Black Ice (2008)
1. Rock 'N' Roll Train
2. Skies on Fire
3. Big Jack
4. Anything Goes
5. War Machine
6. Smash 'N' Grab
7. Spoilin' For a Fight
8. Wheels
9. Decibel
10.Stormy May Day
11.She Likes Rock 'N' Roll
12.Money Made
13.Rock 'N' Roll Dream
14.Rocking All the Way
15.Black Ice
There was every reason to believe that Black Ice would be a swansong no one asked for. Eight years adrift from the studio, AC/DC’s last recorded output, Stiff Upper Lip, had long since faded from the collective memory of anyone not sporting a worn-out tour tee. Add to this their Faustian pact with Wal-Mart—the exclusive distributor for this album—and it was easy to fear the worst. The irony wasn’t lost: a band whose brand was forged on sneers and snarls had now partnered with the king of corporate retail. Punk, this was not.
And yet, against every odd, Black Ice roared out of the gates and straight to number one. Not necessarily on merit, mind, but thanks to marketing muscle, nostalgia, and the sheer inertia of the band’s legacy. The content? Well, that’s another story.
The opening salvo—five tracks deep—is surprisingly vital. The riffs are lean, the drums primal, and Brian Johnson's voice remains a well-oiled rasp machine. Angus Young, still bouncing around in his schoolboy getup, proves that some guitarists really do peak at 15. It’s classic AC/DC fare: blues-based hard rock, delivered without apology and with amps set permanently to 11. But then comes the slump.
The middle third slumps into a mid-tempo rut. There’s no crime in sticking to a formula when it works, but repetition here breeds not just familiarity—it breeds fatigue. And the back stretch of the album, laden with filler, offers little more than a ticking clock counting down to the end credits. Fifteen tracks. Fifty-five minutes. And yet, it feels longer.
One particular misfire is Rock ‘n’ Roll Dream, a slow-burner that seems to aspire to atmospheric gravitas but lands with the thud of a Bad Company B-side. Producer Brendan O’Brien tries to coax nuance from a band genetically allergic to nuance. The result? A few tracks that flirt uncomfortably with reinvention, only to be saved by a screaming solo or a head-nodding riff.
There are four songs with “rock” in the title, because of course there are. It’s as if they’re reminding us—through brute force—that this is a rock album, dammit. One can almost imagine them drawing lots to see who gets to name the next one Rock This Way or Born to Rock Again.
Still, a generous ear might argue that about 40% of Black Ice does exactly what it’s supposed to do—and does it well. But wrapped in so much excess, it feels like a missed opportunity. Not a collapse, but a cautionary tale of overreach in the age of CD bloat.
Yet despite it all, they packed arenas. They played the hits. They gave fans what they came for. No reinvention necessary. No surprises requested. Just thunderous, four-on-the-floor rock for the denim faithful. And if that’s not what it’s supposed to be all about, then what is?
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