She of Three

A memoir and life-writing blog

Finding Family: My Lifelong Love Affair
With Def Leppard

2019 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductees, Def Leppard. March 2019.
Photo: Kevin Nixon with permission.

Def Leppard has been an important part of my life since I was a young girl. The first band I called “my own,” the band that saved me during occasions in my life when I (didn't realize I) needed respite and rescue.

To me, Def Leppard has always been legendary. Now, that status is secure with its induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

And I was there to see it! It still doesn’t seem real.

This was the band’s first nomination, despite being eligible since 2005, but one nod was all it took, owed to its devoted fanbase that helped to lock in the win. Def Leppard pulled away from the competition by an overwhelming margin in the fan vote, tallying the highest numbers since public voting was introduced 16 years ago.

The distinction was well deserved, personal bias aside, for a band that has sold more than 100 million records worldwide and toured perennially for 40+ years. Def Leppard is one of only five rock bands with two original studio records – the explosive, Pyromania, and its groundbreaking successor, Hysteria – to achieve Diamond status (more than 10 million units sold in the US) by the RIAA, alongside The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Van Halen. Collectively, they overcame tragedies – the loss of drummer, Rick Allen’s, left arm in a car crash and the death of original guitarist, Steve Clark – that would have caused a lesser band to call it a day. And the group continues to release new music, selling out arenas and stadiums the world over.

All things considered, it begs the question: how was Def Leppard not inducted years ago?

No need for that rhetorical question any longer, and this devoted fan couldn’t be prouder.

“No other band has occupied as meaningful or enduring
a position in my life as Def Leppard.”

I’ve enjoyed a lifelong love affair with this band. The music, the soundtrack to my life. I receive no greater joy than attending Leppard concerts and have been lucky to see multiple shows each year for the past decade. I never take any of it for granted. Other bands have made marks on my musical canvas, but none has occupied as meaningful or enduring a position as Def Leppard.

The privilege of seeing Def Leppard accept its rightful spot in the Hall of Fame was a pinnacle moment on my journey as a lifelong fan.

Admittedly, there were times when being a fan wasn’t easy. For many years, Def Leppard was considered “uncool,” largely due to a changing musical landscape that favored what many claimed to be substance over style. Doubt loomed regarding the band’s influence on “legitimate” bands and artists, particularly as the angst-filled and introspective “grunge” wave took hold in the early 1990s.

Detractors fail to realize that:

1. Def Leppard is, in fact, a 1970s band. While the band enjoyed its biggest success in the 1980s, its influences draw from the likes of T-Rex, Thin Lizzy, Slade, Mott the Hoople, David Bowie, Queen, and AC/DC.

2. “Grunge” borrows from glam bands of the 1970s and early 1980s. Listen to the late Andrew Wood from Mother Love Bone, or Blind Melon and Stone Temple Pilots, to name a few, and try to deny the glam influence. Those bands are “Glam 2.0.” (Scott Weiland was always doing his best Bowie impression.)

3. Def Leppard has influenced the sound of the incredibly successful genre called “new country” or “country pop,” made famous by Shania Twain, Taylor Swift, and Rascall Flats, among others.

That established, I’m not the type of fan who thinks everything her favorite band does turns to gold. I didn’t always agree with decisions regarding musical direction and other matters (a cringe-worthy appearance on Dancing With the Stars comes to mind), and don’t get me started on setlists. There have also been times when I thought their output was lazy, uninspired, and derivative. Yes, I said it.

But I never gave up on them. Why? Because they never let me down.

I Want My (Def Leppard on) MTV

Def Leppard came into my life during the summer of 1988, when the band was unquestionably the biggest in the world.

It was right around the time when we had gotten cable TV. That was a big deal for us. Being poor, our luxuries were few. We never enjoyed the thrill of purchasing new clothes, seeing the latest movies, or receiving the trendiest toys as gifts. Growing up poor meant we were accustomed to accepting that less was more, and making what little we did have stretch. As a result, entertainment was low on the list of priorities, which left us way behind the curve on pop culture.

Cable was a portal to a new world. It was, after all, the home of MTV. I’d heard kids at school talking about music videos from Madonna and Bruce Springsteen, Prince and Bon Jovi. I pretended not to care. It was easier to act indifferent than run the risk of getting caught in a lie. I only needed to make that mistake once.

Tired of missing out (TOMO, which is worse than FOMO, IMO), I said that I had seen Springsteen’s iconic “Dancing in the Dark” video and described a scene that wasn’t actually in said video, and despite my assertion that I was privy to a director’s cut that included the scene I was talking about, was summarily outed for not having cable, which was, like, the least cool thing imaginable, how poor are you anyway?

Before MTV came into our lives, we had U68, a channel on the UHF dial that broadcast from New Jersey and played the same small batch of videos on replay – videos that were no longer in regular rotation on MTV. Reception was dismal; we squinted our way through a blizzard of zigzags to take in “Take On Me,” “Hungry Like the Wolf,” “Whip It!,” “Karma Chameleon,” “Don’t You (Forget About Me).” We couldn’t see much, but we got to hear the music, and that was exciting enough.

The day the cable was installed, I sat eagerly on the edge of the couch, biting my fingernails, waiting for the young guy whose tight jeans were conspicuously worn in the crotch to hurry the hell up. He was barely out the door before I was pushing buttons in mad pursuit of MTV.

A promo flashed onscreen. An MTV logo stood atop a mountain like a giant billboard as its skin morphed into different designs and textures – zebra print, checkerboard, leopard print, a brick wall. A guitar riff played the MTV theme song in the background – dah dah dah dah da da da.

Seeing my first real music video sans snow was a defining moment. Outside of photos on record sleeves and cassettes, or in music magazines, I had never seen the artists whose songs played on repeat in my head.

Day and night, I watched, cross-legged on the floor, the tip of my nose practically touching the screen, I sat so close. My mother’s incessant warning about the potential to go blind fell on deaf ears. I couldn’t get enough of the flashing lights and choreography, the revealing outfits, the sexually suggestive storylines and visuals. #mindblown

Every weeknight at 7:57, right after the game show, “Remote Control,” and the hourly “MTV News” segment, the same video was played. It opened with a camera circling beneath the lighting rig of a stage, while the lyric, “Love is like a bomb (bomb, bomb, bomb)” played over a scorching guitar riff.

With its powerful guitars, thunderous drumbeat, and melodic, infectious chorus, the song was like nothing I’d ever heard. My eyes – and other body parts – were equally delighted. The members of the band were h-o-t HOT, with their long hair and tight jeans, and blatant disregard for shirts. The lead singer, tall and lean, wore jeans that were so torn and distressed it looked as if they would fall apart and off of him at any moment. (A girl can dream.)

The band pranced around a circular stage in front of thousands of adoring, screaming fans, most of whom were female with big hair and bigger breasts, who sang along to every word. I wanted to be those girls.

Def Leppard’s Joe Elliott and his jeans.
“Pour Some Sugar On Me” video, 1988. Credit to owner.

Shirtless and dangerous. Def Leppard’s rhythm section delights in the round during the Hysteria tour, 1987. Credit to owner.

I perched myself in front of the TV, my stomach somersaulting with expectation and excitement, waiting for the video to air every night.

The video was “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” The record it was on, and the band who created it, changed my life indelibly.

Hysteria When You're Near

Hysteria was the first record I bought with my own money. It took months of tedious chores – washing the dishes and vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom and doing the laundry – paid out in 25-cent increments to save enough money for bus fare to Sam Goody plus the cost of the album itself.

Leftover money from my Communion, which was supposed to be put to good use (whatever that meant, although I couldn’t think of a better use than this), and loose change recovered from coat pockets and beneath couch cushions, covered the difference.

I’ll never forget biting off the plastic wrap of the cassette, opening its case, and unfolding the insert. I studied every inch of it, memorized the track listing and band members’ names. Their photos became etched in my memory like engravings on granite.

I listened to that cassette on our knockoff Walkman for countless hours each day; within weeks, it wore through in several spots. With the precision of a surgeon, I repaired the frayed ends with transparent tape, winding the reels with a Number 2 pencil to ensure a tight fit and prevent unraveling.

Hysteria, the record that changed everything, 1987.

“Hysteria awakened me, and awakened something in me.”

Headphones on, I walked around our apartment belting out lyrics for which I didn’t have a frame of reference but that somehow still spoke to me.

I don’t wanna touch you too much, baby

‘Cause makin’ love to you might drive me crazy

Hysteria awakened me, and awakened something in me. I grew up surrounded by music, but the experience of listening to that record for the first time was sacred. I was overcome with the unfamiliar feeling of feeling alive.

Saying the record was a blockbuster is an understatement even by blockbuster standards. It would go on to spawn seven – seven! – hit singles, including “Animal,” “Love Bites,” and the aforementioned, “Pour Some Sugar On Me”, and sell 25 million copies worldwide. Hysteria is a sonic masterpiece that sounds fresh more than 30 years after its release.

But it wasn’t the band’s first. A robust back catalog awaited discovery. I had homework to do.

School of Leppard

By 1988, Def Leppard had a rich and storied history, equally peppered with triumph and tragedy, and several records under its belt I was on a mission to know everything.

It would be several years before the Internet would make its debut, several more before widespread adoption. There were no Wikipedia pages chronicling a band’s history and discography; no Spotify or similar platforms from which to preview music; no YouTube to watch grainy videos with tinny, decompressed audio. If information was what you sought, you had to do it the old-fashioned way.

My education came via MTV shows Headbangers Ball, MTV News, and specials called “Rockumentaries.” Rock music magazines, including Circus and Metal Edge, fan club publications sent via snail mail, and microfiche printouts, rounded out the curriculum.

Working my way backward, I slowly acquired the seminal early records that rescued the members of Def Leppard from a life of dreary toil in factories and catapulted them to unprecedented stardom. With its debut, On Through the Night, the band wore its myriad influences on its sleeves and showed wisdom beyond an average age of 18 years. High ‘n’ Dry, its sophomore effort, was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart. With powerhouses like “Bringin’ on the Heartbreak,” “Another Hit and Run,” and “Let It Go,” the band struck listeners with an uncanny ability to write songs that were equal parts powerful and melodious.

Pyromania era, 1983. Credit to owner.

Pyromania upped the awestruck ante – not to mention the band’s stock. One needn’t listen further than “Photograph” to appreciate the distinctive blend of hard rock and pop that would poise Def Leppard for crossover success and come to define its inimitable signature sound. And, as mentioned, influence some of the world’s most notable artists.

Every penny I could scrounge was put toward my fledgling Def Leppard collection. It took many, many years, but the walls of the bedroom that I shared with my mother would be covered, floor to ceiling, with Def Leppard posters acquired from magazines and newspapers. Select areas of my “wallpaper,” as I called it, were thin and fuzzy from kissing the posters before retiring to bed each night.

I dreamed of the day when I would be able to see the band in concert. That day wouldn’t come for many years, but a VHS concert filmed during the Hysteria tour tided me over – and was single handedly (no pun) responsible for my sexual awakening.

Oh, can you feel it?
Do you believe it?

Did I ever.

A smattering of my “Def Leppard wallpaper” and modest, but growing, collection. Circa 1990.

Pushing Play

Discovering Def Leppard was simultaneously an awakening and a homecoming. New but I-can’t-put-my-finger-on-it-familiar. Like meeting someone whom you feel you’ve known forever.

Def Leppard came into my life when I needed rescue, and I don’t believe that was an accident. In the band’s music, I found a haven, and in that safe space, I found myself.

On the set of the “Animal” video, with the late Steve Clark, 1987. Credit to owner.

Accompanying me during every major milestone in my life, celebratory or otherwise – times of happiness and revelry, confusion and upheaval, profound sadness and despair, and every other moment and emotion in between – this band has been my musical bedrock, my lifeline.

Def Leppard saved me – from the outside world and from myself. When I felt alone and afraid, and when I was sad and lacked confidence, I had an escape. From the anxieties and insecurities that crippled me, the childhood traumas that haunted me, the unbefitting responsibilities with which I was burdened.

“Discovering Def Leppard was simultaneously
an awakening and a homecoming.”

The music made the world fall away and allowed me to be still. It lifted the darkness that descended like fog and silenced the terrors that vexed me. When I felt untethered, in danger of floating off like a helium balloon released from grasp, I needn’t have worried.

All I had to do was push play.

Musical DNA

My brothers and I were raised on a steady diet of our parents’ record collection. The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, John Lennon, Blondie, The Mamas and the Papas, The Kinks, Rod Stewart, Elton John – these artists shaped our musical DNA. Long before we could form full sentences, we recited the lyrics to songs and records that we heard in constant rotation. We knew Abbey Road, Let It Be, Tattoo You, and Double Fantasy, among others, from front to back.

A love for music was the foundation for the unique relationship that my mother and I shared. Through music, we became friends.

My mother filled the space between our crumbling walls with the sounds of artists equally inspiring and provocative. She introduced me to female voices that were strong in song and conviction. Debbie Harry, Grace Slick, Michelle Phillips, Mama Cass, Joan Jett, Yoko Ono – my earliest role models.

Music was the force that buoyed us in good times, when we sang and danced, hand in hand, around the living room with reckless abandon, causing the downstairs neighbors to strike the ceiling with the end of a broom handle. Which caused the records to skip and which, in turn, caused my mother to retaliate with a heavy dose of foot stomping on the floor. Counterproductive, sure, but no way would Kathi let anyone have the last word.

“My mother introduced me to female voices
that were strong in song and conviction.”

When we could spare some change from the coin jug, which was the source for everything from laundry money to bus fare to an emergency grocery fund when our monthly food stamp allotment ran out, Mom took us to Blimpie on Market Street in Paterson.

Big deal, you’re thinking. Well, hear this: there was a jukebox in the back! A fancy arched one that was decked out in chrome. Its green and pink neon lights flashed against the pale yellow subway tile of the restaurant’s grimy walls and transfixed me.

Allotted four quarters, my brother and I queued up our favorites:

“The Tide Is High”
“Heart of Glass”
“Whip It!”
“Down Under”

While our shared sub was being made, we danced, miming along to Mark Mothersbaugh’s instruction to Crack that whip, while Mom swayed to and fro cradling her protruding belly.

Music was also the antidote during bad times. And where there were bad times, there was my father.

For his part, John hadn’t many redeeming qualities. He came and went like the seasons. His repeated comings and goings ushered in extreme weather patterns that left devastating damage in their wake. He was evil personified and, for him, I have no sympathy.

But I’m grateful for one thing: for bequeathing to us his love for music. (Also my olive complexion, so make that two things, with apologies for the digression.)

Days and nights without strife and abuse fueled by alcohol, drugs, and a general disdain for life were rare where John was concerned. Music was the only thing that made life with him bearable; without it, I wouldn’t have a single pleasant memory of him

As clearly as I recall staring up at the sky as Halleys’ Comet completed its orbit around the sun in 1986, I remember
fleeting moments of bliss gazing in awe at John’s wall of records.

Plastic milk crates were stacked atop one another to form a makeshift bookcase more than four feet tall. Orange, grey, and black cubes arranged in a careful pattern that surely was the genesis for my OCD contained hundreds of LPs, stacked vertically and in alphabetical order. It was easy to spot the records that were played the most; their cardboard spines were rubbed raw and sprouted fuzz in the areas where John’s calloused fingers carefully pinched and pulled them out.

When he placed the vinyl on the platter and gently lowered the tone arm, the scratching and popping from the needle making contact with dust in the groove gave me chills. The music floated through the speakers, and my brother and I belted out verses into balled-up fists.

When I say that I’m okay, well they look at me kinda strange
Surely, you’re not happy now, you no longer play the game

It wouldn’t be long before I’d get a beating for jumping and making the record skip – or breathing, which was comparable on the punishable offense scale in John’s twisted estimation. But those were risks I was willing to take if it meant we were surrounded by music and one another.

In the Round, In My Dreams

If time travel were possible, I would step into a telephone booth Bill and Ted style and dial back to September 21 – 23, 1988. That was when Def Leppard played three, consecutive, sold-out shows at Brendan Byrne Arena in the Meadowlands on the Hysteria tour.

At the age of 11, I was too young to go to a concert, so said my mother. What she meant but didn’t want to say was that I was too young to go alone because we couldn’t afford to buy two tickets. Even one ticket was untenable at the time, but could I appreciate that then? Of course not. So I focused instead on what was a crushing disappointment, and unfairly and with dramatic flair, accused my mother of never giving me anything. I harbored the resentment for years, certain that my chance to see this band that meant everything to me would never materialize. (See? Dramatic.)

Hysteria world tour, 1987-1988. Credit to owner.

“What if they never tour again?”

In 1992, Def Leppard released Adrenalize, the long-awaited follow-up to Hysteria, its first since the death of guitarist, Steve Clark. I played hooky from school the day the record came out and made the usual trek to Sam Goody by bus. Underwhelmed with the record’s first single, “Let’s Get Rocked,” an uninspired and, dare I say, juvenile offering that was tone deaf to the drastically changing musical climate at the time, I worried that the band had lost touch or the will to continue following Clark’s untimely demise. More than that, I worried… what if the record tanks and they never tour again?

The record was successful, debuting and spending five weeks atop the Billboard 200, and spawned a massive tour, which would see them playing “in the round” again. Radio stations promoted not one, but two, concerts in our area. The first, a “Stop the Violence” benefit show at Madison Square Garden in August, and the second, an official US tour date at the Meadowlands in October.

Def Leppard’s first and only Rolling Stone cover following the release of Adrenalize, 1992.

By this time, my mother and I had attended several concerts together. We scrimped every penny we could to afford tickets, and it didn’t matter if we were in the last row – it was just enough to be in the building. Concert going became our thing.

Def Leppard shows, to my chagrin, came with a higher price tag than others. My heart sank when I was next in line at the Ticket Center window (those were the days when you’d line up for tickets). I looked at the ticket price – I don’t recall it exactly, but it was pennies by today’s standards – and opened my Velcro wallet, realizing I could buy only one ticket for each show.

Seeing Def Leppard for the first time was exciting but bittersweet. On the one hand, I was thrilled to see the band in real life, to hear and sing along with songs that changed my life, to breathe the same air as the band did. From the moment the lights went down and the crowd rose to its feet with applause, to the moment the band left the stage, I cried, unable to see or breathe through rivulets of tears. (Also very dramatic.) But mixed in with my overwhelming joy was the persistent reminder that my best friend wasn’t there to experience it with me.

Photos taken with a 110 camera from my first Def Leppard shows.

Can’t see much? Neither could I. But I was there! Luckily, my seats and cameras would improve with time. 1992.

My mother and I would attend only one Def Leppard show together. It was during the Slang tour in 1996 and one of the best days of my life. We drove to the beach with the windows open and Leppard blaring from the cassette deck, and we ate pizza and talked and laughed. And during the show, we sang and danced and, yes, cried our hearts out. Just one year later, she would get sick. And one year after that, she would be gone.

I think about that summer day often. Always when the lights go down and Def Leppard is about to take the stage.

Emotional Rescue

I don’t know how many Def Leppard concerts I’ve attended. Suffice it to say, the figure is a sizable one. But like my weight, it’s not a number that I fixate on. Fans tend to use such statistics – concerts attended, artifacts collected,
personal encounters secured – to prove the depth of their devotion.

For me, it’s not about any of that. It’s about the emotional connection I have with this band. Which is to say that it’s intensely personal.

Def Leppard has been a vital part of my life for more than 30 years. Imagining my life without this band in it is akin to visualizing the universe without the sun. I wouldn’t want to. Couldn’t.

I don’t know who or where I would be without them.

This band embodies the meaning of “family,” continually standing by one another despite unthinkable tragedy and odds, referring to themselves as “brothers.” This is a shining example of what I know to be true in my own life: that family isn’t defined by blood alone.

I have found family in and through Def Leppard, too.

Def Leppard plays to a sold-out crowd at Madison Square Garden. June 2018. (I’m in the front on the left.) Photo: Kevin Nixon with permission.

“Def Leppard is a vital part of my life.
I don’t know who or where I would be without them.”

I’ve been fortunate to meet the band several times and have had the privilege of getting to know some members on a more personal basis. They are kind and gracious, and always make me feel that they’re happy to see me. I keep my cool on the surface in these instances but, inside, I’m a wreck. Because that young girl whose world was turned on its head after hearing a Def Leppard song, that girl whose only dream was to see them in concert, that girl who kissed their posters at night and wrote about them in her diary?

That girl is me. Still.

Much more nervous than I look. July 2015.

She cries at every Leppard show she attends – and always will. She gets butterflies in her stomach when the arena lights go down. She can hardly breathe from the feelings of excitement and admiration and gratitude that flood her system when they’re onstage, and her senses are awash with sound and light and rapture. She wishes she could share these experiences with her Mom but realizes that a cloud of cosmic stardust must be at play because, honestly, how can she be this lucky?

If someone were to tell her that, one day, her favorite band would know who she is, she wouldn’t believe it. But she sure would fantasize (and write) about it.

Here Today

In December 2010, Paul McCartney performed “Here Today” on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon to honor the 30th anniversary of John Lennon’s death. Before playing the song, McCartney addressed the audience:

“If you want to say to someone you love them, tell them now, ‘cause, you know, there may come a point when it’s too late, and you think, ‘I wish I’d said that.’”

After the performance, Fallon shook McCartney’s hand to thank him, then patted him on the back and nervously said, “I love you.”

Inspired by that pure moment between fan and artist, when given the opportunity, I tell my favorite band that I love them, too.

We Belong

Long before Def Leppard took the stage to accept its Hall of Fame award, I was in tears. (If you’ve read this far, you know that’s a foregone conclusion.) It wasn’t until I was in that room, which was bathed in pale blue light, amongst a legion of fellow Leppard fans who came out in droves to show support, that the enormity of the moment hit home.

This was special.

Def Leppard’s richly deserved success was hard won. Nothing came without disproportionate doses of struggle and anguish. Still, the band held on no matter the obstacles thrown. They never stopped believing in themselves or their fans, and we certainly never stopped believing in them. They’ve had their fair share of detractors – still do – but they never let negativity get in the way of who they are and what they stand for. They never gave up. Theirs is a story of survival. Of overcoming adversity with grace and humility. Of perseverance.

And this honor was justification – for the band and the millions of fans the world over who call them their own.

“Theirs is a story of survival and perseverance. They never gave up.”

A video montage began with the question, “Do you wanna get rocked?” as the crowd roared. Footage spanning the band’s magnificent career followed and, as I relived those moments through tears – the ups and downs, the triumphs and calamities, all those songs – it felt as if I were watching a reel of my own life.

Hero and longtime friend, Queen’s Brian May, inducted the band with an effusive and heartfelt speech, replete with touching personal anecdotes, that elicited laughter and tears from the audience. The degree of mutual respect and admiration between the Leppard and May camps was palpable. Something about the presence of living legends changes the temperature of a room.

Def Leppard took the stage to rousing applause, as frontman Joe Elliott began a speech that was eloquent, gracious, and funny, and that poignantly expressed the band’s gratitude for an illustrious and enduring career. The resilience that lies at the heart of Def Leppard was captured in Elliott’s words, as he recounted the trials and tragedies that threatened to derail the band – the same elements that ultimately rendered its members more solid and capable.

Def Leppard accepts entry into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame from Queen’s, Brian May. March 2019. Credit to owner.

“I’m proud to call Def Leppard my band.”

Nary a dry eye could be found in the building as Elliott spoke of Allen’s near-fatal car crash. On Allen’s recovery, Elliott said, “He survived it and came out the other side stronger.” Tears streamed down Allen’s face as the audience rose to its feet in an extended ovation, reminiscent of the overwhelming response to Allen’s triumphant return at the Monsters of Rock Festival at Castle Donington in 1986.

One by one, the band members embraced Allen, as the applause and clamor from the captivated audience reached a chills-inducing crescendo. This was true brotherhood on display, as genuine as it gets.

Def Leppard’s emotional acceptance speech at the 2019 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony. March 2019. Credit to owner.

At the close of his speech, Elliott paid tribute to his fellow bandmates, saying they are “the closest thing to brothers this only child has ever known.”

All smiles. Before the tears washed away the makeup. (Mine, not his.) March 2019.

My heart swelled with affection and pride. This is the reason I love this band as much as I do. I’m proud to call Def Leppard “my band.”

Def Leppard is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. And that’s exactly where they belong.

I was honored and humbled to attend the ceremony. Seeing the band receive this long-overdue recognition was surreal. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I, too, was right where I belonged.

Congratulations, Def Leppard. Perseverance and integrity finally win the day.

Long live Leppard.

2019 Rock and Roll Hall of Famers!

Photo: Kevin Nixon with permission. 2018.

Watch Def Leppard’s emotional induction speech here.

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