Def Leppard’s debut album, High ‘n’ Dry, was unequivocally my favorite record during my middle school years. I harbor no embarrassment in admitting that; the album still makes its way into my playlist today. Some may cringe at the thought of pairing Def Leppard with the term “favorite,” especially considering their later evolution into a stereotypical hair metal band and the rise of the pop-metal genre. However, High ‘n’ Dry represents a time before all that—before the trend of naming albums after psychological conditions (like Pyromania and Hysteria), before the hit “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and before drummer Rick Allen’s tragic accident. High ‘n’ Dry was unadulterated rock ‘n’ roll, and I was completely enthralled.
What captivated me most was its loudness. Prior to discovering High ‘n’ Dry, I was mostly into bands like Journey and Styx. This album was an entirely different beast. The very first distorted guitar riff served as a wake-up call, compelling me to leap out of bed, grab something hefty, and unleash my inner rockstar—at least in my imagination. It introduced me to a realm of music characterized by edge, rawness, and power.
Equally thrilling were the lyrics, which struck a chord with my preteen sensibilities. In the title track, lead vocalist Joe Elliott boasts about indulging in alcohol and reveling in his weekend freedom, proclaiming “this time the lights are going out” because it’s Saturday night and he’s intoxicated. Was this even acceptable? Should someone alert the authorities? This was a far cry from the love-struck ballads of Journey. It felt primal and dangerous. While I didn’t actually cross any boundaries while playing air guitar and belting out the lyrics, I certainly felt as if I had.
Growing up in New York City afforded me access to numerous concerts, with virtually every band I adored coming to town, except for Def Leppard. During the early to mid-’80s, I would have gladly traded my tickets to see The Clash, U2, or The Replacements for a chance to see Def Leppard (a fact I now find somewhat embarrassing). They were, in a sense, my unattainable dream.
Fast forward to this past summer, when my wife and I were driving along the 101 near Paso Robles, California, and spotted a billboard advertising Def Leppard at the California Mid-State Fair the following night. I nearly swerved off the road, caught in disbelief that I might finally fulfill a long-held desire from my youth.
The circumstances seemed perfect. We were staying in Paso Robles that night, and though we had planned to return to the Bay Area the following day, we found ourselves unburdened by obligations. Our son was away at sleepaway camp, my wife’s academic schedule was flexible, and while I would miss a day of work, what better excuse could there be? (This is a rhetorical question, of course.)
With our son temporarily out of the equation, my wife and I relished the freedom of our pre-parenting days, saying yes to dinner plans without worrying about babysitter availability and catching weeknight movies. Once I got past the twinge of nostalgia when seeing other fathers with their sons, it was sheer bliss. We could indulge in corn dogs, ride the Ferris wheel, and see Def Leppard rock the Mid-State Fair.
But we didn’t go. By morning, the excitement had slipped away, dissipating like cotton candy on the tongue. Something held me back. It felt reminiscent of a scene from Animal House: my younger self urged me to seize the day, while my adult self weighed the responsibilities of work, the anxiety of attending festivals, and the fact that Tesla was the opening act.
Ultimately, the more practical adult considerations won out, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was sacrificing something I genuinely wanted to do. This sensation, as a father, is one I have encountered frequently. Ever since my son was born, I’ve often attributed the things I’ve “given up” to the demands of parenthood. As novelist Rich Cohen aptly states, becoming a parent means you are no longer the sole protagonist in your life story; rather, you become part of a larger ensemble where personal desires must be moderated.
However, my decision to forgo the Def Leppard concert wasn’t a self-sacrifice for fatherhood. The pressure I felt stemmed from adulthood, not parenting. Nowadays, I need a compelling reason to stay out late (and not merely due to the exhaustion of parenting). That was my younger self doing a double take at the freeway billboard. The adult in me didn’t want to risk missing a workout or squandering a vacation day on a nostalgia trip to see a band well past their peak.
In the immediate aftermath, I mourned the loss of my younger self’s enthusiasm, but I found liberation in the realization that fatherhood doesn’t hold me back; viewing it that way is simply an excuse. The truth is, if I genuinely want to pursue something, I still can—regardless of my parenting status. Ultimately, it turns out that seeing Def Leppard doesn’t hold the same significance for me as it once did.
For more insights on parenting and personal growth, check out our other blog posts, such as this one.
In summary, my experience with Def Leppard reveals that while adulthood brings responsibilities, it doesn’t necessarily hinder one’s passions. It’s crucial to recognize that personal desires can still be pursued, even amid the demands of parenting. The key lies in understanding what truly matters to us and finding a balance between our roles and our aspirations.