Tag: Gen X

I Saw David Lee Roth. And I’m Glad I Did

I’ve been reading some of the online comments about David Lee Roth’s recent performances, and honestly, some of them are fucking brutal. And I get it. I really do.

But here’s the thing: David Lee Roth is 71 years old. If you walked into a David Lee Roth concert expecting to see the exact same guy who jumped onto a stage in 1984, did the splits four feet in the air, spun around like a human helicopter, and sang every note at the top of his lungs… I don’t know what to tell you – Maybe set your expectations in life a little more reasonably.

Like a lot of people my age, I grew up with Van Halen. The 1984 era Van Halen didn’t just make music – they made the soundtrack to a generation:

Jump. Panama. Hot for Teacher.Those songs are burned into the brains of people my age. You hear the opening notes and you’re a teenager again, standing in your bedroom, sitting in your buddy’s car, or cranking the stereo way louder than your parents wanted. I arguably took it a little further than many as I also followed David Lee Roth after Van Halen, through his solo career. Crazy from the Heat. Eat ‘Em and Smile. Skyscraper. Just Like Paradise. A Little Ain’t Enough. I followed Dave.

And no, before you start, I’m not going to get into the whole David Lee Roth versus Sammy Hagar debate. That’s been beaten to death for decades. Sammy Hagar-era Van Halen was fan-freakin-tastic music. But it was a different band in my world, and I don’t think the two need to be compared. They were different eras, different personalities, different songs, and different versions of one of the greatest rock bands ever.

So when I went to see Diamond Dave this summer, I wasn’t expecting to see 1984 David Lee Roth. I was expecting to see 2026 David Lee Roth – and that’s what I got. Was the performance a little off the wall? Absolutely. Did he sound like he did back in the day? No. But let’s be brutally honest, he was never that great a singer in his heyday by comparison to many anyway – he was a showman. And he still is a showman. Did he move like he used to? No. Could he do all the things he did when he was 25 or 30? Of course not. And you know what? Neither can I. I’m guessing neither can most of the people sitting in that audience, either. That’s the part I don’t understand about some of the criticism. We’re watching a 71-year-old icon on stage and criticizing him because he isn’t performing like the 30-year-old version of himself that exists in our memories. Well, I’m not the same person I was at 30. And neither are you.

At some point, the people we grew up watching start getting old. And if you were old enough to remember David Lee Roth in his absolute heyday, then congratulations. You’re getting old too. That’s not an insult. It’s just math. And maybe that’s where some of the vitriol comes from. Maybe you’re not really angry at David Lee Roth. Maybe you’re angry at the fact that time is passing. Because seeing someone like Dave on stage is a reminder that the people who seemed larger than life when we were young are now in their seventies, and it’s a stark reminder of our own mortality.

But somewhere in the middle of that concert, I figured something out. I was watching Dave on stage, and he was looking out at the crowd. Smiling. Not the cocky, larger-than-life Diamond Dave grin we’ve all seen a million times. This was different. There was emotion there. You could see it on his face, and for a moment, it looked like he was fighting back tears. And then I believe he explained the entire reason he was standing there.

He lifted the mic, slowly shook his head and said “I miss this, man. I fucking miss this.”

In that moment, I understood exactly why he was there. David Lee Roth isnt out there touring because he needs the money. He’s out there because he loves performing. Because this is what he’s done for most of his life. He’s out there because he misses it.

He misses the stage.

He misses the noise.

He misses the people.

And honestly? I think that’s fucking beautiful.

So if you bought a ticket expecting him to hit every note perfectly, perform every dance move like he did in 1984, and launch himself into the splits four feet in the air…I’m sorry. You didn’t go to see David Lee Roth. You went looking for a time machine. And they don’t sell those at the merch booth.

I went to see an icon. I went to see a guy who helped write the soundtrack to my youth. I went to see the man behind songs that have been part of my life for more than four decades. And I got to see him standing on a stage at 71 years old, still doing the thing he loves. Was it perfect? No. But neither is getting old. Neither is life. And maybe that’s the point.

We spend so much of our lives wanting everything to stay exactly the same. We want our heroes to stay young. We want our bodies to stay young. We want our parents to stay healthy. We want our kids to stay little. But that’s not how any of this works. Time keeps moving. And eventually, all we can really do is decide what we’re going to do with the time we’ve got left. David Lee Roth decided he wanted to spend some of his doing what he loves – Standing on a stage looking out at people who grew up with his music. And when I saw that emotion on his face and heard him say, “I fucking miss this, man,” I got it.

I was glad I was there. Because I didn’t see a 71-year-old David Lee Roth pretending to be 25. I saw a 71-year-old David Lee Roth who still just wanted to be David Lee Roth.

I saw an idol.

I saw a piece of my youth standing on a stage in front of me.

And I saw a man who knows that time is running, just like the rest of us.

So, Diamond Dave…Thank you. Thank you for the music. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the crazy. And thank you for getting back on that stage. I hope you keep doing it for as long as you fucking want to.

M.

Were all Just Passin’ Through

There’s a strange, quiet reckoning that comes with getting older – one that doesn’t arrive all at once, but creeps in gradually. It is hidden in the comfort of familiar faces that once felt immortal.
If you, like me, were born anywhere around 1970, then the 80s weren’t just a decade – they were a proving ground. A time when music felt louder, movies felt bigger, and the people on our screens and in our stereos felt untouchable. They weren’t just entertainers, they were larger than life. Indestructible. Permanent.
And now, as time goes by, one by one they’re going, going, gone.
When a musician or actor from our youth passes away, the grief hits differently than it used to. It’s not just about them anymore. Not really. Of course, we feel it – we remember the scenes, the lines, the moments burned into our memory. Heck, a full half of my vocabulary is made up of 80s movie quotes and song lyrics. Underneath that however is something deeper, something harder to quantify. It’s the realization that time didn’t stop where we hoped it did. Back then, those people represented a kind of invincibility. They were fixed in place, a moment in time. Frozen at their peak. Forever in their leather or neon jackets, their iconic roles, their very prime. And if they were permanent, then in some way, so are we.
Unfortunately time doesn’t work like that.
Now, when we hear that another one has passed, it’s not just a loss – it’s a marker. A reminder. A quiet voice that says, that era is ending… and so is the illusion that we’re somehow immune to the progression of time.
So when we lose a childhood staple of our youth, we’re not just mourning that person; We’re mourning the version of ourselves that existed when they mattered the most to us. That kid blasting cassette tapes in their room. The teenager watching the same movie for the tenth time. The feeling that life was wide open and free, stretching endlessly ahead of us. The feeling that we still had forever to go.
What’s different about our generation (and generations to follow I’m sure) though, is this:
We have never in history had the kind of access to the past that’s available to us now.
At any moment, we can pull up a song, a movie, an interview, even a photo. We can see our heroes and idols exactly as they were – unchanged, unaged, still in their prime. It creates this strange dual reality where the past is both gone and completely alive at the same time.
They’re still there. But they’re not.
And neither are we.
That’s the part that lingers in the back of my mind.
Because while we can revisit those moments endlessly, we can’t fully step back into them. We can’t be the person we were when they first meant something to us. Time only moves one way, no matter how many times we hit replay.
And maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing.
Maybe the point isn’t to hold onto that illusion of immortality. Maybe it’s to recognize just how powerful those moments were – and still are. The fact that a song from 40 years ago can still hit you in the chest means something. It means it mattered. It still matters.
And so do we.
Because if the people who felt invincible aren’t physically invincible, of course, they can be “immortal”. Time doesn’t just take – it leaves things behind. Memories. Soundtracks. Stories. Pieces of who we were that we still carry. We’re not just watching the past disappear.
We carry it forward.
And maybe that’s how we make peace with it – Not by pretending we’re still young, but by realizing that those years didn’t vanish. They became part of us. Woven into who we are now.
  So when the next headline comes, as it inevitably will, and another name from our youth fades into history, take a moment. Feel it. Remember.
And don’t just mourn the passing of a person or a period in time, recognize that you were there for it. Celebrate that those moments were in some way, large or small, a part of becoming who you are.
Time marches on, for all of us.
Now get to the choppa

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