Music: Hell's belle

What do you get when you cross "one hot angel" with "one cool devil?" A miscreant little imp called AC/DC.

Just a glance at some of the Aussie band's song titles -- "Hell's Bells," "Highway to Hell," "Evil Walks"-- tells us that these blokes are no angels. Seeing thousands of flashing, red demon horns perched atop the heads of worshipful fans at AC/DC concerts does more than just shed light on the subject. I'm sure the devil has a permanent misbehavior file somewhere on these Down Under dudes.

With this horny appeal, it's not surprising that AC/DC's followers are predominantly male. As Los Angeles Times critic Ann Powers put it in her recent review of the group's concert: "AC/DC's sexiness, if you can call it that, isn't seductive; it's exclusively male in nature and obsessively bent on release." So, why are there so many women in the audience rockin' alongside their porcine counterparts? Are they actually enjoying these chthonian chauvinistic anthems?

Well, one of those ladies happens to be me. That was my 10-foot, megawatt smile beaming across the video screen on Nov. 23 at Xcel Energy Center while the bad boys from Australia chanted, "She's got the jack." I dig this basic rock 'n' roll just like the rest of you guys.

Junkie, not groupie

If a male likes going to concerts, he's a fan; however, it's a common misconception that if a female is into rock bands, she's automatically a groupie. I'm not a groupie, just a junkie for music. Angus Young's rapid-fire pentatonic arpeggios on his Gibson SG give me a fix. AC/DC's uncomplicated, no-frills brand of rock serves its corporal purpose and leaves the cerebral adventures to the Bob Dylans and the Neil Youngs of this world. Move over, mates, this sheila is infiltrating your club.

I've been riding this rock 'n' roll train since I first saw AC/DC in 1979 at Cleveland Stadium's legendary World Series of Rock. After the Scorpions opened, AC/DC took the stage, followed by a cavalcade of guitar heroes -- Thin Lizzy, Journey, Ted Nugent and Aerosmith. Despite the explosive exchanges between guitarists Angus and Malcolm Young, the most indelible memories of AC/DC were singer Bon Scott wearing a kilt and Angus sporting his infamous schoolboy shorts. Sexiness? No. I've seen better-looking gams in a bucket of KFC, but I've never heard such sizzling, electrified chicken pickin' this side of the Mississippi. And Scott's tomcat yowl probably incited a feral cat fight in an alley nearby.

Don't think I'm stuck in the past. This junkie habitually satisfies her jones with contemporary acts such as the Black Keys, the Raconteurs and Michael Kisur, and this Friday, I'll be checking out how Slipknot's duality compares with the high voltage of AC/DC.

You might be wondering how a self-respecting woman can justify AC/DC's misogynist lyrics about our dizzying, detrimental effect on men. Without us, these Aussies would be shooting harmless blanks. We're the Euterpe-like muse that inspires their laments. (I think I know a little about the male psyche since I have only uncles, no aunts; nephews, but no nieces; brothers, but no sisters, and no daughters, but six sons!)

So, listen up, ladies. The key word here is empowerment. It's all about us. Once you understand this basic fact, perhaps you'll be smiling across the big screen, too.

We can work double time on the seduction line, shake them all night long and make them come back for more. We've not only got the jack, ladies, we're holding all of the cards -- including the ace in the hole.