16. Thunderstruck - AC/DC

My first job was at Hungry Jack’s. It might be the rose-tint of nostalgia, but it remains one of my very favourite jobs.

Work all shift with your mates, in a fairly demanding environment (the local appetite for Hungry Jack’s was, back in 1999, insatiable), giving each other stick and actually working pretty hard.

Then knock off - maybe you had the late shift - and head to a bottle shop with a flexible perspective on licensing laws to buy a slab of beers I wouldn’t use to kill snails now.

Then, in that tried and true Australian rite of teenage passage - proceed to test the limits of the human liver and tolerance for greasy food.

While playing video games and talking nonsense, before ending the night - not always voluntarily - contorted into a piece of furniture not necessarily configured for sleeping.

But not on a school night.

Normally.

 * * *

I don’t even know what the ‘title’ would be now, but I was on burger assembly initially.

Split the buns, down the toaster. Slip the burger patty on, peel two pieces of cheese off the block in the pan (cleverly staggered to make the edge easy to grip with greasy gloves).

Mayo on the top, then lettuce, two bits of tomato. Pickle on the bottom, counter-clockwise spiral of ketchup, maybe some onions.

Flip the top over, wrap comes up, wrap comes down, fold, tuck, slide down the chute.

Wipe down. Rinse. Repeat.

All for the princely sum of $4.70 an hour.

It increased over time – I think when I left I was rolling, pulling in $9.30 an hour.

  * * *

After some time, I moved onto the ‘weekend open’ shifts - start at 7am, knock off at 2pm.

Being under 18, those kind of starts required a commitment from my Mum to make sure I always got there in time.

Given her distaste for ever being late, and firm commitment to developing a work ethic, this was never going to be a problem - no matter how much I’d have liked to sleep in, just once.

Those shifts were great, though looking back, the idea of 16-year old’s being responsible for making sure a food outlet is properly cleaned and stocked is…troubling.

But they were great fun.

The work was clearly structured, achievable and aligned with some really clear objectives (i.e., not running out of bloody tomatoes in the middle of lunch).

It took me a while to realise that kind of rapid feedback and achievement loop doesn’t really exist in the professional world.

You would, occasionally, hit periods where the entire place was in complete synchronicity. Nothing was going wrong and everything was working exactly how it should.

Having a room of eight or nine teenagers – kids, really – in complete harmony was an elevating experience.

  * * *

There was a small stereo floating around the kitchen. Never on while the store was open, it came out in the morning shifts and when breaking it all down at the end of the night.

Normally it was set to the radio - commercial radio is nothing if not acceptably unoffensive for a broad, diverse group of people.

But some shifts - with friendly managers and mates on the roster - there was a cassette that would go in the tape deck. (Yes, a cassette).

The volume would be cranked and we’d all end up yelling to communicate, while we slid across the perma-greasy floors.

Somebody had put this mix tape together at some stage, and I suspect it was one of the metal heads, because Thunderstruck was one of the lighter songs that would blare out.

  * * *

I still smile when I hear that opening riff to this song.

In comes that gravelly voice lazily murmuring over that frantic fretwork. Then, the drummer bashing that kick drum with both feet. Spinning in circles while the bass slides in, bopping its head.

Then…the rhythm guitar rolling all over that main riff.

The real star of the track, much more than that showy noodling Angus is sacrificing his fingers for, that rhythm sets the scene before hitting the power riff.

And why sing when you can scream the lyrics? Lyrics, it should be noted, that aren’t terribly good.

I’ve tried to check, but it sounds like the Phil the drummer is using logs to hit the skins, not drumsticks like a normal musician.

Finally, it all fades away with a final reverberation of Phil’s hi-hat and 4:53 later, it’s all done.

  * * *

I must have listened to that song a hundred times back then. One of the guys got heavily into guitar and did a damned fine version of that riff before too long. I still can’t help but bob my head.

It’s not my favourite AC/DC song (probably Let There Be Rock) but that doesn’t matter.

It’s AC/DC – they’re not all that different.

Looking back through time, this is another one of those songs where the song itself barely matters – whether it’s any good, or makes sense.

It could have been Thunderstruck, or One More Time, or Yellow or Stan.

What matters now is the meaning that I’ve attached to it, how it’s stuck itself to a series of memories like a black t-shirted limpet.

It’s always going to the song that was playing while a bunch of 16-year old’s cleaned up a kitchen and started working out what this life thing is all about.