Testing her metal

What’s that you say? It’s been a quarter century since pop-metal and arena rock ruled? Exactly. In accordance with the unwritten laws of nostalgia, the ’80s are back: on television, on Broadway, and on concert stages. On Sunday the REO Speedwagon, Styx, and .38 Special tour rolls into the Comcast Center. Two days later Def Leppard, Poison, and Cheap Trick take the same stage. A week after that Judas Priest and Whitesnake will grace the grounds. Pondering the abundance of big hair and power ballads, a particularly savvy cultural observer (my editor) noted that one of his music writers (yours truly) had a gaping hole in her listening history. Hence, one woman’s belated stab at embracing the era’s iconic albums.

Def Leppard’s “Hysteria,’’ from 1987, is one of the few discs in rock history to chart seven singles on the Billboard Hot 100, so it must be hot. Full disclosure: I have a “Pour Some Sugar on Me’’ station on the Pandora.com Internet radio site, where I stream other sleazy anthems that share musical DNA with the most enduring track in Def Leppard’s catalog. I also know “Love Bites.’’ So I pressed play with an open heart, only to fully bum out when a creationist dirge set in the garden of Eden came chugging like primordial sexist sludge from my head phones. Go ahead and Google the lyrics to “Women.’’ I did, and figured it was critical to sweep gender and politics under the carpet if I had any hope of grokking the rock.

All is well and good. “Armageddon It’’ turns me into a bobblehead. I start wondering why I didn’t hang out with the metal kids. For a stretch I am stupid and happy and mentally scouring for a lighter, until “Gods of War’’ comes on. Who knew Def Leppard did protest songs, with sound clips of machine guns and helicopters and proselytizing heads of state? Yes, Reagan and Thatcher make (publicly recorded) cameos on “Hysteria,’’ and their voices make my ears go pop. Just like the sweet, sweet harmonies.

Speaking of which, if you’ve ever wondered why Shania Twain enters your mind while you’re listening to Def Leppard, the missing link is producer (and former Mr. Twain) Mutt Lange. Shania would’ve had a field day with “Animal’’ - a sugared slice of milquetoast that smacks of Journey.

And truly, it doesn’t get any hotter than Journey. In recent years “Don’t Stop Believin’ ’’ has been featured in the final scene of “The Sopranos,’’ in Kanye West’s live show, on “American Idol’’ and “Glee,’’ and as the finale in the jukebox musical “Rock of Ages.’’

That current Broadway hit is a big wet kiss to the most-maligned musical decade, and the explanation behind one of this year’s most oddball television appearances: Poison on the Tony Awards. The band performed “Nothin’ But a Good Time,’’ one of several massive hits from 1988’s seductively titled “Open Up and Say . . . Ahh!’’ The CD doesn’t seem to be in stock anywhere, for reasons that become clear after streaming the album online. It is a viciously teased, bleached-out bounty of rock cliches and stock catchphrases separated into songs by the feeblest of markers: a shaker, a cowbell, a freakish Loggins and Messina cover.

Poison is Power Vac for the soul. I am empty, devoid of sensation, and still I try to cozy up to the smash “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,’’ mostly because Larry at Best Buy told me that the song appears on a popular power-ballad compilation the store carries, and also because Melissa Auf der Maur and Joey Fatone both recorded it. No luck. My switchboard is dark.

Not so for REO Speedwagon. If arenas didn’t exist, someone would have had to invent them in 1980 so that REO Speedwagon could play “Hi Infidelity’’ in its natural habitat. This album rawks, with all the outlandish zeal and cheesy dueling guitars the special spelling implies, except when it doesn’t - namely, when the band astral projects to a sock hop or a Southern church. This is so wrong. I want to scream at them to stick to the script. Poison might be dim-witted, but at least they wear inanity like a badge of honor.

That’s when it dawns on me, during “I Wish You Were There,’’ a gospel number so icky and ill-suited to REO Speedwagon I begin to crave Poison’s dull raunch: Pop fandom is predicated on complicity, an unspoken pact between performers and their followers. Crudely put, Def Leppard agrees to crank out loud, fetching anthems and the fans agree to bang their heads in unquestioning solidarity with the vague but potent promise of youthful release. Or, 25 years on, the memory of that release. Happily for rock fans you can go home again, provided you’ve got a couple of hours and some bucks to blow on tickets.

Problem is, I grew up in a different neighborhood. I’m just a tourist here. Sure, I had some laughs. I might even come back some day, if the right song comes on the radio. I’ll roll the windows down and crank up the volume. But I won’t be staying long.

Joan Anderman can be reached at anderman@globe.com.