Such lip service is especially insipid since Hagar has always been such a mundane, middle-of-the-road hack. Say what you will about Diamond Dave's (extremely) failed bid to replace Howard Stern, at least the man had flair -- an obnoxious, over-the-top, distinctive flamboyance that matched Eddie Van Halen's obsessive pyrotechnics tit for tat.
Once egos clashed and Roth got the boot, Eddie went looking for a nonthreatening presence to (not) share the stage with. Even in '85, Hagar's future looked far less promising than that of A-ha; choosing him to lead Van Halen was a disastrously boring choice. Imagine: If not for Van Halen's fateful call (the suggestion came from Eddie's mechanic), the band might have avoided its descent into the tepid, MOR morass from which it never emerged. A once-campy, honest, and horny homage to the Kinks and Roy Orbison became an adult-contemporary nightmare. Childishly titled efforts such as OU812 and For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge are depressing reminders of just how tired the band (and hard rock in general) became.
Hagar's a well-tanned dumbass, a party-till-you-drop "dude" of the highest order, whose adolescent ode to speeding, "I Can't Drive 55," is the musical equivalent of a fart joke. Look for it to appear early in the first set, along with enough rescued Van Halen chestnuts to send the bleary-eyed crowd back to the '80s, a time of mullets, tight pants, and other bad decisions.