AC/DC Unleashed Ageless Power with a Thunderous “Thunderstruck” in Prague on 26 June 2025

A hot midsummer dusk settled over Letňany Airport on 26 June 2025, and the grassy airfield buzzed like an oversized amplifier waiting for its power switch. For AC/DC’s Czech tour opener, every runway light seemed to shimmer in anticipation, teasing the moment when that unmistakable finger-tapped riff would split the night sky and announce “Thunderstruck” to fifty-plus thousand rock loyalists.

Hours before down-beat, the grounds felt more like a pilgrimage site than a concert venue. Veterans wearing faded Highway to Hell tees traded war stories with first-timers fresh off cross-border trains. Merch tents doubled as pop-up museums of lightning-bolt iconography, while the aroma of klobása and cheap pilsner drifted over the hum of guitar techs dialing in Angus Young’s cherry-red SGs. By sundown the collective pulse had synced to a single, mounting beat.

At precisely 9 p.m., house lights crashed to black and the giant LED wall detonated in a storm of static flashes. An introductory drone exploded over the PA—then the world went silent for a heartbeat long enough to steal everyone’s breath. Out strode Angus in his schoolboy regalia, picking the first rapid-fire notes of “Thunderstruck.” The crowd’s reaction landed like a shockwave, launching countless fists skyward as neon strobes painted the runway electric blue.

That opening minute was pure call-and-response theatre. Every squealed hammer-on from Angus met a thunderous “THUN-DER!” chant that rippled to the back fences. Letňany’s flat expanse turned into a living subwoofer, each foot-stamp and cheer echoing against distant hangars. It felt as though the song’s famous studio intro—created in isolation nearly thirty-five years earlier—had finally expanded to stadium scale.

Brian Johnson emerged in black cap and sleeveless tee, gripping the mic stand like a jackhammer as he belted, “Sound of the guitar!” His voice, road-scarred yet defiant, cut clean through the wall of amps. Freed from the hearing troubles that once benched him, he prowled the risers with the swagger of a prizefighter, nailing every shriek that fans feared might be beyond a seventy-seven-year-old throat.

Angus, meanwhile, was a whirling dervish of duck-walks and high-kicks. He milked each fret run for extra voltage, pausing mid-solo to spin in circles until his school cap flew loose. Even at 70 he looked possessed by the same mischievous spirit that electrified Sydney bar stages five decades earlier—only now amplified by miles of LED and PA horsepower.

The stage production mirrored the song’s title. Forked bolts of white pyro cracked above the lighting rig whenever the crowd bellowed “THUNDER!” Columns of flame followed the snare hits, while a rain of silver sparks traced arcs behind the drum riser, momentarily turning the runway into a foundry. It was spectacle without gimmick: exactly the sort of primal grandeur AC/DC have honed since the Back in Black world tours.

Underpinning the chaos, rhythm guitarist Stevie Young locked into Matt Laug’s sledgehammer drumming and Chris Chaney’s granite bass line, forming a low-end fortress that let Angus roam unchecked. The groove was relentless but deceptively simple—an engine room Malcolm Young would have saluted, driving the song forward with piston precision.

Scanning the sea of faces revealed a demographic sweep few bands can claim. Teenagers screamed alongside parents who’d first bought the single on cassette. Flags from Poland, Germany, and Austria flapped beside Czech colors, proof that Letňany had become a temporary capital of pan-European rock devotion. When Johnson shouted “Let me hear you, Praha!” thirty different languages answered in one massive roar.

The Prague setting lent extra resonance. Three decades earlier, Western hard rock was still a novelty behind the former Iron Curtain; now Angus’s every pick scrape echoed across a city that had fully embraced the power-chord gospel. Locals later joked that the Vltava River carried vibrations all the way to Charles Bridge.

Technological upgrades played their part. Johnson’s bespoke in-ear monitors shielded him from punishing stage volume, while a new wireless rig let Angus sprint the length of a catwalk that jutted deep into the crowd. The gear was 2025-grade, but the spirit felt unapologetically 1975—raw, raucous, and built for physical release.

As the solo reached its frenzied peak, Angus dropped to his knees, spinning on the runway like a human top while unleashing a torrent of pentatonic fireworks. Spotlights synced to every note bend, turning each sustain into a white-hot column of light. The gesture was classic showmanship, yet somehow still spontaneous—a reminder that ritual can evolve without losing its bite.

When the last “THUN-DER!” chant faded, a brief hush swept the field, broken only by ringing ears and giddy laughter. Then, without warning, the band slammed directly into “Have a Drink on Me,” refusing to let adrenaline levels dip for a second. The set felt like an unbroken circuit, each song feeding current into the next.

Online, the gig trended before the encore even hit. Cell-phone clips of Angus’s mid-air split jump pinged across platforms under #ThunderstruckPrague, while rock magazines declared the performance “proof that voltage doesn’t age.” View counts climbed by the hour, cementing Letňany 2025 as a benchmark for veteran bands refusing to dim their incandescent wattage.

By the time cannons fired to close “For Those About to Rock,” many fans realized they’d screamed their voices raw. Yet hoarse throats still joined the final salute, unwilling to let the night conclude without one last communal surge. The after-show trek to Prague’s Metro C line felt like a victory parade—tired legs, ringing skulls, and hearts still riffling at 120 BPM.

In the days that followed, stories spread of decibel apps clocking peaks rivaling nearby jet departures—a fitting statistic for a concert staged on an active runway. More than trivia, it underscored AC/DC’s singular knack for converting pure wattage into collective euphoria, decade after decade.

Ultimately, Letňany 2025 did more than deliver a faultless rendition of “Thunderstruck.” It reinforced the idea that rock’s lifeblood is measured not in birthdays but in voltage. As long as Angus’s fingers keep flying and Brian’s rasp keeps igniting crowds, the storm clouds above AC/DC will always crackle with live-wire electricity.