Rocked for Life: My First Concert in 1986 Changed Everything
In the summer of 1986, I was 13 years old—wide-eyed, awkward, and hungry for something I couldn’t quite describe. I didn’t know it yet, but my world was about to be turned upside down, shattered into a million glittering pieces, and reassembled into something new and electric. It all happened on one unforgettable night: my very first rock concert.
The band? [Insert Band Name Here—e.g., Iron Maiden, Metallica, Guns N’ Roses]. The place? A hazy memory of stadium lights, spilled soda, and the thick smell of anticipation. The result? A lifelong devotion to a group of musicians that would shape my identity and soundtrack the rest of my life.
I’ve seen them multiple times since that first explosive show, and through over four decades of life, love, loss, and everything in between, one thing has never changed: I’ve been listening to them for over 40 years, and I will never stop. Up till date.
The Summer of Loud
It was 1986, a golden year for rock and metal. MTV was blasting music videos like missiles of rebellion into suburban living rooms, cassette tapes were the currency of cool, and the denim jackets were heavy with patches and dreams. That year, my cousin—three years older and way cooler—invited me to a concert that, in his words, “was going to blow my little mind.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I didn’t fully understand what I was walking into. I had heard a few tracks on his Walkman. The twin guitars, the galloping drums, the vocals that screamed, soared, and spoke directly to the soul of a teenager trying to find meaning in math homework and acne. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what I was about to witness.
Baptism by Feedback
The moment the lights dimmed, and the first surge of distorted guitar ripped through the air, something inside me snapped into place. My heart raced. My senses overloaded. The crowd around me, a sea of denim and leather, fists in the air, started to move like one pulsing organism.
Then they took the stage.
It was like watching gods descend from Olympus. Long hair flying, amps roaring, drums thundering like an army of giants. They didn’t walk onto that stage—they exploded onto it. The first note hit like a punch to the chest. And by the second song, I wasn’t just watching a show—I was in it.
They played all the hits from their latest album (which would go on to be multi-platinum, of course), along with some older tracks that the die-hards screamed for. Each riff felt like a jolt of adrenaline. Each solo was a sermon. And every chorus was a war cry that I, even at 13, screamed along to until my voice gave out.
It was loud. It was chaotic. It was sweaty. It was perfect.
A Band for All Seasons
After that night, there was no going back.
I devoured everything they ever made—albums, bootlegs, VHS concert tapes. I saved my allowance for merch. I drew their logo on my notebooks. I grew my hair. I learned the lyrics to every song. I even begged my parents for a guitar that Christmas, and though I never made it past a few bar chords, I strummed along to their songs like I was part of the band.
Since that fateful night, I’ve seen them multiple times. In different cities, with different friends, through different phases of life. I saw them when they were riding high on a string of chart-toppers. I saw them on the comeback tours, when critics said they were “past their prime” (they weren’t). I saw them play to packed stadiums and once in a slightly grungier setting during a surprise club show. Every time, they delivered.
They’ve outlasted trends, outplayed generations of imitators, and survived the ups and downs of a volatile industry. And through all of it, they’ve been my constant.
Soundtrack of My Life
Music has a funny way of embedding itself into memory. A song becomes more than a melody—it becomes a timestamp. A photograph in audio. And their music? It’s the scrapbook of my life.
Their power ballads played during high school heartbreaks. Their anthems blasted in the car during summer road trips with friends. Their darker, grittier material helped me through tough times when life got a little too real. And even now, their new releases still stir something inside me that I first felt when I was just a kid in a crowded arena, hearing the opening chords live for the first time.
When I had kids of my own, you better believe I introduced them to the band. Some of their friends roll their eyes at the “old guy rock” blaring from the kitchen, but my daughter once asked if the singer was a superhero, because “he sounds like he could fly.” She’s not wrong.
More Than Just Music
Liking a band for over 40 years isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s about identity.
They were there when I was figuring out who I was. They stood by me when everything else felt unsure. They taught me about passion, persistence, and pouring your soul into your art. They showed me that loud can be beautiful, that raw can be poetic, and that sometimes, screaming into the void is exactly what the moment calls for.
And even now, when I hear that familiar riff—whether through noise-canceling headphones or over car speakers—I’m transported back to 1986. To that kid with wide eyes and a too-big band tee, staring in awe at the stage, unaware that his life had just changed.
Up Till Date—and Forever
Today, I still wear their shirts. I still line up for new albums. I still get that same goosebump thrill when I hear the first chords of their signature song. And yeah, I’ve probably embarrassed my kids at more than one BBQ by cranking it just a little too loud.
But I don’t care.
They were my first band. My first show. My first love in a way that only music can be. I’ve been listening to them for over 40 years. And as long as I have breath in my lungs, I will never stop.
Up till date. And beyond.
