On November 18th, 2017, five years ago, the rock and roll landscape lost of its most iconic yet overlooked figures to the slow, dreadful disease known as dementia. He was sixty-four.

The first name one thinks of when they hear about the electrifying AC/DC may be Angus Young, the world’s oldest schoolboy, or Bon Scott and Brian Johnson (depending on which fans you are talking to). Malcolm Young, older brother to Angus, may come up, though some may choose to focus on the showier lead guitarist and vocalist. I would like to talk about him, if I may.

Although Malcolm and his rhythm guitar were in the back near the amps, playing alongside bassist Cliff Williams and drummer Phil Rudd, he was not one to simply stay in the background when it came to the band. As a founding member of AC/DC back in 1973—yes, old school rockers, the band will turn fifty next year—he was the brains behind the group as well as the source for riffs that we are still rocking out to on air-guitar, including hits like “Back in Black” and “Let There Be Rock” as well as lesser-known tracks such as “Riff Raff.” Despite his important role in the group and his confident personality, he was still a person who had his moments of self-doubt.

In Malcolm Young: The Man Who Made AC/DC, author Jeff Apter notes that the guitarist had reservations about pursuing his desired career, even as a kid. “A career in music was something he couldn’t contemplate. It just seemed so unlikely. The Youngs were working-class Scots; they were expected to stay in school only until they were old enough to leave . . .”

An aspect of Malcolm’s character I admire is that despite what his upbringing would have dictated him to do career-wise, he had the drive to go after it. Learning and mastering the guitar would not be an easy feat and neither would navigating the rowdy clubs of Australia with his fledgling band. However, the band would be no stranger to adversity. Whether it was trying to build an initial fanbase, dealing with the loss of a bandmate, or Malcolm confronting his own personal issues, his fellow musicians could count on him to be there or step back when he saw fit, not wanting to compromise the band’s career on his watch.

He put in nothing less than his all into the music, even as his younger brother stole the limelight with his onstage antics. He did not care for living a life flaunting his wealth or place in the band. He was simply proud that something that started as two younger siblings being inspired by one of their older brothers, George Young from the 60s rock group the Easybeats, was enjoying success and finding an audience that would enjoy their work for decades after the songs were recorded. This attitude is yet another trait of his that I respect him for, but it is still satisfying to see fans continuing to honor and remember him through playing his riffs, discussing his impact on other well-known guitarists, or simply praising the person that he was and saying, “Hey, this guy wrote some killer riffs. We’re going to blast them as loud as possible because it would be a sin not to.”

Aside from his musical talents, he was generally regarded as being a kind, witty, and down-to-earth guy. Small, but powerful. Quiet, but outspoken when he needed to be. The cover of Highway to Hell may present him as looking quite sour, but writer Susan Masino gives some insight into his personality offstage. She recalled in AC/DC FAQ: All That’s Left to Know About the World’s True Rock ‘n’ Roll Band an anecdote involving her, some friends of hers, and Malcolm driving in the same car after a concert in the late 1970s. Feeling a bit cheeky, he spent the ride trying to grab the steering wheel or cover Susan’s eyes while she was driving.

Fan tributes may, for an understandable reason, stray into heavy, emotional territory, especially if the person paying tribute connected deeply with their tributee. Everyone has had a fanboy or fangirl moment when it comes to people that they admire. In the straightforward manner that AC/DC is known for, I promise to keep what could spiral into a fangirlish ramble brief.

My maternal grandmother passed earlier this year after a battle with dementia that lasted several years. During my first two years of high school, she stayed with me and my parents, and it was then that I was able to see the effects it had on her. People slowly faded from her memory, and some oddly remained, such as supposedly seeing relatives that she had not seen in decades. In retrospect, I felt more awkward being around her than any great sense of tragedy, but it was still painful to see someone so warm and kind transform into someone unsure of her environments. By the time her funeral rolled around in June, AC/DC had become the music that gave me a distraction from the often-melancholic world of hearing my mother recount visits to the nursing home my grandmother was in. At the service, I even wore a necklace with a photo of him inside as a personal nod to him. I watched interviews of Angus opening up about his brother’s condition before and after his passing and could relate to the feeling of watching a loved one slowly going downhill health-wise.

“The hardest part was not so much in passing . . . ” Angus Young recalled in an interview for 60 Minutes Australia. “I think the worst part is the decline. That’s the hard part because of how you knew him, and then to see that was gone.”

As a fan of AC/DC, I openly admit that I do like every member of the group for one reason or another, but Malcolm always stood out to me, especially after reading every AC/DC biography I could get my hands on. Though this article is remembering someone who is no longer with us, I hope that it pays tribute to the loyal musician, brother, and friend that we continue to remember him as. That we remember his riffs and, in my case, attempt to learn them on a Telecaster (whose name, in cliché fashion, is Malcolm). That we remember just the down-to-earth and funny person that he was.

Thanks for the music, Malcolm.