Little Rock, AR - Media Reviews

Def Leppard's Slickness Survives, Stirs Memories By Andrew Morgan

A critical review of Def Leppard's Thursday night show at the riverfront amphitheater? What's the point, right? People who like - really like - Def Leppard probably don't read reviews or care. Nor should they. Def Leppard isn't the sort of band that warrants the energy serious critical dissection takes.

But like other masters of the mid- to late-80s' slick, sap rock (Poison's "Every Rose Has its Thorn" comes immediately to mind), Def Leppard has its own cubbyhole in the memory banks. It provides soundtracks to what we remember about places, events. And that's about all they're good for. This is more commentary than review.

I remember catching a ride in ninth grade with David, a senior, in his sorta red with primer highlights, ragged out, '84 Ford Escort. David wasn't cool. But he was a senior, which automatically made him cooler than me. Not that I was cool. But you get the point.

I remember "Pour Some Sugar on Me" blasting out of David's Rockford Fosgates. With the sleeves of his Bocephus T-shirt rolled up to match the sweet tight-rolls on the legs of his acid washed 501's, he steered with his wrists as he drummed along on the cracked dash with his thumbs. David intimidated me, but I thought the song rocked.

And I remember vacationing with the family the summer after ninth grade. We were somewhere on the Redneck Riviera. It was the summer I got the horrible earache and was stuck inside the cottage for half the week. It was the summer of Hysteria. I remember thinking that, man, love really does bite. Love bleeds.

Other than these kinds of things, what can you say about Def Leppard? It's rock for ninth-graders. And it's mild irony rock for those who look back on ninth grade with a kind of pitiful sentimentality and a hint of shame. And, frighteningly, it's still vital rock for many mullet-headed perpetual ninth- graders. But for all of us on the riverfront, Def Leppard served a purpose.

The Def Leppard sound, though muddied a bit in the outdoor venue, was still there. They always had a unique slickness that outslicked all the rest. Slick like the pink membrane of your Hubba Bubba bubble.

They played the hits. Straight up. "Photograph," "Women," "Animal," "Hysteria," "Rock of Ages," "Pour Some Sugar On Me." Check, check, check, check, check and check. A few carefully orchestrated curse words aside, there were no "we're still edgy" tirades or "we've been clean and sober for two years now" speeches. Just the hits. They played "Love Bites," their greatest horrible song, for the encore and they should've stopped right there. But they had to push it. They closed the encore and the show with their worst horrible song (and lame '90s comeback attempt), "Let's Get Rocked."

Honestly, the band should be pretty pleased with itself. In the pit, chicks on boyfriends' shoulders were lifting tank tops and showing The Goods with no prompting whatsoever. What other group, one that hasn't had a hit in years, would get that kind of treatment so easily? Or maybe we're just easy down here. Either way, Def Leppard promised they'd be back.

By Arkansas Democrat-Gazette 2000.

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