Review: AC/DC at Optus Stadium

AC/DC at Optus Stadium
w/ Amyl and the Sniffers, Southern River Band
Thursday, December 4, 2025

Gone was the Dockers’ purple haze; in its place, a scorched-orange highway ripped open by a speeding Impala—horned speedometer rattling, fluffy lightning-bolt dice swinging like a metronome set to chaos. That was the vibe as AC/DC’s eternal hellraisers—Angus Young (70) and Brian Johnson (78)—tore into Optus Stadium on Thursday, December 4th, for their Power Up tour.

Ten years had burned by since Perth last had its face melted—back when Subiaco Oval morphed into Domain Stadium during the Rock or Bust era—but the wait only cranked the voltage higher. Even the lone Fremantle Dockers fan with his jersey in the crowd looked like part of the prophecy. After all, the stadium had been sirening Hell’s Bells at AFL games for years—a ritual chant to summon the band back. And finally, the gods of rock answered, ready to blast Perth into the stratosphere once more.

Local Thornlie act The Southern River Band opened the night by stress-testing the stadium’s speakers. Their guitar riffs hit so hard they drowned out the vocals, ending in a crowd-wide chant of “turn it up!” When frontman Cal Kramer’s voice finally cut through, it came with a grin: “Mate, this is unreal. We’re in a sauna.” AC/DC didn’t light up the underworld for nothing, and Kramer understood the assignment—shirt off, guitar strapped tight, pecs vibrating with every riff, hair so wild it looked like Eddie Munson had crawled out of the Upside Down to shred. Their set leant on tracks from their latest album, Easier Said Than Done, but really, it was a beer-soaked baptism of solos, sweat, and sheer voltage.

Next came the Energizer Bunny incarnate: Amyl and the Sniffers’ frontwoman Amy Taylor—a tongue-flicking, floogie-chucking, glitter-lidded punk queen who was as divisive as she was electric. While her spitfire political spiels that had been revolutionising the genre weren’t for everyone, the band strutted onstage (cue the “I like it, Picasso” meme—thanks to the guitarist’s shirt) in pure Aussie fashion to Tina Turner’s Nutbush City Limits. Their nearly 50-minute set tore through cuts from their ARIA-winning Comfort To Me, dripping with chaotic charisma. When the TikTok-viral Jerkin’ hit, the stadium practically turned into a swear jar with enough in it to fund a few charities—and maybe a riot. It wasn’t until Taylor grinned and shouted, “Naughty little horn dogs flashing around out there!”—a nod to the AC/DC light-up horns—that the crowd knew the main event was imminent.

As moonlight struck over Optus, hands raised in the sign of horns for the arrival of AC/DC, and Young duck-walked down the catwalk with Johnson’s gravelly rasp not far behind, belting out If You Want Blood (You’ve Got It). And the crowd did. Young, in his iconic schoolboy uniform—red shorts, blazer, and cap inspired by his Ashfield Boys High School days—was pure kinetic mischief. Johnson’s voice might have been scratchier now, weathered by decades on rock’s front lines, but it still prowled with the raw snarl that made Back in Black immortal.

Every song hit like a voltage surge, with gritty guitar crescendos crashing into pit stops—three-minute oxygen breaks where the frequencies revved and recharged, like a metal beast being tuned between laps as the men rested. Then, out of nowhere, Thunderstruck ripped through the air, its electric riff—once just a fingerpicking warm-up—shaking the crowd like a live wire. During Hell’s Bells, a massive bell engraved “AC/DC” descended from the rafters, sending goosebumps rippling through thousands. The stage was barebones—no pop frills, no filler—just arcs of High Voltage electricity flashing across the screens and the band’s logo blazing centre stage.

You Shook Me All Night Long split the dancers from the seaters, one enthusiastic fan turning his section into a one-man frat party by running the side staircase. Technical hiccups resurfaced during Whole Lotta Rosie when Johnson’s in-ears malfunctioned, but like clockwork, there was light—Let There Be Rock.

Young’s guitar solos are always legendary, but the 17-minute riff he unleashed at the show’s climax was something else entirely. It was just him, the crowd, and that guitar—sweat dripping, fingers flying. At 70, he still radiated pure, relentless energy, a living reminder that passion never rusts. Confetti marked with “AC/DC” scrawls littered the stage as he rolled around on a raised platform before strutting back to Johnson, who rejoined for the crowd favourite T.N.T. No matter what kind of fan you are—tattooed devotee or casual listener who’d only heard their riffs on TV—this was the tune.

Closing with For Those About to Rock (We Salute You) felt like destiny: fireworks bursting, smoke curling over the screens, and Perth’s night sky echoing with the roar of legends. Sure, AC/DC’s mileage isn’t what it once was—but who cares when the engine still roars? They don’t need reinvention; they are the blueprint. It’s proof that raw, unfiltered rock can still raise hell, shake bones, and recharge the rest of us, mere mortals, for another round.

RACHEL FINUCANE

Photos by Stu McKay