Still Thunderous at 70: Angus Young Redefines Rock with AC/DC in Minneapolis 2025

The April 10, 2025, performance at U.S. Bank Stadium marked the kickoff of AC/DC’s North American leg of their “Power Up” tour. With Angus at the helm, the band ignited the stage in front of a roaring crowd of 60,000 fans. Their setlist delivered hit after hit, a sonic journey through their legacy that ended with the thunderous energy of “Let There Be Rock.”

The lineup was as solid as ever—Angus on lead guitar, Brian Johnson’s unmistakable growl on vocals, Stevie Young holding rhythm like a brick wall, and touring members Matt Laug and Chris Chaney keeping the engine running tight. Each member played with fire, but the spotlight, as always, found its way back to Angus and his unrelenting performance.

Wearing his signature schoolboy outfit, Angus tore across the stage with the same ferocity he had in the ’70s. His stage presence hasn’t aged. His duckwalks, spinning solos, and impromptu leg kicks fired up the entire arena. The 20-minute solo during “Let There Be Rock” was a moment that transcended nostalgia—it was pure rock resurrection.

When the first notes of “Thunderstruck” rang out, the crowd became a living, breathing wave of fists and cheers. By the time Angus launched into his solo, fans knew they were witnessing something historic. It wasn’t just about flawless technique; it was the passion and defiance in every note that made jaws drop.

The solo was more than just performance—it was storytelling. Angus built tension, spiraled into chaos, and brought it all home like a preacher of distortion. His face contorted with emotion, sweat pouring, fingers blistering—he wasn’t playing a song, he was living it. For many in the audience, it was the best solo they’d ever seen.

AC/DC’s stage production elevated the experience to something cinematic. Giant bells, hellish pyrotechnics, and blinding spotlights synced to every riff, adding dramatic weight to Angus’s movements. When he ran across the catwalk toward the crowd, the energy practically cracked the roof. It was an arena show that felt intimate and explosive all at once.

Despite being the only founding member still touring with the band, Angus never looked tired or burdened. If anything, he looked reborn with every note. At one point, he kneeled in front of a fan holding an old “Powerage” vinyl and pointed his guitar straight to the sky. It was a communion.

Throughout the show, subtle tributes to Malcolm Young were woven in—on amps, on screens, even in Angus’s phrasing. During the solo, he stepped to center stage and closed his eyes for a few bars. That silent gesture said more than words ever could. It was clear: Malcolm was there in spirit, in every chord and stomp.

This tour wasn’t just another victory lap—it was a statement. After decades of playing arenas around the world, AC/DC still commands attention like no one else. And Angus, now officially in his eighth decade, reminded everyone why live rock and roll still matters—why it still hits harder than anything else.

Younger bands can shred. They can light up screens and stages. But no one walks onstage with the fire Angus brings. He’s the blueprint. The gold standard. His guitar is a flamethrower, and his riffs are war cries. Minneapolis didn’t get a concert—it got a battle hymn from a man who refuses to slow down.

Fans flew in from across the country—some from overseas—just to see this show. Outside the stadium, vintage AC/DC shirts, patched denim vests, and hand-painted signs filled the streets. One fan in his 60s said, “I saw them in ’85, and I swear to God, Angus is even crazier now.”

That level of devotion is earned, not inherited. And Angus has earned every cheer, every sold-out ticket, every encore. He doesn’t rely on gimmicks or auto-tuned safety nets. He picks up his SG, plugs in, and sets the place on fire. It’s that simple, and that powerful.

As the band wrapped up with “For Those About to Rock,” cannon blasts echoed like thunder. Angus stood at the front, grinning, soaked in sweat, arms raised high. It wasn’t just a farewell—it was a declaration: age means nothing when you’re built for this life. Angus wasn’t just still rocking. He was redefining what it means to rock.

And as the final notes faded into a stadium still shaking with adrenaline, one thing was clear—Angus Young isn’t a relic from rock’s past. He’s its living, screaming, duckwalking embodiment. In 2025, at 70 years old, he didn’t just play Minneapolis. He conquered it.