I’ve spent the last few months writing about the surreal experience of decades apart concerts — seeing bands in the 80s and then again 30 or 40 years later. OMD at the Rose Bowl in 1988 and again in Dallas last year, Depeche Mode at the Bowl and with my son in 2024, The B‑52s in their late‑career run, Jane’s Addiction in their reunion‑and‑re‑breakup era, Nine Inch Nails with a new generation of fans, and Love and Rockets returning after a long absence. Not to mention, my interesting Morrissey history.
The whole thing started accidentally. I was writing what I thought would be a straightforward OMD concert review, then remembered the technical glitch during their Dallas show, reread Richard Blade’s book, and realized they’d had a similar glitch at the Rose Bowl. That parallel — two shows, 37 years apart, linked by the same kind of moment — became the spark for this entire series.
As I kept writing, I realized many of these concerts weren’t just about the music. Depeche Mode became a story about passing the torch. The B‑52s connected to my family’s history with the Universal Amphitheatre. Jane’s Addiction turned out to be the night I met my future wife. Nine Inch Nails revealed something about my son’s passion for lighting and projections as we think about his future. And They Might Be Giants — the first concert my wife and I ever saw together — is finally happening again this November, the only decades‑apart show that’s officially on the calendar.
But there were still dozens of bands I saw last century that I haven’t revisited at all — one that I’ll see again soon, some I hope to, some that would break personal records, and some that sadly won’t happen.
They Might Be Giants — The One That’s Actually Happening
The first concert my wife and I ever saw together was They Might Be Giants at the University of Redlands in 1994. It wasn’t a club or a theater — it was a ballroom‑style space that felt more like a high‑school homecoming dance at Mt. SAC than a proper concert venue. A few hundred people, maybe 300 tops. The kind of room where you half‑expect the night to turn into the toga‑party scene from Animal House, and you’re a little disappointed when it doesn’t.
Frank Black opened the show, still in his post‑Pixies solo era. By then I’d already seen Pixies multiple times, so catching Black Francis in a makeshift ballroom felt like a strange collision of worlds — a cult icon playing to a crowd that could’ve fit into a large lecture hall at UCLA.
Thirty‑two years later, we’re going to be seeing They Might Be Giants again — this time at the Echo Lounge in Dallas. A real venue this time, not a campus ballroom with fluorescent lights and a borrowed PA. It’s a full‑circle return, but with better production values — and just five days shy of being exactly 32 years apart.
Decades Apart Concerts: New Order & The Cure — The Ones I Most Want
Some bands sit at the top of the “I hope this happens” list, and for me, New Order is number one. The Cure is right behind them — still a major want, still a band I’d see again in a heartbeat — but New Order is the one that hits closest to home musically. Both would make for incredible decades‑apart comparisons, but for different reasons.
New Order
New Order is the band I want to see again more than anyone else. I saw them in 1989 at the Universal Amphitheatre — a venue that doesn’t exist anymore — with Throwing Muses opening. It was the tail end of the Technique era. They were still balancing the last traces of their post‑punk DNA with the electronic sound that would define the next decade.
They don’t have any shows scheduled this year, but they’re still active and still sharp. With Joy Division/New Order being inducted into the Rock Hall, I’m hoping it nudges them into one more tour. In the meantime, I’m seeing Peter Hook & The Light at House of Blues Dallas this October. Hooky and his band are known for putting on a great show, even if it’s not the full New Order experience.
If The Cure is the emotional favorite for a lot of people, New Order is the one that fits my musical DNA the closest. Seeing them again would close a loop that’s been open for 37 years.
The Cure
The last time I saw The Cure was in 1989 at Dodger Stadium — a massive, sun‑baked, end‑of‑the‑80s show with Pixies and Love and Rockets on the bill. It felt like a snapshot of the era: Robert Smith in full Disintegration mode, the band at their peak, and a supporting lineup that could have only existed in that exact moment.
They’re touring Europe this year, but nothing is scheduled in the U.S. yet. Still, The Cure has a long history of circling back to America, and they’re one of the few bands from that era who can still deliver a show that feels both familiar and completely new. If they announce U.S. dates, I’m there.
Thomas Dolby & Men Without Hats — The Record‑Setting Possibilities
Some bands sit in a strange middle zone within the whole idea of decades apart concerts. They’re not impossible, not imminent, but still technically alive on the touring circuit. Thomas Dolby and Men Without Hats fall squarely into that category. Both are performing again, both still draw crowds, and both are touring in 2026 — just not anywhere near Dallas. If either one expanded their tour to Dallas or somewhere not too far away, they’d instantly become the longest gaps of my entire concert‑going life.
Thomas Dolby
The last time I saw Thomas Dolby was in 1988 at the Rose Bowl as part of Depeche Mode’s Concert for the Masses. Dolby played after Wire, and the whole day felt like a curated snapshot of late‑80s synth culture. His set was one of those performances you appreciate more in hindsight, especially now that he’s resurfaced on the touring circuit.
A month or so ago, Dolby appeared on 1st Wave’s Hollywood Happy Hour with Richard Blade. It ended up being one of the most fascinating, enjoyable interview‑performances I’ve ever heard. He was sharp, funny, reflective, and completely in command of his own history. If anyone wants a reminder of why he still matters — or just wants to hear a great conversation — I highly recommend looking up the replay.
He’s headlining the Totally Tubular Festival this year, and I was hoping their April 20 announcement would include a Dallas date. No such luck. If he ever did come through Texas, it would be a 38‑year gap between shows — 1988 to 2026.
Men Without Hats
Men Without Hats sits in the same category, but with a more personal twist. I saw them in 1988 at Disneyland during Grad Night — literally the night I graduated high school and just days before heading to the Rose Bowl for Depeche Mode. If I’m remembering correctly, they played on Tom Sawyer Island, with temporary grandstands set up across the Rivers of America so we could watch from the mainland.
There was something surreal about being in Disneyland after hours, dressed up for Grad Nite, riding Space Mountain at midnight and then watching Men Without Hats on Tom Sawyer Island like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It captured peak late‑80s Southern California — the glow of the park after midnight, the crowds drifting between rides and stages, and that surreal, only‑in‑So‑Cal feeling that made Grad Nite unforgettable.
They’re headlining the Lost 80’s Live tour this year, which I really enjoyed last year, but it looks like that tour is sticking to the West Coast. Their album On the Moon from last year was one of my favorites, and I even picked up a signed CD. If they ever made it to Dallas, the gap would match Dolby’s: 1988 to 2026.
These two aren’t emotional priorities like New Order or The Cure, but they’re fascinating possibilities. They’re the “record‑setters,” the ones that would stretch the decades‑apart concept to its limit.
Squeeze, Beck & Violent Femmes — The Fun, Could‑Happen Bands
Not every decades apart concerts possibility comes with emotional weight or a decades‑long narrative arc. Some bands fall into a simpler category: they’d be fun to see again, they still tour regularly enough to make it plausible, and if they showed up in Dallas, I’d buy a ticket without overthinking it. Squeeze, Beck, and Violent Femmes all fit that description.
Squeeze
The last time I saw Squeeze was in 1991 at the Hollywood Bowl on a bill with Sting — not just any show, but Sting’s 40th birthday concert, broadcast as a one‑time pay‑per‑view event. Squeeze opening for Sting at a televised birthday celebration is the kind of thing that could only happen in that era, when MTV, adult contemporary, and alternative pop all overlapped in strange ways.
Squeeze is touring again this year, including another Hollywood Bowl date. If they add Texas, it becomes an instant decades‑apart candidate.
Beck
I saw Beck in 1999 at the Tropicana in Las Vegas on a bill with Tenacious D — but only after the original date was cancelled the day of the show, supposedly because a band member was sick. I still remember driving up to Vegas, heading to the Tropicana, and finding out at the door that the concert wasn’t happening.
We salvaged the weekend by stumbling into a free Richard Cheese lounge show at an off‑off‑Strip casino. It kind of felt like a deleted scene from Swingers.
When the rescheduled Tropicana date finally happened, it was even stranger and cooler than expected. Tenacious D opened, and I can still picture Jack Black and Kyle Gass belting out the 1960s Spider‑Man cartoon theme and launching Nerf darts into the crowd with stomp‑powered air cannons. The whole thing took place in a traditional Vegas lounge, with tables and cocktail‑show seating. And Beck himself was a breakdancing fool, throwing himself into the performance in a way that made the room feel like a time warp between indie rock, lounge kitsch, and late‑90s weirdness.
With the Tropicana being demolished to make way for the Athletics new baseball stadium, it joins the list of venues where I’ve attended concerts that no longer exist, like Universal Amphitheater and Irvine Meadows Amphitheater.
From what I’ve seen, Beck tours unpredictably. Sometimes he does full runs. Other times he pops up for one‑off shows or co‑headlining packages.
Violent Femmes
Violent Femmes falls into the same category: fun, energetic, and always worth seeing. I last saw them in 1999 at the LA County Fair — a very “1999” setting for a band that thrives on chaotic, loose‑limbed performances. They’re touring again this year, just not near Dallas. They’re the kind of band that easily adds dates or jumps on a festival lineup.
The Ones That Can’t Happen Anymore
Not every band from my early concert years is still an option. Some are gone, some are defunct, and some exist in name only. These aren’t decades‑apart possibilities — they’re fixed points in the past.
David Bowie
I saw Bowie live in 1987 on the Glass Spider tour, and even then it felt like watching someone who existed slightly outside the normal rules of performance. There’s no version of this series where he appears again — sadly that window closed permanently in 2016. Bowie is one of the few artists where the absence feels absolute.
Looking back now, it’s hard to overstate how much of the DNA of New Wave runs straight through Bowie — the theatricality, the reinvention, the sense that pop music could be art without losing its pulse. Seeing him in the ’80s feels even more significant in hindsight, because there’s simply no one else like him left.
INXS
INXS is another one that’s permanently off the table. I saw them in 1988 at the Pacific Amphitheatre at the OC Fairgrounds, right in the middle of their Kick era peak. It was the kind of outdoor summer show that only Southern California could pull off in the late 80s — big hooks, big crowd, and a band operating at full power.
They’re long overdue for Rock Hall recognition. Their run from Shabooh Shoobah through Kick shaped 80s radio and helped define the crossover between rock, pop, and New Wave. If they ever do get inducted, it’ll feel like a long‑delayed acknowledgment of how big their footprint really was.
Mary’s Danish
Mary’s Danish is long defunct, and that’s probably where they’ll stay. They were a great live band, I saw them multiple times — chaotic, soulful, and completely of their era — but there’s no realistic scenario where they return.
Oingo Boingo (with Danny Elfman)
Oingo Boingo still tours in a “former members” configuration, but without Danny Elfman, it’s not the band I saw in 1989. And Elfman isn’t returning to that role. The closest I ever got to seeing him again wasn’t onstage — it was across a counter.
Back in ’91 or ’92, I worked at First Interstate Bank in Pacific Palisades, and Danny Elfman was a customer. Usually his personal assistant handled everything, but one afternoon he came in himself. He was instantly recognizable — the red hair, the posture, the quiet presence. He was polite, a little shy, nothing like the wild‑eyed frontman I’d seen onstage a year or two earlier. The building burned down in the Palisades fire last year, but that moment stuck with me.
Closing Reflection
What I didn’t expect when I started writing these was how much the real meaning lived outside the music. The whole idea of decades apart concerts just makes those differences easier to see.
It shows which concerts carried more weight than I realized at the time. It shows which ones still echo now, and which ones were simply part of the long list of shows I’ve seen along the way.
