When AC/DC Got Their Name: A Tale of Sewing Machines, Sister-In-Law Sorcery, and the Power of Not Paying Your Singer 🧵⚡🎸
So there I was, Dave Evans — the ORIGINAL AC/DC frontman, the man who could’ve been singing “Highway to Hell” in a sparkly jumpsuit instead of just a dirty t-shirt and existential dread — telling the fine people of Belgische Radio Unie how AC/DC got their name. And let me tell you, it wasn’t some divine lightning strike from rock gods. No, it was far more ridiculous: a family intervention from a sister-in-law who probably just wanted to stop hearing her brothers argue about band names like a bunch of caffeinated ferrets. 🦝💥
It all started when we were scrambling for a name because our so-called “manager” (who, spoiler alert, was later revealed to be a master of financial illusion) said, “Hey kids, you’ve got a gig at Chequers, Australia’s most legendary nightclub! Get a name or get out!” So we’re in rehearsal, tossing around names like hot potatoes, none of us agreeing on anything. I suggested “The Electric Whatevers”, but apparently that lacked gravitas. Malcolm proposed “Thunder Thighs”, which I vetoed on moral and anatomical grounds. We were at an impasse. Chaos. Anarchy. The kind of creative tension you only see in bad reality TV shows. 📺🔥
Then, just as we were about to draw names from a hat like a bunch of desperate accountants, Malcolm drops the bomb: “Oh, by the way, Sandra — our sister-in-law, George’s wife, the woman who probably just wanted peace and quiet — she has a name: AC/DC.” And just like that, we all went, “Ooooh, that’s good!” Not because it was profound, but because it sounded like a power socket and we were too tired to argue. Plus, as I so eloquently pointed out, “It means power! You can plug it into the wall OR use batteries and be a hippie under a tree!” Which, let’s be honest, is the ultimate band philosophy: rock hard or roll soft. 🔋🌳
And the best part? Free advertising! Every toaster, vacuum cleaner, and questionable sex toy in the world had “AC/DC” on it. We were basically branding geniuses. Or lazy. One of those. Probably lazy. 😎📈
Now, about my first concert with AC/DC — New Year’s Eve 1973, Chequers, packed to the gills with people who had no idea they were witnessing the birth of a legend (or at least a very loud band with a power-themed name). We were supposed to play two sets. But guess what? We only knew, like, five songs. So I did what any self-respecting frontman would do: I made up song titles on the spot and told the band to jam while I improvised lyrics. “Ladies and gentlemen, next up: ‘The Ballad of the Forgotten Sandwich’!” 🎤🥪✨ Genius? Desperation? Both? Yes.
But here’s the real kicker: I left AC/DC because I wasn’t getting paid. Shocking, I know. Imagine that — a rock band where the singer is broke while the manager rocks perm hair and bell-bottoms. I was out there busting my lungs, paying for my flat, my car, while the Young brothers lived at home with Mum and Dad, eating leftover meat pie and dreaming of world domination. I said, “Show me the money!” and when they didn’t, I knocked the manager down like a bowling pin and walked out. Not my finest moment, but definitely my most financially responsible one. 💸👊
And then Bon Scott joined. Poor Bon. Great voice, terrible life choices. He partied like every night was New Year’s Eve and every morning was a hangover from hell. I won’t say he died doing what he loved, because he probably died doing what he regretted at 3 a.m. after too many drinks. But hey, he made AC/DC huge. So, thanks, Bon? I guess? 🍻😔
And let’s not forget “Can I Sit Next To You Girl” — my magnum opus, the song that still gets people weeping into their beer at AC/DC tribute nights. People tell me it’s their favorite AC/DC song. FAVORITE. Over “Back in Black”? Over “Thunderstruck”? Over literally any song that isn’t about awkwardly asking a stranger for坐下空间? Bless their hearts. 🫠❤️
In the end, AC/DC survived without me, without Bon, without Malcolm. They’re like a rock ‘n’ roll Terminator — relentless, slightly rusty, but still rocking. And I? I’m out here, still singing, still making up songs on the spot, still wondering if Sandra got a royalty check. Probably not. But hey, at least the name stuck. And that, my friends, is the true story of how a sewing machine and a woman with better ideas than her brothers gave us the greatest band name in history. Or at least the easiest to spell. A-C-D-C. Boom. 💪🎸
Chord F. Discord, the Beethoven of Buffoonery, is a self-taught expert in music who once claimed he could “play the kazoo in four languages.”
Born in Crescendo, Indiana, Chord’s first brush with fame came when he accidentally entered a yodeling contest thinking it was a pie-eating competition—and won both categories.
Chord F. Discord: proving that laughter, much like a poorly tuned ukulele, is truly universal.
