How Not To Be A Groupie

Chapter Nine: Malcolm Young

"You've been writin' long?" Malcolm asked puffing his cigarette. The back of the bus was a little cold and I shivered.

"I guess I've been writing my whole life," I said thinking it over. I averted my gaze. Malcolm stared straight into my soul.

And I really didn't mind.

"Hm. So you're no amateur," he said folding his hands together. "I'd better watch what I say."

"Anything you want kept private I won't write," I said. He sort of smiled. 

"That's thoughtful, darlin'," he said picking up the deck of cards. He shuffled them and spread them out in what looked like some kind of Solitaire. "Well, ask away then."

"Okay." I was once again faced with asking questions on the spot. I was terrible at this. I should have come prepared this time! He waited patiently, once in a while looking at me through his hair. "Who's your inspiration?"

"Jus' one?" he asked.

"Any of them," I said. He paused his game to think.

"Ya' ever hear the Yardbirds?" I grimaced.

"Isn't that pre-Led Zeppelin?" I asked. He waved me off.

"They're more than that. They played a bit of blues back in the day an' me an' Ang are blues fans. For the most part," he shrugged. "You'd have to be pretty terrible to not get a listen to in our house." I scribbled everything down. He continued his game, watching the smoke come flying out of my pen. When I was finished I racked my brain for more. 

"Do you write any?"

"Songs?" I nodded. He tilted his head. "A bit, I suppose. In the start of the band...it was Ang an' I writin'. Lot of that early stuff we did was us. Bon's really helped us out with that, he's sharp."

"Have any plans for the next album?" He sort of smiled again.

"Aw, we're still tourin' for this one, love, give us a chance." I laughed a bit. "We've got a song title we wanna work with...If You Want Blood, Ya' Got It...somethin' like that, ya' know? We've been hearin' that everywhere an' wanna do somethin' with it. Ang's got some great soundin' ideas an' we're sorta itchin' to get back in the studio."

I was hunched over my notebook, writing writing writing. 

"What's that say?" Malcolm asked.

"Hm?"

"Your necklace there, does that say somethin'?" I looked down, completely forgetting I was even wearing a necklace. 

"Oh, it's one of those bible verses," I said. "The mustard seed one." He nodded, still playing his game.

"Huh. You religious?" My grip on the pen tightened. Lately I had been going through several reality checks when it came to religion. Part of growing up was learning not all adults are trustworthy, and that critical thinking is a must. I was currently learning my lesson in a very messy way.

"I wouldn't say that," I mumbled. "I don't go to church anymore." 

"No?" he said before swearing when he lost his game. He gathered the cards together and shuffled them again. "I wouldn't say I was either. Churches can really fuck with ya', ya' know?"

I knew that from the bottom of my heart.

"An' I mean no disrespect," he said. "Ya' know, lots of good come out of 'em too. But when they sent my dad off without payin' him, after he did all that work? Ya' call that good?" His cigarette was almost out and he set it on an ash tray. "When they get Little Richard up there to sing in the front, that's when I'll step in."