Dirty Deeds Undone: An AC/DC Concert (Un)Review by Proxy

Don’t ever trust an Irishman (especially what they call “A Trinity Man” here in my neck of the woods) with….hell, with anything. But, you certainly shouldn’t trust one to help you with a (kinda) high-tech, high-concept idea for a concert review. Out of the last bit of that last sentence, the only part he will understand and attempt to undertake (with success) will be the double “high” part.

To wit:

I’d asked the aforementioned–let’s call him McHeman–to help me cover an AC/DC concert that was close to home, since I didn’t have tickets. I’d previously considered McHeman to be an intelligent, resourceful-enough guy–and a fellow music-loving type (AC/DC may or may not count to you)–so I thought I’d send him into the show armed with a smartphone and a plan to document what I figured would be a concert ripe with Spinal Tap-type moments. Plus, while I’m not a huge fan of the band’s output, I love a small handful of songs (“Dirty Deeds”) and consider Angus to be one of the best blues-based guitarists still playing (although the format he presents it in bores the hell out of me, sadly).

So, we gather at Flanagan’s, knock back some pints, and plan how we’ll have him “live-blog” to me (sending texts, pics, audio snippets, etc.) over the phoneternets while I write the story at home.

Sounds good, eh?

Here are the results:

Text 1 (Jay): I haven’t heard from you. [We’re now almost an hour into the show] Still with the plan, right? Counting on you, man. Even though you are Irish.

Text 1 (McHeman): If I remember….if I do, it might look like this-‘Angus fuckin rocks pg.md?d @ ! cdtp phm’

This made me laugh initially. Angus does rock. Really. But, then a feeling of dread set in. McHeman had already started backing away. His “faux” drunk-typing seemed too familiar. He slipped into it too comfortably. What had he been doing for that hour when I was waiting to hear from him and start the story?

Then I get a call from his number; I get excited. It goes to voicemail. I anxiously await the message, hoping it’s audio from the show. It is:

Voicemail: [Unintelligible slurring that seems to be an entreaty to violence.] -ey! You’re [static] the fuckin…[static; an electric guitar wails as a wash of white noise threatens to burst my eardrum. A familiar, scorched shriek emerges from the cacophony–as if a terminally injured man had just gargled with scalding-hot gravel–and I quickly realize it’s AC/DC. Then everything goes all muffled, like McHeman has decided to bury his phone in someone’s uppper torso in a fit of monosyllabic pique.]

I await the call-back, figuring he’ll solve some fidelity issues. Nothing.

I don’t hear from him for the rest of the night, aside from two more texts that contain no…text. Nothing.

Wondering if I’m going to get a story out of this, I try to call him. Nothing.

After twenty more minutes pass, I call the concert review a wash. I call McHeman several choice names. I call it a night.

Then, some time later, when I’m already counting the sheep that I’ve heard McHeman shags, I get one last text that sorts it all out:

McHeman: I have jizzed all over the row in front of me.

At that point, my anxiety vanishes as the picture snaps into focus: what else did I expect? I sent a married, Irish-Catholic man to an AC/DC show to help me write a concert review. He was there for sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. He nailed those last two, if his threatmail is to be believed. If you examine it more closely (and I don’t want to), his final text reveals that he also satisfied that last burning need (McHeman, if you are reading this: there are vaccines for this). He got what he wanted out of the deal: drunk, wicked high, and possibly sued for sexual deviancy. The Irish use the traditional expression for this: “Friday”

And, prize-winner or not, I got something of a story. Thanks for nothing–and everything–McHeman!

McHeman’s got the biggest balls of them all!

Slainte,

Jay