Shillong Sets the Stage for Def Leppard’s India Tour

There are songs that slip into your life quietly and refuse to leave. They arrive without ceremony, often through borrowed cassette tapes, late-night radio, or a friend who insists you listen closely. For many of us growing up, “Love Bites” by Def Leppard was one such song. It carried a mood we did not fully understand then, but felt compelled by. In school corridors and hostel rooms, its lyrics seemed bold, almost conspiratorial, as if they belonged to a world just beyond our reach:
“When you make love, do you look in your mirror?

Who do you think of, does he look like me?”

Years later, in the soft chill of an evening within the premises of the RBDSA Sports Complex, Umroi, Ri Bhoi District n Shillong, that same song returned. Not through memory, but alive, unfolding in real time, in a city that has always understood the quiet power of music.

Shillong did not rush into the night. It never does. There is a certain patience to the way the city receives sound. Perhaps it comes from the rain, or the hills, or the generations that have grown up with guitars as companions rather than accessories. So when Def Leppard walked onto the stage, there was no immediate frenzy. There was recognition first.

Joe Elliott stood at the centre with an ease that comes from years of holding an audience without needing to demand it. On either side, Phil Collen and Vivian Campbell shaped the sound with precision and instinct. Rick Savage kept the foundation steady, while Rick Allen anchored the night with a presence that needed no embellishment.

Before them, the stage had already been claimed in a way that felt rooted. Trance Effect from Nagaland opened the evening with a set that felt honest and unforced. There was no imitation in their sound, only a quiet assertion that this region has always had its own relationship with rock. Their presence lingered even after they left the stage.

Somewhere in the early moments of the evening, amidst the gathering crowd and the slow rise of anticipation, Devajit Saikia,  Advocate General of Assam, BCCI Secretary, and a longtime music lover, remarked with a quiet smile, “It feels familiar. Like something we have known for a long time finally finding its place here.” It was not said as spectacle, but as recognition.

The concert unfolded with a sense of ease. It began with “Higher,” allowing the audience to settle, followed by “Let Us All Rejoice,” which drew people closer into the moment. “All I Need” continued that gentle build, almost as if the band was feeling its way into the space rather than overwhelming it.
A simple “Khublie Shillong” shifted everything. It was not rehearsed to impress. It was received because it was meant. And then “Let’s Get Rocked” broke through, and the stillness dissolved. The crowd responded, not as spectators, but as participants who had been waiting for this exact release.
A look back to the early years brought in “Bringin’ On the Heartbreak.” The mention of 1981 carried its own weight. For some, it was memory. For others, discovery. But in that moment, both felt equally present.

Standing somewhere within the crowd, Richard Khan a guitar collector from Nongpoh reflected softly, “These songs were always personal. Hearing them here changes something.” It was not excitement alone. It was something deeper, quieter.

The set moved through its textures. “Wanna Get My Hands Dirty” introduced a roughness, a certain restlessness that belongs to rock in its truest form. “I Won’t Make Promises” softened that edge, allowing the night to breathe.

Then came a moment that seemed to arrive on its own. After a stretch of guitar work, attention turned to Rick Allen. The applause that followed was not immediate. It grew. It carried respect, not noise.
At around 9:20 PM, without announcement, “Love Bites” entered the night. For many, this was the quiet centre of the concert. The same song that once felt distant now belonged to this place, this air, this gathering of people who had carried it in their own ways.

Not far from the centre of the venue, Nathaniel Chaliha stood still, listening closely. “This is how we listen,” he said later. “Completely.” There was nothing more to add.

The presence of Conrad Sangma, Chief Minister of Meghalaya known for his own love for music, added another quiet layer to the evening. Seen among the audience, he did not stand apart from the moment but within it, absorbing the energy, acknowledging the significance of Shillong hosting the opening night of such a tour. It was less about attendance and more about participation.

“Hysteria” followed, expansive and immersive, its sound settling into the contours of the hills. And when the band asked the audience to raise their hands and keep time, the response came without hesitation. Rhythm here is instinctive.

From Bengaluru, Rhea Menon, who had travelled for the concert, found herself unexpectedly still in that moment. “I thought I came for the band,” she said, “but it feels like I came for the city.”
By the time “Pour Some Sugar on Me” arrived, the night had shed all distance. The song did not play to the crowd. It moved through it. Voices merged, hands stayed raised, and for a brief stretch, the boundary between performer and listener disappeared.

The concert marked the beginning of a three-city journey across India. Yet, there was something about Shillong that made this opening feel complete in itself. The city did not try to prove anything. It simply received the music and gave it back, fuller.

As the band signed off, there was no rush to leave. The sound lingered. Conversations slowed. People stayed back, not wanting to interrupt what had just settled within them.

Some songs stay with you for years. And sometimes, when they return, they bring you back with them.
Shillong listened. And in listening, it became part of the music.