by 
The death of Malcolm Young means the Devil most certainly does not have the best tunes anymore.
Malcolm Young, whose point-perfect riffs provided the counterpoint to his brother’s mastery of the art of the front man, died yesterday.
With a cigarette welded to his lower lip, Malcolm owned the spot on stage to the left of the drums. That may seem to belittle his achievements, but his contribution from a couple of square feet next to Phil Rudd was one that few musicians could achieve with a stadium to work with.
Without being able to directly see it, he was a major part of growing up for people across the world.
Few who duckwalked with a tennis racket realised they were his riffs they were pretending to play, and yet whilst content to stay out of the limelight he provided the soundtrack to the lives of millions.
A memorial could talk about the album sales and the tours, but those are numbers. What lasts is the list of names. Back In Black. Highway to Hell. Heatseeker. Thunderstruck. Who made who. Dirty Deeds.
Pick your favourite, and put it on. Tell your kids. Invite your friends. Of all people, Malcolm won’t mind you having a drink on him – in his memory, of course.
Malcolm, we salute you. May you rock, now and forever.
