AC/DC + Amyl & The Sniffers at Suncorp Stadium: Noise, Catharsis & A Night That Meant More Than Music

Ben Preece
1 day ago
6 min read

As Brisbane gathered beneath devil horns and distortion, AC/DC and Amyl & The Sniffers delivered a thunderous reminder of why live music still matters — even as the world outside fractured in real time.

AC/DC live in Brisbane at Suncorp Stadium

LIVE REVIEW: AC/DC + AMYL & THE SNIFFERS

Suncorp Stadium, Brisbane | Sunday, 14th December 2025

📸 Chris Searles (@christopher_searles)

Let’s be frank. It’s difficult to write this because, as we were filing into Suncorp Stadium to witness what my sharp-tongued plus one called a “cultural phenomenon”, observing literally every age group imaginable wearing flashing devil horns and some variation of the AC/DC logo, there were horrors unfolding in Bondi.

The dissonance is jarring. A city gathering in joy, volume, and shared ritual, while elsewhere lives were being torn apart in real time by terrorists. It’s the kind of collision that makes live music feel suddenly fragile, even indulgent, and forces you to sit with the uncomfortable truth that celebration and tragedy often coexist without warning or fairness.

Inside Suncorp, we are largely oblivious. The crowd buzzes with anticipation, helped along by the simple reality that 60,000 people packed into a stadium is no recipe for reliable phone reception. One could reasonably argue the flashing devil horns aren’t helping the signal either.

This, of course, is the almighty AC/DC’s PWR/UP Tour, running since May 2024 and built around their 2020 album of the same name. A juggernaut by any measure. A night designed for noise, unity, and release, unfolding in parallel with a world that rarely pauses to let joy exist uncontested.

AMYL & THE SNIFFERS

Before any of that thunder arrives, though, this writer is particularly excited for Amyl & The Sniffers, a fact made immediately obvious when we are photobombed mid-selfie by Amy Taylor’s mum in the row behind us. Serves us right for taking a selfie. What are we, 16?

Seeing Amyl & The Sniffers on a stadium stage feels like a hero’s run for the little Melbourne punk band who could. Amy Taylor is, as ever, a revelation, prowling the vast stage in shiny blue shorts, silver knee-high boots, and a dazzling custom silver top. They open with ‘Balaclava Lover Boogie’, an early cut from a 2017 EP, and from that moment on, the band performs like their life depends on it. Not a millisecond is wasted.

The set surges forward with breathless momentum, barely pausing until the seventh track, ‘Big Dreams’, and even then it detonates into a faster, fiercer version by its end. Taylor does not stop smiling once. She radiates gratitude, constantly redirecting attention toward the headliners, calling AC/DC “the best band in the world.”

From the cheeky swagger of ‘Chewing Gum’ and ‘Tiny Bikini’, complete with knowing call-and-response from the lads, to earlier cuts like ‘Some Mutts (Can’t Be Muzzled)’ and even the B-side ‘Facts’, the setlist is bulletproof. Perfectly judged. It’s the kind of performance that should win them a whole new generation, or three, of older fans, many of whom appear completely won over tonight.

Seeing Amyl & The Sniffers command a stage of this scale is both a testament to their abilities and a clear sign of what’s coming next. They don’t just belong here. We need Australian headliners, and here is one, ready to roar. Armed to the teeth, fearless, and battle-tested, they have everything required to headline any festival in existence.

AC/DC SUNCORP STADIUM

AC/DC waste absolutely no time. They open with ‘If You Want Blood (You’ve Got It)’, a song as old as the guy writing this, and it detonates the stadium instantly. The bloke next to me leans in and yells, grinning, “What a bloody perfect song to open with.” Aside from ‘For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)’, he’s absolutely right.

It’s a statement opener. No easing in. More demand than invitation, barked through Angus Young’s opening riff like a switch being thrown. The crowd responds in kind, arms raised, voices already hoarse before the night has properly begun. ‘Back in Black’ lands early, and calling it massive barely covers it. ‘Demon Fire’ snarls with surprising bite, while ‘Shot in the Dark’ slides in smoothly, proof that PWR/UP material can more than hold its own among the untouchables.

It’s genuinely brilliant to see Brian Johnson back up front, randy double entendres intact. Skinny jeans, armless leather button-up vest, trademark poorboy cap, arms flailing like your almost-80-year-old grandad who’s absolutely thrilled to be out of bed. That’s no slight. He’s 78 and very much not out. After dodging permanent deafness, he growls and belts with the force of someone half his age, at least.

Five-foot-two Angus, in full schoolboy regalia, commands the stage tirelessly. He runs, duck-walks, spins, and grins like he still has something to prove, ripping solos that feel less like performances and more like reflex or pure instinct. It’s his band, after all, and he remains in full possession of razor-sharp focus and mind-blowing chops. He isn’t just enduring. He’s a machine, operating at frighteningly high capacity.

Somewhat oddly, though, this is very much the Angus and Brian show. The rest of the group, comprising Stevie Young on rhythm guitar, filling the irreplaceable hole left by his uncle Malcolm in 2017, Chris Chaney of Jane’s Addiction on bass, and touring drummer Matt Laug, are largely clustered together up the back while Brian and Angus rule the huge leftover space of the stage. Only Stevie occasionally ventures forward. Once you notice it, it’s slightly comical.

‘Thunderstruck’ arrives and, despite being a song everyone wants, it’s oddly off. For a moment, the band feels out of time with Angus’ shredding, the gears not quite clicking as they should. By the chorus it locks back in and order is restored, but it never quite lands with the force you expect from a track of this stature.

That hesitation is quickly forgotten when the band hits the absolute pinnacle of ‘Highway to Hell’, tenth in the set. This is the moment the crowd finally reacts at the level the night has been building toward. Suncorp Stadium moves. It’s a phenomenal, primal display of humans and music colliding, a collective release so physical it feels like it might register on the Richter scale.

From there, everything shifts. The intensity ramps up. The volume somehow gets louder on ‘Shoot to Thrill’, and the band lean closer to the menacing legends of old they once were. What follows is a brutal one-two-three Bon Scott-era assault straight to the face: ‘Jailbreak’, ‘Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)’, and ‘High Voltage’. At this point, it’s properly insane.

The final stretch is punctuated by one of the greatest rock riffs of all time, ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’. Johnson’s voice is undeniably ragged by this point, but it does nothing to diminish the sheer impact and scale of this stone-cold classic. Momentum carries through ‘Whole Lotta Rosie’ before ‘Let There Be Rock’ closes out the main set in suitably unhinged fashion.

The light show isn’t exactly anything to write home about, but we do get cannons at the end of the set, perfectly complementing the giant bell that loomed earlier for ‘Hells Bells’. And, of course, it wouldn’t be right to close the night without a 20-odd-minute Angus solo. Yes, he is astonishing, elevated high on a massive platform at the end of the catwalk and doused in confetti. Watching him atop the towering Marshall stack lining the back of the stage is a fucking cool rock moment. Still, the solo probably runs 15 minutes too long, particularly when he’s already flexed on almost every song at enormous volume. But we are watching one of the greatest guitarists of all time at work, so any criticism here feels like nit-picking at best. Minor quibbles in the face of greatness.

The encore is inevitable and still unbeatable. ‘T.N.T.’ sends the crowd into full release mode before ‘For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)’ closes the night, lyrically preparing us even as the show ends the only way it should. Cannons. Fireworks. Ludicrous volume. A ridiculous grin on every face in the place. It’s absurd. It’s primal. It works every single time.

In a world that feels increasingly fragile, AC/DC have remained gloriously, stubbornly immovable. Unmistakably rock’n’roll. No irony. No apology. Just riffs, sweat, and an unshakeable belief in the power of loud music played well. Brisbane stood inside a cultural force and let it wash clean over everything else, if only for a couple of hours.

When the lights came up and phones flickered back to life, reality rushed in. Messages landed. Feeds refreshed. The horrors still unfolding in Bondi caught up with us. The ignorance had been unintentional, but the guilt was real. Hopefully forgivable, too, in a world increasingly shaped by fear and fracture.

If anything, AC/DC remain a reminder that perseverance and resilience still matter. That noise can be catharsis. That gathering, even briefly, still has power. And that sometimes the most human thing you can do is stand shoulder to shoulder, feel something together, and then carry that strength back into a world that desperately needs it.