What Would Journey Do?

And that's all they need. By the next familiar line -- "Oooooooooho" -- eyes diverted by ESPN are now trained to the stage. And by the chorus -- "Don't you . . . forget about me" -- guys are nodding their heads, even singing along. The women line the bar near the stage, arms raised as if they're on a roller coaster, belting every word.

The opening set builds from there, like a ripple miles off coast that eventually turns a bodyboarder on his head. It rolls gently through "Hurts So Good" and "Just What I Needed," and rises swiftly with "Just Like Heaven." That gets the women dancing. Men inch closer to watch, shrugging and looking at each other: These guys aren't bad.

The wave breaks when Brooks lays into the Outfield: "Josie's on a vacation far away . . ." When the chorus crashes down, the band cuts out, and the crowd, which is growing, does the work for them: "I don't wanna lose your love tonight."

The first set is over. That long-haired guitarist from Warrant, Billy Morris, says into the mic, "Stick around, get drunk, and be somebody."

The crowd obeys.

Everyone is more or less drunk now. Promoters have been passing out free Bud Selects, and a pink-flamingo beer bong is making the rounds. Brooks has shotgunned three beers himself. Even the band's affable bassist, an ad salesman and father of three, who rushed here from his rec soccer game, has partaken of the glorious Flabongo.

Now it's one power ballad after another. None of that building-wave crap. It's Journey into AC/DC into Bon Jovi into Def Leppard into Mötley Crüe into more Bon Jovi. It's 15 women dancing onstage at once. It's guys picking up bar stools and using them to nail that solo from "Pour Some Sugar on Me."

It all ends with a crashing cymbal, the exclamation point on "Fight for Your Right." The crowd stumbles onto Detroit Avenue, hailing cabs and climbing into cars they shouldn't drive.

Brooks joins them on the street. He bums a cigarette and graciously accepts compliments. A drunk guy approaches. Shakes Brooks' hand. Asks the singer to take off his sunglasses, so he can look him in the eyes. Brooks obliges. It's the first time they've been off since he showered several hours ago -- presuming he doesn't wear them in the shower.

"Can I ask you a question?" Drunk Dude slurs.

"Sure," Brooks grins.

"Is it true that you're 51?" Drunk Dude asks.

"Do I look 51?"

"No, man!"

Drunk Dude walks away. He looks embarrassed.

Brooks smiles and says to himself, "Getting close."

Brooks has no shortage of friends, and those friends have no shortage of stories to tell. They can tell you about all the tequila he shot and drugs he did and strippers he screwed, about the places he slept and the nights he didn't. But what they can't tell you -- what they won't tell you -- is how old he is.

"He could be 45. He could be 60," says Brooks' former manager, Obi Steinman, who's privy to the secret, but not spilling. "I do know Dave wasn't born in a hospital. He was born on a pool table."

Actually, he was born in a hospital. But it wasn't long until his mother was taking him to pool halls in their hometown of Geneva, just inside the Pennsylvania border. He was only 14 when he played his first gig, in a nightclub called the Cove.

By the early '80s, Brooks was fronting Risqué, a cover band that played to 2,000 people at the Akron Agora. He moved to Los Angeles in 1989, got a job telemarketing, and shared a two-bedroom apartment with 13 people. That's when he met Steinman.

"I made the mistake of letting him come over to my place," Steinman says. "He didn't leave for about a year and half."

An aspiring talent manager, Steinman didn't have any clients; Brooks didn't have a job. They were a match made in Hollywood. They found some musicians and started playing clubs under that old name, Risqué. The band had a funkier sound than the cock rock that was popular -- Poison, Whitesnake, and the rest. But Brooks' Axl-esque braids, affinity for drugs and strippers, and ability to shriek passionately about these vices helped Risqué tap into the glam-metal scene.

Several labels were interested, but none more than Priority Records. Its existing clients --N.W.A. and Ice Cube, to name two -- had a slightly different sound. But the band signed anyway.