In the 1990s, Aerosmith transformed from almost has-beens to American Rock gods to, eventually, international superstars; all on account of their skyscraping ballads. However, following 2001’s “Just Push Play” and a Super Bowl halftime victory lap, it appeared that the years of baggage had them buckling under the weight. There would be no new music for a decade. But, eventually, the unkillable band lumbered into a studio in the summer of 2011 to record “Music from Another Dimension.”

Dire Straits started as an anomaly. They were New Wave in design but more Folk and Country in engineering. They had a singer who couldn’t sing but who sounded great, and who also happened to also be a hell of a guitarist. For years, they achieved great success, without the trappings of fame. And all of this was well and good until 1985, when Dire Straits accidentally became the biggest Rock band in the world. Three years later, Mark Knopfler put Dire Straits on the shelf only to then, reluctantly, come back for one final album. It’s unclear whether the reformation was born out of affection or loyalty or inertia. But, whatever it was, Knopfler felt that there was unfinished business.

Can it be a coincidence that REO Speedwagon, Styx, Richard Marx and, of course, Chicago all are from (near) the great Second City? Each reached the very top of the charts, sold millions and millions of records, and were both admired for the craft and derided for their sentimentality. To me, it is the triumph of REO Speedwagon that is the most curious and compelling case. On the surface, the story of REO Speedwagon can read like a tale of perseverance. But when you pull at the thread, you discover a band that, a decade into their career, found a Pop “cheat code.” With this code, they made a pair of completely irresistible, loud then quiet, then loud and quiet power ballads that would presage everything from Night Ranger to The Pixies. By the end of the 1980s, the band was decidedly out of fashion, but, amazingly, nowhere near their end.

In my tweens, a casual Kinks fan then, I remember seeing the cassette for “Word of Mouth” floating around the bargain bins at the mall. The cover was ghastly, desperately insisting this original British Invasion band was as modern as Duran Duran. It had some Rauchenberg-esque pink lips on it, yellow swooshes — a pop art eyesore. “Word of Mouth” has been described as chasing trends and as containing production that sounds pinched and compressed, even by the 1980’s worst standards. Its songs have been called “forgettable.” Well, I dissent! The album did not have any musical problem, it had a marketing problem.

For immediate release. The minutes from the 1993 Board of Directors’ meeting for The Rolling Stones, Inc, previously confidential, have now been made public: In July of 1994, The Rolling Stones, Inc. will release a new Product, entitled, “Voodoo Lounge.” It is the first deal that the parent company has transacted since 1989. The Chairman of the Board, Sir Mick Jagger, and the C.E.O. of the company, Sir Keith Richards, were not in attendance but voted in absentia through counsel. Sir Richard Branson, who has secured exclusive marketing and distribution rights for the Product, did attend. A man who identified himself as the driver of the lawyer for Mr. Charlie Watts also attended, and noted that Mr. Watts demanded that the Corporation not embarrass itself, as it had previously with the “Dirt Work” and “Steel Wheels” products.

Following their long, slow popular decline and the Garage Rock revival that owed more than a little to the band, it only made sense that ZZ Top would be ripe for reclamation in the 2000s. What made even more sense, in fact so much sense that it seems too obvious, was that the man behind the reclamation project was none other than Rick Rubin. Having succeeded with Johnny Cash and tried his darndest with AC/DC, Rubin offered the beard and the adoration required for the job. In 2003, he began working with ZZ Top on “La Futura.” It would be nearly a decade before the album would see the light of day.

1987. The Hippies were all grown up. Their kids now wore the tie dye shirts with the bears and skulls. The Dead were an industry by this point, albeit one that showed signs of great decay. Their last studio album, seven years earlier, was unimaginably tepid. In 1986, forty-four year old Jerry Garcia fell into a medically induced coma, caused by his worsening addiction. However, a year later, the band released “In the Dark,” their penultimate studio album. It was the beginning of the final chapter of a book that would end in 1992, but what a dramatic and unlikely final chapter it was.

In the 1980s Queen frayed. Three of the four members released solo albums. Their chart positions, especially in America, had taken a precipitous downturn. For much of the decade, the band sounded like four polite gentlemen, contributing doll parts to albums which were sewn together by synthesizers. However, 1989s “The Miracle” was supposed to be different. It was the first album wherein all songs were credited simply to Queen, rather than to the individual players. What was not advertised in 1989, though widely rumored, was Freddie Mercury’s declining health. In retrospect, “The Miracle” is surprisingly enduring and entirely consumed with the optimism, loneliness and love that would define the lead singer’s final years.