Unlike any other band of their stature, AC/DC truly don't care aboutthe world at large. They see no triumph in their longevity, they longago dismissed not only the idea of artistic statements but the verynotion of artistic growth: they aren't good or bad, they simply are.They have nothing left to prove, so perhaps it shouldn't be a surprisethat their albums lack any sense of urgency or motivation. AC/DC neverrush to cut a record; they wait until Angus Young has collected enoughriffs to hammer out an album's worth of songs, then they file in one byone to lay down their tracks with a big-budget producer, who inevitablygives them a clean, mammoth sound that's no different than what camebefore.

Rick Rubin couldn't change this pattern on 1995's Ballbreaker andBrendan O'Brien can't change it on 2008's Black Ice. He encourages theband to add a bit of color here and there, so they grace "Stormy MayDay" with some sloppy slide guitar and turn "Rock N' Roll Dream" intoan expansive neo-ballad cousin of Bad Company's "Rock N Roll Fantasy,"but O'Brien's crisp, colorful production only emphasizes how AC/DCcould stand to be a little less careful on record. It's the eternalAC/DC paradox: at its core, their music is brutal and primitive, buttheir records are slick, overly cautious, and bloated, stretching outto 15 tracks when they should be no longer than ten. AC/DC haven't losttheir knack for great, simple rock & roll and Black Ice is gracedby a few terrific tracks. In fact, as it opens with the "Highway toHell" boogie of "Rock N Roll Train," the stuttering "Skies on Fire" and"Big Jack," it seems that Black Ice might be the great latter-day AC/DCrecord the group has yet to deliver, but as the next 12 tracks spoolout over the next hour, the album slowly slides into a too-comfortablegroove, fueled by too-tight rhythms and guitars that sound loud but notbeefy.