I have a new hero.

He's a slightly pudgy, 40-year-old guy from Charlotte, N.C., named Tommy DeCarlo.

I don't know what he does for a living or much else about him, but I wish I could be him for a while.

Here's why: In August, the iconic '70s band Boston invited this fellow to a tribute show for their late lead singer, Brad Delp, who killed himself in March at age 55. Delp, often called "the nicest guy in rock 'n' roll," had been my favorite singer since I was 12.

I still remember shooting baskets at my neighbor's house on a summer day when I first heard "Peace of Mind" on the radio. I felt instantly captivated by those honey-crunch guitars and Delp's four-octave exuberance.

As a friend of mine once indelicately observed: "That guy can sing his (expletive) off."

I still have one of Delp's guitar picks from an old show.

After his suicide, the band held a concert in his honor with some other rockers like Sammy Hagar and Extreme. Among this group of heavy hitters was DeCarlo, who took the stage and sang "Smokin' " from the band's 1976 debut.

DeCarlo, it turns out, is a Boston fan who sings cover songs. He sent Boston mastermind Tom Scholz a Web link of himself belting out one of the band's tunes.

Much renowned -- some would say reviled -- as a perfectionist, Scholz was stunned by DeCarlo's uncanny ability to mimic Delp's stratospheric vocals.

So he asked him to sing at the tribute.

On the band's Web site, Scholz said DeCarlo can sing like Delp "down to the slightest tonal changes and inflections. And unbelievably this miracle singer turns out to be just a nice, regular guy, who gets on a plane to Boston, climbs on stage with a band he's just met, and blows everybody's mind! Didn't even get a sound check!"

It was the kind of thing Delp would have loved, people said, because he most enjoyed interacting with his fans.

Now there's even talk of DeCarlo, who said singing with the band was like a dream, becoming the lead singer for Boston if Scholz and company ever make more music.

•

This whole tale is a storybook episode for any middle-aged guy who grew up relishing those '70s arena bands, especially Boston.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I still listen to that stuff on my iPod and try to play it on my guitar (I have zero ability but my 4-year-old doesn't know that; she likes to dance to my efforts). If I could sing -- and I surely can't -- getting up there with Boston to take Delp's place would be one maximum thrill.

I know some purists will be aghast at this fantasy, fueled as it is by such pedestrian musical tastes. Boston is often derided as the epitome of soulless stadium rock.

I used to feel a little guilty about liking the band and many others of that era that have long faded from the scene: Kansas, Electric Light Orchestra, Doobie Brothers, Van Halen.

These days I'm older and don't much care what people think.

That viewpoint -- about music or anything else -- sometimes develops in men once they hit a certain age and become fathers a few times over, at least according to Jerry Seinfeld, another of my heroes.

In one of his bits, he says, "Once a man has children, for the rest of his life his attitude is, 'To hell with the world, I can make my own people. I'll eat whatever I want, I'll wear whatever I want, and I'll create whoever I want.' "

And, I presume, listen to whatever I want.

•

It's simple: I like music that sounds good.

So naturally, I won't listen to any of this crap out there now that makes you want to shoot someone (hip-hop), jump off a bridge (grunge) or lie in bed all day feeling sorry for yourself (whine-rock).

I'm clearly headed for geezerdom, I realize, but it's like Bob Seger (who?) sang: "Just take those old records off the shelf, I'll sit and listen to them by myself."

The iPod makes it so easy to cocoon yourself in your own little world.

In a nod to modernity, I do have some Third Eye Blind and Foo Fighters on that thing.

Also Shania Twain, although I'm fully aware that her slick productions are more coldly calculated than Hillary Clinton's campaign.

But mostly I've downloaded a strange brew of older artists -- Dire Straits, Bruce Hornsby, Def Leppard, Boz Scaggs, the Outfield, Madonna, Billy Idol, the Cult.

And a whole lot of Boston.

The kind of dense, rich sound the group produced has long been criticized as overproduced, formulaic. It's not "real" enough, I guess, for the glowering gangstas and grungers.

But to me, these tunes are an infectious mix of melody, crisp guitar, soaring solos and even some hand-clapping, all overlaid with sonorous harmonies.

They're good-time songs. They make me feel like lacing up my running shoes.

As a kid, I nearly wore out Boston's 1976 vinyl disc. The later albums never measured up, but that one is just about perfect. It remains among the highest-selling in history.

Even now, I marvel at Delp's silken, layered vocals on "More Than a Feeling."

That monster hit was once voted the second-most difficult song to sing.

The voice that pulled it off so effortlessly should not have gone silent so soon.

•

Sealed in his bathroom in Atkinson, N.H., Delp lit two charcoal grills and asphyxiated himself with carbon monoxide. He had paper-clipped a note to his shirt that read: "Mr. Brad Delp. J'ai une âme solitaire. I am a lonely soul."

He also left a warning to the responding police to watch out for the carbon monoxide. He didn't want to hurt anyone else.

But he did, of course. He devastated his family, his friends and his bandmates. And he hurt millions of his fans who felt a piece of their childhoods slip away.

He hurt me.

There's a new song out now, his final one, recorded in 2006 for the 30th anniversary of Boston's emergence. Called "Rockin' Away," it's the story of how Delp rose to stardom after being inspired by the Beatles at age 13.

"All I ever wanted," he sings, "was to be what I am."

True to his nature, he also honors all of those who made him such a success:

"Thirty years since we wrote those songs. Now when we play 'em, people sing along. I bless the fans who stuck with us all of the way."

So, Tommy DeCarlo, I hope you use your talent and go out and sing your (expletive) off.

Nail all of Delp's cloud-high notes for every one of us who remembers being 12 and happy and playing basketball on a hot summer day, listening to the radio.

First Published: December 29, 2007, 5:00 a.m.