I used to think some songs spoke for themselves. Lazy by Deep Purple, for instance — that one doesn’t need defending. It starts soft, builds hard, and by the time it hits full throttle, you’re already converted.
But For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)? That one needs explaining.
Not because it’s weak. Not because it’s obscure. But because it’s hiding in plain sight — often overlooked in favor of more radio-friendly or riff-centric AC/DC tracks like Back in Black or Highway to Hell.
But for me, this is the one.
The Riff That Melts You
It starts with one of the most deceptively simple openings in rock. That clean, melodic riff — restrained, elegant — just melts me. It’s not showing off or begging for attention. It’s just… confident. Clean, yet somehow dirty. Polished, but gritty underneath. Like the asphalt outside a dive bar at midnight.
And then Malcolm Young joins in.
The interplay between the Young brothers is the kind of thing that can’t be taught. It’s musical telepathy. They weave in and out of each other’s space with a kind of internal logic that makes the song feel like it’s breathing — like it’s alive.
There’s something about their synergy — the way the Young brothers connect — that feels almost uncanny. It’s not hyperbole to say it sounds like musical medicine.
Phil Rudd: The Human Metronome
Phil Rudd’s drumming doesn’t get enough credit — and maybe that’s the point. He’s not flashy. He’s not flamboyant. But when he kicks in, it’s like gravity resets.
He locks everything into place with the steadiness of a ticking clock — except this clock grooves. His beat gives the whole band room to swagger, but never lose control.
It’s easy to underestimate what he does. But if you swapped him out with a more technical or busier drummer, the whole song would lose its weight. Phil knows when to stay out of the way — and that’s an art in itself.
Why the Middle Matters
Everyone talks about the beginning or the end of this song. But the middle is where the magic happens.
The band walks a tightrope of tension and control. They’re holding something back — on purpose — and you feel it. That middle groove doesn’t rush. It doesn’t explode. It just sits there, heavy and hypnotic, with power humming beneath the surface.
Brian Johnson’s vocals don’t quite go full scream. The guitars stay locked in. The drums stay steady.
It’s musical foreplay, and they know it. That restraint makes the eventual release — the cannons, the chorus, the full tilt chaos — feel earned.
It’s a build. A ritual. A ceremony.
Even the lyrics contribute to that sense of inevitability. They’re not clever or complex — they’re pure invocation. A salute. A battle cry. A promise that when the moment comes, they’re going to blow the roof off. And they do.
The Show I Didn’t Know I Missed
I remember walking past Massey Hall in downtown Toronto in the early 90s. There was a line around the block — people in strange hats, decked out in leather and makeup. I figured they were there for tickets.
Turns out, it was a White Zombie show. At the time, I didn’t know who they were. I just walked past.
Decades later, Hillbilly Deluxe blew me away. And I thought about that line again — the one I wasn’t in, but maybe should’ve been.
I mention that because this song feels like that. Something I didn’t fully grasp at first. Something I walked past without knowing what I was missing.
Now I get it.
And for those about to rock — now, I salute you.
Final Note
This isn’t just a great AC/DC song. It’s a statement. A slow-burning, cannon-blasting, teeth-rattling reminder that rock and roll — when done right — can still feel sacred. Not because it’s perfect in the technical sense, but because it knows exactly what it is.
And that’s rarer than we admit.