Def Leppard’s debut album, High ‘n’ Dry, was my all-time favorite during my middle school years, and I carry no shame in admitting it. In fact, it remains a cherished part of my music playlist to this day. I understand why some might feel uncomfortable linking Def Leppard to the term “favorite,” especially since their trajectory led them into the realm of clichéd hair metal and pop-metal. But High ‘n’ Dry predates all of that—before the era of albums named after psychological disorders like Pyromania and Hysteria, before the infamous “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and before drummer Rick Allen faced his life-altering accident. It was simply pure rock ‘n’ roll, and I adored it.
What captivated me was the sheer volume of the music. Prior to High ‘n’ Dry, I was mostly into bands like Journey and Styx. This album introduced me to a whole new level of musical intensity and edge. The opening guitar riff, filled with distortion, felt like a call to arms, urging me to leap out of bed and unleash my inner rock star—figuratively, of course. It opened the door to a world of raw energy and emotional expression.
The lyrics were equally shocking to my preteen sensibilities. In the title track, lead vocalist Joe Elliott boasts about his day-long drinking spree, complete with whiskey, wine, and a partner, declaring that “this time the lights are going out” because it’s Saturday night and he’s feeling high. I remember thinking, is this even allowed? Should someone alert the authorities? This was far from the lovey-dovey power ballads of Journey; it was raw and exhilarating. While I never crossed any lines in my air guitar performances, I certainly felt like I was skirting the edge.
Growing up in New York City offered me the opportunity to attend many incredible concerts, but Def Leppard was always absent from my lineup. There were moments in the 1980s when I would have gladly traded my tickets to see The Clash, U2, or The Replacements just to catch a live performance from Def Leppard—an embarrassing admission, indeed. They were my elusive white whale.
So, it was with a rush of nostalgia and excitement that my wife and I spotted a billboard while driving along the 101 near Paso Robles, California, announcing Def Leppard would be performing at the California Mid-State Fair the very next night. I nearly lost control of the car, overwhelmed by the prospect of finally fulfilling a decades-old dream.
Everything seemed perfectly aligned. We were staying in Paso Robles that night, and though we initially planned to head back to the Bay Area the following day, we found ourselves with no commitments. Our son was off at sleepaway camp, my wife, a skilled academic, had her summer schedule under control, and while I would miss a day of work, what better reason could there be? (That was a rhetorical question, of course).
With our son temporarily out of the picture, we felt liberated, embracing our pre-parenting lives once more. We said yes to dinner invites without worrying about babysitter availability and enjoyed midweek movies together. Once I got past the tears triggered by seeing other fathers with their sons, the freedom was intoxicating. The prospect of indulging in corn dogs, riding the Ferris wheel, and rocking out to Def Leppard was exhilarating.
But as morning arrived, that initial excitement faded away, dissipating like cotton candy on the tongue. Something was holding me back. It felt like a classic scene from Animal House, where my middle-school self urged me to seize the moment, while my adult self cautioned me about responsibilities—reminding me of work commitments and my general apprehension towards festivals, not to mention that Tesla was opening for them.
Despite the rational arguments from Adult Me, I couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that I was denying myself something I genuinely desired. This feeling, as a father, has surfaced many times. Since my son was born, I have often attributed various sacrifices to parenthood. As author Rich Cohen aptly notes, becoming a parent means you’re no longer the main character in your own life story; you become part of a larger ensemble and must adjust your desires accordingly.
However, the choice to forgo the Def Leppard concert wasn’t necessarily a sacrifice of fatherhood. The pressure I felt stemmed more from adulthood than from parenting. Nowadays, I require a solid justification to stay up late (and my son’s energy levels don’t help). It was my middle-school self doing a double-take at that billboard. Adult Me had reservations about feeling tired the next day or wasting a vacation day just to see a band that, while significant to my youth, had long since faded from my musical radar.
In the aftermath of my decision, I mourned the loss of that youthful excitement but found clarity in the realization that fatherhood doesn’t hold me back. That notion is merely an excuse. The truth is, if I truly want to do something, I can still do it, regardless of my parenting role. Ultimately, it became clear that seeing Def Leppard no longer holds the same value for me as it once did.