They Still Rock My World: How Def Leppard Breathed Life Back Into Me

The week didn’t start with music—it started with fear.

On Monday, I experienced what’s called a near-syncopal episode. Basically, my body decided it might tap out for a second. The world tilted, my heart pounded, and for a moment everything felt off-kilter. That moment clung to me all week like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

Friday—the day I had circled on the calendar for months for Def Leppard—started not with concert anticipation, but with a doctor’s appointment at 8:20 a.m. Not exactly the pre-show ritual I imagined. Bloodwork was drawn. An ECG was done. There were concerns—things like a CT scan for possible lung issues (thanks, former smoker status) and a colonoscopy (because apparently when you hit a certain age, your digestive tract gets its own full-length feature film).

My iron came back low, vitamin D very low (hello, 2000 IUs starting today), and my cholesterol… well, it decided to throw a little tantrum too. The one sigh of relief? My heart looked good—strong and steady. But as the day went on, the lab results didn’t hit me all at once. They trickled in like suspenseful episodes of a medical drama I didn’t sign up for. One by one, I refreshed my patient portal like it was Ticketmaster on concert day—refreshing between anxious thoughts, trying to decode each new piece of information while still holding onto the plan to leave that evening for the show.

Even while standing in line outside the venue, I kept checking. No soundcheck booming in the background to pull me away—just me, my phone, and a head full of “what-ifs.” I was surrounded by people buzzing with excitement, and yet I was still trapped in the medical uncertainty of my morning.

But the moment I got through the gates, all that began to slip away. Not gone—but softened. I made a beeline straight for the merch booth. I knew I couldn’t really afford it, but I had to get something. That hoodie was calling my name, but $90 was just too far out of reach, so I settled on a shirt, grabbed food and water, and found my spot on the lawn.

And then—music.

Before Def Leppard even took the stage, Collective Soul warmed us up with their timeless sound. There’s something comforting about a band that knows who they are and what they do well. They delivered hit after hit, and I sang along, letting myself lean into the moment. It was the first crack in the wall I’d built around myself all week. Even though Ed Roland’s voice sounded a bit off that night, I’ve seen them a few years ago, and you could tell time is starting to take its toll on his vocal cords. Still, the energy they brought was undeniable.

When the “Drastic Symphonies” version of “Gods of War” started playing, it wasn’t just an opening track—it was a cinematic entrance. The countdown, the tension, the drama of it—it set the tone. That familiar Pyromania intro followed, and then boom—“Rock! Rock! (Till You Drop)” blasted out, and I felt something in me jolt awake.

From that moment on, it was as if my body remembered what joy felt like.

“Rocket” launched us further, and “Let’s Get Rocked” reminded me that yes, I do still want to get rocked, thank you very much. “Foolin’,” “Armageddon It,” “Animal”—they hit one after the other. These weren’t just songs. They were chapters in my life.

I may have been standing there at 56, but when Joe Elliott sang, I was 15 again—the girl with the cassette tape and vinyl records, laying on her bed and daydreaming, surrounded by walls completely covered in magazine posters of Def Leppard—especially Joe. He wasn’t just a rock star; he was my dream guy for so many years of my teenage and early adult life. The first time I saw Def Leppard, I was that young teen—wide-eyed, heart pounding, convinced I was seeing magic live on stage. His voice, his hair, his presence—I thought he hung the moon. That night, the teenage dreamer in me stood side by side with the woman I’ve become. And for those two hours, we both felt fully alive.

“Love Bites” came next, slow and sultry, and “Just Like ’73” brought in the new fire. Then came “Let It Go” and “Die Hard the Hunter,” with every bit of its signature drive.

Then, “This Guitar.” The acoustic-version was stunning. What really floored me? Every single one of them can sing. Their voices blended like a family choir—Phil Collen, Vivian Campbell, Rick Savage… it wasn’t just Joe. It was all of them. You felt the harmony in your bones.

But then came “Two Steps Behind.” Acoustic. And I cracked. The tears came—not just welled up, but fell. I’ve always loved that song, but in this moment—with everything weighing on me, my body feeling like it’s been trying to send me messages all week—this song felt like a letter to my soul. I have seen Joe and Def Leppard more than any other band in my life, and there’s a reason for that. Their music always shows up when I need it most. When life feels heavy or uncertain, they’ve always been there, either in my headphones or on a stage, helping me carry the weight. And this night was no different.

Then came “Bringin’ On the Heartbreak” more tears, (this was the first song I learned to play on guitar when I was a kid) and “Switch 625.” That one-two punch of heartbreak and instrumental power brought another round of chills. The entire band was tight—so incredibly tight. Vivian’s guitar playing is sharp and soulful, Phil’s solos are as precise as ever, Rick Savage’s bass rumbled through me like a second heartbeat, and Rick Allen—my god. That man is still thunder. Every snare hit, every crash—he doesn’t just play drums, he commands them.

Joe’s voice? Sure, it’s aged. Who hasn’t? But when I closed my eyes—it was still Joe. Still that powerhouse vocalist who once made me scream into my hairbrush like he could hear me. That soul, that rasp, that fire—it’s still there. And that’s all I needed.

Then “Photograph” began, and the video screen behind them lit up with images from decades ago—faces we knew by heart. We saw Steve Clark, the beloved guitarist whose riffs helped shape the band’s iconic sound and who left this world far too soon. Their youth flashed across the screen like memories pulled from all our minds—bright-eyed 20-somethings with big hair, guitars slung low, the Union Jack shirts and the world in front of them.

And somewhere in all of that, I saw myself.

They weren’t just showing their history—they were showing mine.

They were chapters in my story.

Then “Hysteria” brought more tears. I don’t even know why it hits me the way it does, but it always has. It’s like it tugs at every emotion at once—nostalgia, grief, joy, hope—and makes you feel all of them at once. It is my favorite song.

They closed with “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” wild and perfect. And as the crowd started to thin, the band’s remake of “Stand By Me” played over the speakers and their video on the jumbo screens. And here’s the thing—nobody really left. Not yet. We stood in the aisles, on the lawn, in the walkways, singing it. Together. And for a moment, I felt whole. I felt like I belonged. I’ve spent so long away from shows, from bands, from that other side of things—the behind-the-scenes world I love so much—and I realized I miss it deeply. Not just the music, but the work, the energy, the process, the camaraderie.

That night, Def Leppard didn’t just play a concert. They breathed life back into me.

And I will hold onto that sound, those lights, that voice, and those tears… until I get to do it all again. Def Leppard put on one hell of a show after 47 years—but then again, they always have. Next time I think I will purchase the meet and greet. It is about time I meet the band that shaped me.

Peace, Love and Loud Music,

Mickey