The music is about partying. No, it is a party. In an article on the release of "5150," Rolling Stone tagged Van Halen's era the "power-party rock arena." Disco had suffocated the social consciousness of the '60s, and by the '80s pop musicians like Van Halen just wanted to have a good time. In a decade when the Gipper was all that stood between humanity and nuclear holocaust, rock 'n' roll became a release valve -- not to create change, but to dust reality in a haze of neon and frizzy hair. Pot was out, cocaine was in. Thinking out, pleasure in. The '80s was the decade of the yuppie, the preppie, "Dynasty" and Pac-Man. It was an age of hedonistic irresponsibility, when introspection and intellectualism were beat.

Roth is doing his best to re-create the landscape. On "Dance the Night Away," lead guitar Brian Young, from the Hollywood-based Van Halen tribute band the Atomic Punks, proves himself with a light-speed, Eddie-esque solo. His long, curly brown hair shakes and bobs as he plays. James LoMenzo, from White Lion, backs him on bass.

During "Runnin' With the Devil," the man with the David Cassidy hair bobs his head to the bass drum, but he has forgotten the words to the song. He mumbles them and raises his fist above his head again. Roth switches to a red bandanna in "You Really Got Me," and I remember a particular Christmas morning in grade school listening to the song on a Radio Shack clock radio, waiting for my parents to wake up.

After a tight arrangement of "Beautiful Girl," Dave breaks out of his frontman shell and addresses the crowd directly. "This is America," he says. "This carnival, this is my childhood. My family used to drive through Vermont when I was little. This is Americana -- like eating fried chicken and drinking iced tea."

He is connecting with the audience, and we love him for it. Then a girl in the front row distracts his attention: "Am I gonna have to make a booty call during work?" Pause. "Yoooww!"

By the time Roth dives into "Pretty Woman," the entire stadium is dancing. Diamond Dave is carrying the microphone stand around like a metal detector and my friend and I are hopping up and down. Roth is winning the war, and he knows it.

In the break before "Ice Cream Man," Roth seems to be losing his mind. He is electric. He yells things into the mike like: "The power of the universe and this shit is wild!" Young strums in the background. The bass kicks in. A girl screams. Roth yells, "One nation under cable television!"

Roth opens "Ice Cream Man" playing an acoustic guitar with a white panel on the front. His smile is about to blow. He busts out a minute of 12-bar blues, then the band backs him. Roth sets the guitar vertically on the stage and lets it fall. A roadie grabs it before it hits the ground. Roth pirouettes in a surprisingly deft motion and grabs the mike. A roundhouse kick. Then the smile.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

It's the final encore. Everyone knows what Dave is going to play. High school gyms crave the rhythm, old football uniforms and scratchy rayon prom dresses listen anxiously for the melody. Then it starts. The synthesizer first, then the drums, bass and guitar. Finally, Roth grabs the mike and lights into Van Halen's only No. 1 single in the band's 25-year run.

Can't you see me standing here/ I got my back against the record machine/ I ain't the worst that you've seen/ Oh can't you see what I mean?/ Might as well jump!

And we do. Roth is going wild. You know Hagar is backstage tapping his foot. The band is grooving and if only Hagar would come out, right now, the rift would be bridged. Just tonight, under the glow of the orange stockyard lights. But he doesn't and Roth finishes on the stage alone, very much alone amid the lights and speakers and mega-stage of the heavy metal '80s that in 2002 have become a scratchy memory in the high 100s of the FM dial.

As the synth winds down and Roth climbs the drum pedestal to perform his final signature move -- and perhaps sign off for good from an era when frosting went in your hair, accessorizing required electricity and hip-hop was cutting edge -- it doesn't matter that Sammy, Eddie, Michael and Alex aren't there with him. Because times have changed, and you can't expect the band to change with them. Elvis never played punk. Morrison never sang Duke. When rock 'n' roll insists on marching ahead like a Midwestern flash flood, all its fans can hope for is a glimpse of what was once great.

Roth drops his head and the lights of the fair seem to brighten. The Gravitron whips in circles; the Zipper bobs up and down. Children's screams rise from the midway. That synth is barely hanging on now. The pope has been shot. Reagan's been shot. John Lennon has been shot. Roth squats in front of the drums, readying for his stunt. Michael Jackson's hair catches fire; Run-D.M.C. goes platinum; doctors discover the AIDS virus.

Roth leaps off the stage and reaches for his toes. One leg is almost straight, the other is bent at an odd angle. It's like looking back in time through a beer bottle. But the music is the same, or at least close enough. Roth has transported us through the concave glass, and at that moment every person in the audience is a skinny, awkward, high school freshman, hopeful, terrified, young.

Roth lands. I think for a second that his knee has buckled, but he's still standing. Triumphant. A warbling, electric hum resonates from the guitars, the synth fades. We raise our fists. Roth has won, but it doesn't matter. We are thankful. We don't want him or Hagar to leave. We don't want to go home to our laptops and multidisc changers. You can't find this on an MP3. Roth bows. It is over. His shape disintegrates as the lights fade. Then he is gone, and all that is left are the multicolored bulbs of the Ferris wheel, spinning around and around and around.

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