This whole Ugly / Sexy question sure has opened the door to some passionate commentary from the female fans (even the newish ones!).
But I wonder what men (besides his own charming lovechild son of course) make of Bon’s sexiness? For instance, I’ve been wondering, what do gay boys make of his devilish charm, down-home features, suggestive movements, high tight jeans, engaging eye-twinkles? Hot or Not?
Anyway, while we ponder that one, and wait for some more opinions to trickle through, one of the great discoveries this week has been “Queen Bee“. She sent me this charming email (reproduced below), accompanied by the photo above, and several other rather racy shots of herself and her musician pals at the cemetery. Thanks Queen, you’re definitely Fan-of-The-Week!
Ok, here’s her email…
I have been passionately watching the goings on at the art gallery and your own hand in this dynamic new Bon Scott Project and I wanted to know how I could participate???
I think I would be invaluable to this Project not only as a MAJOR fan but as the total awesome networker I’ve blossomed into.
I am a well educated young lady who is very resourceful and wanting IN big time. I have included some pics with my pals 21 Guns (local perth act and ac/dc cover band) and my international pals Machine Head. Hope you enjoy them, I would love to be able to contribute these or have you use them.
Great work you’ve been doing, keep it up
Ps- I have included my myspace pages so you can see additional pics of My Bon!!
Queen Bee Productions & Enterprises sends you her warm regards xx
Well, Queen Bee, how about you start your participation by heading down to the Ugly Sexy Factor night with a free ticket, take a few shots and write a short report for the blog? That’d be terrific, given that I am 3000 km away from Fremantle now…
[David giving Bon a sip…]
Yesterday was the anniversary of Bon Scott’s death. I kept a vigil all day in Fremantle Cemetery, resting in the shade of a tree near Bon’s grave.
Even though I had never been to the cemetery before, I was aware that Bon’s grave, like Jim Morrison’s in Paris, has long been the most popular slab in Freo’s city of the dead. Fans from all over the world make their way to Bon’s final resting place to pay their respects.
Rumour has it that a few weeks back, none other than heavy metal legends Iron Maiden were chauffeured to the cemetery to have a drink with Bon. Apparently this kind of thing happens all the time.
Continue reading “At the Cemetery”
[Glenn, a big fan of AC/DC, posing for me at Bon Scott’s grave.]
Phew, it’s midnight. Had a huge day today at Bon’s grave, anniversary of his death 28 years ago. Met lots of amazing people. Will write about them all tomorrow. In the meantime, check out more photos here.
[Sampdoria Fans in the “Gradinata Sud” – photo pinched from lucadea…]
The Bon Scott Blog spluttered to life late last week. It’s a weird project for me. On the one hand I am relishing my relative ignorance of the subject, so that I can be the student in an enormous worldwide classroom in which my teachers are Bon’s fans. And on the other hand, immersing myself in the subject is no academic exercise – it involves hours of listening to AC/DC tracks at high volume, which tends to change a man somewhat…
I remember, years ago, in highschool, I was an exchange student in Italy. The city I stayed in, Genova, has two soccer teams, “Genoa” and “Sampdoria”. Kids at the local school I attended would always try to sway me one way or the other, competing to secure my allegiance to one of their beloved teams. But how could I choose between the two? I had never previously heard of either team, let alone see them play. I wasn’t really even into sport all that much. The decision seemed entirely arbitrary.
Eventually the choice was made for me. One of my friends, Andrea, dragged me to a Sampdoria game. He bought me a team scarf and a warm can of Heineken from a stall outside the stadium. Andrea was a member of the ultra fanatical Sampdorians and had a season ticket for a spot right behind the goalposts, where the most ardent supporters watch every match. Standing tall on the moulded plastic seats… stomping and shouting… learning the chants, which not only filled the air with sound but also penetrated my chest and churned my guts… letting my body go limp as the fans surged toward the cyclone mesh fence separating us from the elite athletes on the pitch… hollering with genuine pain and incredulity at the referee’s decisions and making that very Italian gesture of hands held together as if in prayer (meaning “how can this be happening??”)… screaming with unadulterated joy as Sampdoria scored its first goal… turning and hugging the man next to me… staggering jubilant and exhausted into the streets outside the stadium, discussing particular kicks and tackles, defensive strategies, umpiring decisions, what ifs… During those two hours I was conscripted into a community which took my loyalty for granted.
After the match, Andrea and his buddies were proud and somewhat boastful to have won me over from the rival Genoans. It was coercive, but I didn’t care. I was sold. I had been through a communal experience which was as moving, bodily, as it was satisfying intellectually. I had something to belong to. I had songs to sing. I had an easily identifiable enemy. I was a fan. It was that simple.