hopefully exorcise the demons that rock out in my brain.

Be aware…I am no musical theorist. I have no skills or technical ability to actually understand the mechanics of why this song permeates the universe. I am a true amateur, just asking questions. But by God, these questions must be asked!

So let’s go…

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Timestamp: 0:00 - We begin with the unmistakable guitar riff by Angus Young. It kickstarts the experience and signals chaos ahead. I can’t actually understand how the human hand - and it is just one hand - can move this fast or articulate this amount of dexterous skill. It seems impossible, but off we go…93 miles an hour, out of the gate.

Timestamp: 0:09 - Now begins the chanting. Like a cult or religious order, the repeated “Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah” will accompany us throughout the rest of the song…inviting participation from the crowd and obedience from the masses.

Timestamp: 0:15 - The guitar riff down-shifts into a different pattern, further drawing us forward, anticipating something unknowable is coming.

Timestamp: 0:29 - A shouted “Thunder!” comes crashing in with the drums, slamming into your earbuds like cannons. We are now in full ‘headbanger’ mode, committed to the bit.

Timestamp: 0:36 - Here, I think, is where the song shifts from chaotic frenzy to operatic flow. As if we aren’t keyed up enough, the band layers in a rhythm guitar riff, injecting a pulsating heartbeat to the maelstrom. It’s subtle, you almost have to tilt your head to pick it up. But that rumbling, rapid fire underscore gives the entire song pace, drive, and gravitational pull. The band has shifted into turbo mode, and we just ride along for the next few bars.

Timestamp: 1:04 - Now the lead singer - Brian Johnson - enters the fray. It almost doesn’t matter what he is saying, the point is the scream, the tense vocal shredding that he lays down upon us. The words are the usual hard-rock gibberish of vague innuendo and poetry-adjacent fantasies.

I would love to chat with an otolaryngologist one day and figure out what the hell is going on with Brian Johnson’s vocal cords. No human should be able to make those sounds. Biological tissue should not be stretched so precipitously. But he does it again and again - somehow both singing lyrically and scraping the chalkboard.

Timestamp: 1:34 - The chorus table is set, a new guitar strum pattern roars, as if we haven’t had enough. We ingest such textual gems as “The thunder of guns…tore me apart” backstopped by the raging strums of the guitar.

Timestamp: 1:50 - There it is, the punchline, the chorus. “You’ve been Thunderstruck!” The band shifts gears again, still throbbing with forward momentum, in full swing and we’re all just happy to be invited to the party.

Timestamp: 2:05 - The lyrics mention “Texas”, because why the hell not? Nothing makes more sense than an Australian band name-checking the Lone Star State in a 80’s rock anthem, right?

Timestamp: 2:28 - We down-shift again but still are flying forward. This song has more gears than a mountain bike, and the noise level drops to focus on the important message “I was shaking at the knees, could I come again please?”

Timestamp: 2:42 - Back again at full pace, let’s move. We’re going to surf this wave for the next little bit.

Timestamp: 3:14 - Guitar solo, because, of course.

Timestamp: 3:26 - The pace relaxes a shade, we re-focus on the chants. “Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah” again and again.

Timestamp: 3:42 - That’s enough chanting. The drums kick back in, and the band starts to bring this auditory comet in for a landing.

Timestamp: 3:58 - But wait, we’re not done yet! Let’s have some more screaming prose, assuring us that “It’s alright. We’re, doing fine.”

Timestamp: 4:20 - “Whoa baby baby.” Yes. We get it. These guys are the spiritual descendants of Robert Frost and Walt Whitman. We’re all very impressed with the rhyme and meter while we’re banging our heads…

Timestamp: 4:40 - Descent and denouement. The song winds down…recalling the original guitar riff in a last, unwinding spool of chaotic relief…

Timestamp: 4:50 - Bang the drums. The end.

There you have it, a second by second examination of a song that is a product of time and culture like few others. Post-80’s, pre-Grunge. Unabashedly focused on sex, sweat, power, masculinity, ‘rockin’ out’, being loud, and having a good time.

The song’s contagious aspects are in its simple naivety combined with its complex layers. It’s a Jenga-like stack of guitar riffs, a whirlwind of changing of tempos - upshifting and downshifting throughout the song - punctuated by bombastic, silly lyrics and drums, drums, drums.

It’s a foolish masterpiece. And they don’t make ‘em like they used to.

Farewell photo

A little slice of life, until next time…

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Disclaimer:

All content and opinions are solely those of the author (Jack), and not representative of my employer, former employers, anyone in Congress, my family, former college roommates, Baptists, the good citizens of Colorado, or my dog Mabel.