It was entirely appropriate that a statue of the legendary guitarist Rory Gallagher was unveiled at the weekend outside the Ulster Hall in Belfast, which has hosted so many outstanding performers down the years.
I have attended dozens of brilliant concerts there, with the most memorable, for a number of reasons, involving the seminal Australian heavy metal rockers AC/DC in August 1979, who were then and for decades to come among the world’s biggest live acts.
They were used to packing out massive stadiums across their native country, Europe and the US, so it caused something of a sensation when it was confirmed that they would appear at the evocative but comparatively tiny Bedford Street venue, with an official standing capacity of just 2,000.
I was starting off in weekly newspapers but was also a freelance contributor to the Dublin-based music magazine Hot Press, where the editors were astonished that AC/DC were actually coming to Belfast during one of the worst periods of the Troubles.
They were determined to get some kind of interview, as well as a review, and, after pulling in favours and making some late arrangements, asked me to take on the task.
I met up with the band’s incredibly helpful Australian manager early on the big day, and he agreed to set everything up after the show. He said he would be on constant duty at the back stage entrance, and I would not need a pass as long as I mentioned his name.
It turned out to be a truly amazing gig, in front of a delirious crowd, from a band at the height of their powers, with one anthem after another blasting out from a huge bank of amplifiers and literally shaking the walls of the Victorian building.
When it all ended, I was able to smoothly negotiate my way past the laid-back Australian road crew members simply by referring to the manager, and strolled confidently to the top of the stairs.
A muscular, bow-tied bouncer stood on the last step, chewing gum with his arms folded and gazing straight ahead, so I switched to deferential mode, introduced myself, identified my contact and explained that I was expected.
The bouncer maintained his blank look, and in unmistakably broad Belfast terms told me to go away quickly, or words to that effect.
When I smiled, apologised, and rephrased my request, he repeated the instruction, and said that, if I did not comply at once, he would throw me down the stairs.
I still hoped that polite perseverance might prevail, but, with one smooth and assured movement, he carried out his threat with the minimum of fuss and I found myself tumbling noisily to the bottom of the wooden steps.
There were gasps and screams from the crowds of staff and fans milling about as I arrived in a crumpled heap on the landing, with fortunately only my dignity injured.
The commotion attracted the attention of the manager, who called out my name and came bounding over from the upper floor, with the bouncer, displaying a sudden change of attitude, winning the race to get to my assistance.
He picked me up with a firm grip, loudly announced that he had seen me accidentally slipping, dusted me down while staring intensely in my face, and cleared all the bystanders out of the way before ushering me like a VIP back to the top of the steps.
I considered a formal complaint, but the combination of the bouncer’s menacing demeanour and the prospect of finally meeting the band prompted me to remain silent.
Two more security staff escorted me along the corridor before opening a door to an elaborately-stocked bar, and there were the rock gods, drinking and partying with their inner circle, which included a range of astonishingly glamorous women.
The manager handed me a large glass of tequila, something I had never come across before in Belfast, and suggested a chat with the charismatic lead singer Bon Scott, still bare-chested and bristling with energy as he had been throughout the show.
Scott was inexplicably more interested in his lady admirers but the guitarist Angus Young, wearing his quirky trademark cap and school uniform, was instantly amenable, and we spoke for quite a while about his life and times, with the other band members then quizzing me on Irish politics and history.
It all turned into a prolonged and lively discussion before the manager eventually announced that the band needed to head on to a party at their hotel.
I stood up hopefully, only to be told that it was unfortunately a strictly private gathering but I was welcome to keep enjoying the tequila for as long as I liked.
The room emptied, and I compared notes with the barman about our limited joint experiences with rock stars, before finally deciding to call it a night.
When a different and very polite bouncer closed the back door onto a deserted Linenhall Street in the early hours of the morning, it felt as though it had all been a dream.
Music journalism seemed a little frenetic so I concentrated in future on more mainstream reporting.
While Scott suffered a depressingly familiar rock and roll death involving drink and drugs less than six months later, Young, after a career lasting well over 50 years, is still playing with AC/DC.
A plaque beside the Gallagher statue would be worth considering if he ever returns to the Ulster Hall, but in the circumstances I would prefer not to rely on a verbal invitation.
n.doran@irishnews.com