I was nine. My cousin, who had up to that point been a biblical asshole, decided to bequeath me his entire AC/DC album collection, including the recently released For Those About To Rock…

I have no idea why. Not then. Not now. But, by doing so he helped cement my love for loud guitar music.

I went through each album, looking at the covers and decided the one with the strange man in the school boy uniform with a guitar jammed through his stomach, blood everywhere, while a demented fellow stood next to him, seemingly singing into a microphone, would be the place to start. It was eye catching, to say the least.

The schoolboy was Angus Young. The demented fellow stood next to him was Bon Scott. And the album was If You Want Blood (You Got It).

I dropped the needle on the record and the crowd filled the room. It was breathtaking. A noise that I didn’t think possible. I was addicted instantly. Then, Angus started playing the opening riff, by himself. It built and built and built and the band launched into Riff Raff, and to this day I have never heard its equal at the beginning of any other LP.

The whole song is an attack. A statement. An assault on the senses. It is hell for leather rock and roll, driven by Phil Rudd’s pounding drums, Cliff Williams’ thunderous bass, and Malcolm Young sitting on the rhythm like a rabid Rottweiler, while Angus does Angus things like only Angus can.

And when Bon starts howling how he’s seen it on the television everyday and heard it on the radio, there is nothing in the history of music that could kick a nine year old boy in his bollocks harder than Riff Raff.

Most live albums are polite historical documents. They’re mixed in post-production by terrified studio engineers trying to smooth out the feedback, balance the crowd noise, and make the band sound like professional adults. If You Want Blood (You Got It) isn’t a historical document. It’s a riot caught on tape, and Riff Raff is the sound of the fuse hitting the dynamite.

They don’t play it at the studio speed from Powerage. They play it like a runaway freight train that lost its brakes three miles back down the track. Malcolm’s rhythm work is locked in so tight, so hard, and so impossibly loud that it sounds less like a wooden instrument and more like an industrial engine firing on all cylinders.

Bon doesn’t sing Riff Raff, he barks it, snarls it, and practically spits it directly into the front row. The lyrics are pure gutter-poetry: high-rollers, low-lifes, police sirens, and cheap thrills. Bon sounds like a bloke who has just spent twelve hours drinking heavy ale, got into three pub fights, and is currently having the absolute time of his life.

There’s no polish. No overdubbed bullshit. When Angus launches into that razor-blade solo halfway through, you can hear the Marshall stacks literally straining to handle the wattage. It’s raw, greasy, kinetic, and completely unstoppable.

By the time the song crashes to a halt, the record isn’t even four minutes old. AC/DC have already blown the doors the bloody doors off, flattened the venue, and left a nine-year-old kid staring at a turntable wondering how music could possibly ever be this loud.

Every other live album opener in history, no matter how famous, no matter how glossy, is just playing for second place.

Riff Raff, and If You Want Blood (You’ve Got It), is God Tier.