Danny Zelisko sent me the email last week. "If you come to Phoenix, I'll take care of you for Van Halen." Arizona's Bill Graham, the greatest concert promoter Alice Cooper's desert homeland ever knew-- has been my friend for 20 years. He appears in two chapters of my book but more than that, in mind, body and spirit he represents the Jack Black face- melting essence of what an authentic rock fan truly is. He made his fortune as the founder of Evening Star Entertainment, later bought out by Clear Channel, now a Live Nation property. But Danny has never waved from his initial inspiration, that being, his insatiable thirst for the exquisite elixir called rock n' roll.

Clock reads 6: 45 am. "Guess the Universe beckons I rock the mile once again," squeaks the nagging, ragging, shagging inner voice. Highway 10 from L.A., a straight line, no fine, easy time, cranking the immortal Ed and Dave catalog, honoring the cacti, quick stop at Quartzite to pee and munch and pay homage to the snow bird-laden border village where Emile Hirsch met the hippie songstress in Sean Penn's masterpiece, Into the Wild. Effortless passage has me at the Yard House bar and grill in the entertainment complex adjacent to the ultra-modern Jobing.com arena, swilling brews and vending a memoir or two to a waiter, a hot indigenous blonde named Terri and a fan from San Diego who recognizes me from Headbanger's Ball 15 years ago. As the sun drops bellows the horizon, the packed-eatery vibrates over the site of a melon-sized full moon in anticipation of the reunion of the ages.

There's no meet and greet, no pre show hang, no after show hang, none of the social window dressing that has become part and parcel to my own personal live gig experience for the past quarter century. "The Van Halens don't see anybody," says Danny dryly. "They have no guests, do no interviews. They just show up, hit the stage, rock for two and a half hours, and disappear. I got two minutes to say hello, which is nice since I'm paying 'em a million bucks tonight. It's fucking Van Halen. It's Ed and Dave. No other words need be spoken. Let's grab some seats and prepare to rock."

And there we sit, two fans, side by side, third row, close enough to see it all, even without the amazing stage length mega screen. And it is all there for they are there. The quartet, slightly altered from the original, but in blood and name, an even purer Van Halen. Alex: elder brother, thundermaster of the kit, muscular, methodical, downright mythical. Diamond Dave: perfectly perverted ventriloquist-dummy smile guarding a pair of renewed pipes that wail stronger than when he crooned the Sunset Strip before the vinyl eruption that altered the rotation of Planet Rock forever. Wolfgang – the prodigy named for the Austrian avatar whose Classical concertos rocked ancient halls two centuries ago, almost shy in his effortless command of the four-string, digital DNA in tact, on track, no slack. Edward: the inventor, cradling his immortal axe, launching riff missiles into the cosmos, missing nary a note at half a hundred, more dazzling and alien brilliant in his new, sober state than ever before. And for the first time, as the notes are rocketing off his divine digits, he's got a grin on his face. The pain has evaporated, the addiction, for the moment, wrestled to the mat with sumo strength, the courage of a hero understanding that this was what we, the fans, had been waiting so long for.

The set list explodes like an Uzi assault; hearkening songs so familiar to you and I, the notes are etched on the electrons of our musical memory stems. When the kid points his bass toward the sky and thumps the opening notes to 'Runnin' with the Devil.' I'm teleported back to UCLA, senior year, 1978, driving to campus in my mom's '65 Chevy Malibu, paying close attention to KMET 94.7 and the hot new track from the self-titled local debut. We were all hopelessly hooked after that. This was the era of PERFECT LPs. Alice Cooper, Supertramp, Van Halen -- no filler, just killer tracks in exacting, sonic, serenading sequence.

We needled this vinyl like hopeless junkies. Our survival depended on those precious air guitar moments of the day when the mirror stars took over. Ed was the extra-terrestrial captain of the shred battalion, sent to Earth not with hands but flesh-covered weapons of mass destruction. He was Industrial, mechanical, precise, intense, yet at the same time, delicate, authentic, organic, playful, and human. The louder we played Van Halen, the better we felt.

Friday night in Phoenix, I felt 21 again. So did Danny. But then again, he never grew up either. Do any of us who truly love rock n' roll ever really mature? Saturday morning, I rise to a perfect desert day and drive home, stopping at the east entrance of Joshua Tree to deliver a prayer of gratitude. To friends, family, Earth, Sky, and a band from Pasadena. Jedi Tony K, in your infinite web surfing prowess, please provide the set list below so Van Halen fans across America who have yet to witness the resurrection can bust their piggy banks and make the drive themselves. Bottoms Up!