Chapter One - I Was A Roadie
The “Flxible” Clipper coach roared up to Campbelltown Civic Centre, the bus leaving a trail of black smoke. Built in the late 1950s, these American long-distance coaches were used by Ansett around Australia, and AC/DC had purchased a well-travelled version for use as a tour bus. The band’s gear was in the back, and a roller door was installed at the side in front of the rear engine compartment. It was 1975.
The Flxible part of the Clipper name wasn't a typo, there was a trademark issue that resulted in the strange name. The coach was a thing of awe with a swept rear end below a big air intake scoop. The AC/DC bus carried the band, backline, and a smallish PA system.
The crew was accustomed to working fast, since the band was on board—there was never any waiting around for the group to roll up. Bon Scott would leer out the windows at girls, waving a bottle of Red Label, and with a fag hanging out of his mouth. The coach was handy at the end of a gig for the band to retire into while the crew loaded it.
Back then, no one thought about consequences, and I think there were few. The parade of gorgeous young—and some were too young—women were essentially competing to get laid. We assisted them in their endeavours.
Sex, dope, and rock n’ roll all equalled teenage heaven. That’s what was on the cover of the Daddy Cool album, and those were primary drivers in our lives. The free love, drop-out movement from California hit Australia in 1971, and we were all of that era. People would get naked, and get stoned, without much prompting at all.
Our lives were flipped upside down. The rest of the world was mostly straight and conservative, TV was slowly transitioning from black and white to colour, and it wasn’t that long ago that square people wore hair cream and danced under fluoro lights to cheesy pop groups wearing badges that said ‘I like Swipe”. We had long hair. We were anti-establishment. We were in the rock industry.
We got arrested.