Boston “Walk On”
Among the musical cognoscenti, Boston is discussed in the same breath as Styx, Journey and Foreigner -- the royalty of mid to late 70s Arena Rock. Like their esteemed company, Boston’s members were faceless and nameless to many of the tens of millions who listened to their hit songs. However, between 1976 and 1978, Boston may have been the most popular band in the world not named The Bee Gees. Their debut album produced four bonafide hits, several others that would become staples of Classic Rock radio, and would go on to sell more copies than any debut album had before. Yes — Boston were a very big deal.
“More Than a Feeling,” the biggest and most enduring hit from their self-titled debut, sounds familiar to the point of sounding derivative. Did that sound and that riff really not exist before? No, it didn’t. It was a Tom Scholz invention. It would eventually spawn a decade of sweet but loud anthems that similarly sit on the cusp of anthem and ballad. But, in its ubiquity, it is also iconic. In an encyclopedia, under the phrase “Classic Rock single,” it would be easy to picture a photo of Boston’s debut forty-five. At the very peak of Arena Rock, no band was more perfect than Boston.
Boston had many things in common with their contemporary Rock royals. However, they had, perhaps, more in common with the bands they substantially birthed, like Def Leppard, Bon Jovi and Queensryche. And yet, comparing Boston to a group seems like a false equivalent. Or, rather, it feels inappropriate. Perhaps the better comparables would be Raymond Loewy, Steve Jobs, James Dyson and Dieter Rams -- titans of twentieth century product design. To whatever extent Boston was a group, they were equally, if not more, just a man. And that man was Tom Scholz. And to whatever extent Tom Scholz was a songwriter and musician, he was equally, if not more, a product designer and engineer.
Sinewy, thin and pretty, Scholz has always had the appearance of someone still growing into himself. To me, he resembled the man that Mitch Kramer from “Dazed and Confused” might have become. With floppy, almost feathered hair, and just an ounce of lean muscle mass, he was an easy figure to underestimate. He looked so much like an engineer because, in fact, that is exactly what he was. For the first half of the 1970s, during the early years of his then unnamed band, Scholz designed and engineered products for Polaroid. And in 1980, he would begin to make headphone amplifiers, guitar effects and assorted modules for Scholz Research & Development, Inc. His most famous headphone amplifier, the Rockman, was in production for decades and was used by many of the greatest guitarists of the last four decades.
By many accounts, the way in which Tom Scholz approaches everything he does -- from the electrical to the musical to the legal to the interpersonal -- has the signature of an engineering mind. He labors over decisions and uses science, facts and innovation to deliver the end product. His style is not appreciated by everyone -- many consider his effect to be impersonal. But you would be hard pressed to argue with his success or the merit of his decisions. If the world is truly defined by ones and zeros, Scholz knows how to engineer for the ones. His Rockman amp was hugely popular. When he famously sued his former manager and CBS Records, alleging contractual malfeasance., his arguments, like his products, were entirely cogent. He won both cases. Even his charitable foundations have flourished. None of these achievements were accidents. They were the result of an inordinately bright, clearheaded mind.
However, the most popular, and most laboriously designed and engineered Tom Scholz products are, of course, the albums that his band, Boston, released between 1976 and 2013. Well, at least five of those six — Scholz famously regretted rushing out “Don’t Look Back in 1978, so quickly after the band’s debut. It is not an exaggeration and also not especially novel to suggest that Boston was a company helmed by C.E.O. Tom Scholz. And it is therefore equally true to suggest that this company’s product was commercially beloved, melodic, Hard Rock albums and singles.
This summation of Scholz, in particular, and Boston’s music, in general, is not new. It is often delivered with snark and the implication that the man and his music lack humanity -- that they are something of a Classic Rock cyborg. I understand that perspective and, in fact, am not even a modest fan of Boston. I never intentionally listen to their music and I cannot say that it particularly moves me. I don’t particularly like the way a Porsche looks either. However, I can still marvel at the work and innovation that goes into its luxurious design. Similarly, I am frequently awed at the hermetic, factory-like precision and power of Boston’s music. The fact that most of the writing, playing and production came from one source makes it all the more impressive.
The balance between the exhilaration of surprise and the reward of the expected is one that every band labors over. It’s the distance between young Beatles and late E.L.O. But, to be sure, The Beatles admired Jeff Lynne and, in some ways, probably envied the parts of his sound that were formulaic, but deeply pleasurable. Jeff Lynne was able to consistently evoke pleasure but rarely surprise. The Beatles could do both. That’s why they were The Beatles. Tom Scholz mastered audio pleasure early on. It was the exhilaration of surprise that seemed to elude him. Most of Boston’s songs gratify the listener. But his greatest songs are the ones wherein he finds that surprise switch and we get an unexpected chord change, a shift from loud to quiet or a crystalline harmony emerging from the noise.
If the pursuit of perfection came naturally to Scholz, the knack for surprise was harder won. Unless you were The Beatles, neither outcome happens quickly. For this reason, Boston albums have arrived very slowly over the years. Following their rushed, noticeably brief and half-baked second album, Tom Scholz seemingly vowed to only release albums when he felt they were right and ready. After all, great songs, like great products, take time to conceive, test, optimize and bring to market. Scholz did not make songs to get radio airplay or to sell albums. No -- he made songs to be perfect in their design and engineering. He presumed that, with perfect design and engineering would come airplay and sales.
Following “Don’t Look Back,” Boston would take eight years to release their third LP. In between those two albums, he would launch his electronics company, right several wrongs in the courts and design, engineer and optimize what would become 1986’s “Third Stage.” True to form, that album would spawn three, great hit singles, including the chart topping heavy ballad, “Amanda.” In the 1980s, and especially for those who were not around for Boston’s 70s success, “Amanda” resembled the acoustic Metal crossover singles from Skid Row, White Lion, Poison and the like. Over thirty years later, however, “Amanda” towers over its many imitators. It was not a mellow Metal gimmick. It was a refined product -- a near perfect song -- that outmaneuvered singles from less skilled, but more telegenic disciples. “Third Stage” went on to sell millions of copies around the world, surprising many who suspected that Boston had missed their prime as well as a generation of new fans who were not around for the band’s first run. The success of Boston’s third album would place them on the year end charts appropriately alongside the first “Sammy Hagar” Van Halen album and the “Top Gun” soundtrack.
It would be another eight years before “Walk On” would arrive in 1994. In between albums, Scholz shuffled parts and tinkered with ideas. The biggest change, of course, was the departure of lead singer and occasional co-writer, Brad Delp. In addition to having extraordinary technical range, Delp was able to evoke melody in whispers and shrieks alike -- a skill that suited Boston’s titanic shifts. Delp and Scholz had been close and committed to each other since the early days of Boston. They were the only members of Boston who were actually under contract to CBS records in the 1970s. Scholz and Delp were Boston. But, even then, Scholz was the Chairman and C.E.O. and Delp was the beloved talent. Their relationship appeared close, but it also seemed obvious that any member of Boston not named “Tom Scholz” was replaceable.
Like the great New England Patriots teams in the twenty first century, Boston, the band, had a “next man up” ethos. Scholz had his system. Everyone else was simply a position player. This fact was not lost on most of the twenty or so members who have played in Boston over the years. In fact, it was unlikely lost on Delp, who left the band of his own accord to play with former Boston guitarist Barry Goudreau's new band, RTZ. Delp even stuck around to help write a couple of songs on “Walk On” and onboard new vocalist, Frank Cosmo. However, Boston was always Tom Scholz’s songs and sound. The band’s members were fully aware of how the product was made. Scholz was the the distillery, the refinery and the factory.
That being said, Scholz’s scientific pursuit of perfection has been derided by critics as both a musical flaw and a character flaw. This characterization was eventually weaponized agains Scholz in 2007, when Brad Delp committed suicide. Critics and some friends and family of Delp plainly insinuated that the tragedy was somehow caused by years of Scholz’s autocracy. However, while it may be convenient to paint such a skilled engineer as unfeeling, time and facts have largely up-ended these suggestions. It seems that Brad Delp was, at least at the end of his life, a terminally sad man. The shadow of Delp’s death and Scholz’s reputation as unfeeling or robotic has nevertheless persisted.
Though it would be released many years before Delp’s tragedy, his relative absence from “Walk On” underscored a familiar concern for Boston: could they still be great eight years removed from their last album? Moreover, in a world that had left behind many Boston imitators in favor of Alternative Rock and Hip Hop, would Boston even be relevant in 1994? Even the cover of “Walk On,” which shows the famous Boston spaceship logo crashing into (or emerging from) some uninhabited planet, seemed to portend disaster ahead.
For all of its obvious external challenges, “Walk On” would not suffer from a design and engineering problem. Scholz had lost none of his faculties. Rather, it would be faced with a marketing problem. Who wanted to listen to Boston? What music did they specifically want? And, with Rock radio completely fragmented, how would Boston find those fans? Ever the problem solver, Scholz opted to make a record that largely appealed to his modest, but still avid, core, while attracting new fans of Metal and Prog Rock.
While the great songs that Tom Scholz and his band made always impressed me, they rarely moved me. The notion of the band, nearly twenty years into their career, getting heavier and more extravagant reeked of middle-aged crisis to me. I do not listen to a lot of Heavy Metal. I actively avoid even the most revered Prog Rock. In 1994, I was not alone. Critics did not welcome new music from Boston. For many, the excesses of 70s Arena Rock and 80s Hair Metal could be traced back to bands like Boston. Alternative Rock and Hip Hop were viewed as tonics to that gauche immoderation. Without the benefit of context, I might have casually aligned myself with this thinking. The truth, however, was that Tom Scholz was the opposite of excessive. He was a vegetarian. He was a humanitarian. He labored over his work but produced music with a relative dearth of resources, other than his own.
As a non-fan, I knew very little of this. So, with a wince of fear and my nose held, I eventually pressed play on “Walk On.” I expected something designed for elite guitar players and studio nerds who have thousand dollar headphones and decry the evils of audio compression. In fact, I am certain that those sorts loved “Walk On.” What surprised me, however, is that I did not hate it. I found myself constantly impressed, occasionally confounded and, now and again, absolutely delighted. This may not have been a product designed and engineered for me. But it was made with typical Scholz excellence. In fact, it sounds bigger, more ambitious, more dynamic and more in control of itself than previous Boston albums.
This hyperbole should not be confused with a critical assessment or even an aesthetic judgment. “Walk On” is not greater than or even equal to “Boston” or “Third Stage.” For one, there were no hits on “Walk On” and few of the tracks have endured as essential deep cuts. Additionally, the album is far more restless than its predecessors, shape shifting from track to track and even within songs. There is a sense that Scholz, having been out of the game for nearly a decade, was determined to quiet critics and humble imitators with the full breadth and depth of his prowess. And, finally, it should be mentioned that, while Frank Cosmo is as technically proficient a signer as Brad Delp, there are moments wherein he sounds like a free agent ringer. Whereas Delp’s vocals would whisper when the verses were staid, would shine when the harmonies were crystalline and would pierce when the guitar rang out, Cosmo’s vocals stand out the slightest bit. It’s a new element for Scholz and, more than on previous Boston albums, the elements are more discernible from the packaged products here.
“Walk On” begins with confidence and familiarity. Cosmo repeats “Can’t Fight this Feeling” in the opening verse of “I Need Your Love,” calling to mind the band’s first, hit single. However, the Scholz’s famously open but dense guitar is replaced with more organ and heavier strings. There is something Wagnerian, like Meat Loaf, but also hard charging, like Survivor, in the track. The entire five and a half minutes feels like a victory lap, complete with twelve string guitar parts, feathered harmonies and guitar wizardry. Every idea is well stitched into the next and one gets the sense that Scholz has a panel of buttons that he can simply press or dial up or down to get the exact right effect. “I Need Your Love” may be the closest thing the album has to a Rock radio single, but, compared to previous Boston hits, it is louder and more flamboyant.
The album’s second track, “Surrender to Me,” briefly suffers on account of context and imitation. The heavy bass and throb of the verses call to mind lesser bands influenced by Boston, like Motley Crue and Twisted Sister. In 1986, it could have been a crossover, Heavy Metal delight. In 1994, it sounds older than it should. However, when the band switches from the testosterone and adrenaline of the verses to the sweet and delicate harmonies in the chorus, it is easy to appreciate what separated Boston from their many disciples -- an uncanny sense of melody and harmony.
The middle of the album is comprised of a four song medley, including two instrumentals. This run from “Walking at Night” through Walk On (Some More)” is a frenetic twelve minute tour that conjures the heavy organ swirl of Styx, the bluesy bombast of Hair Metal and the smokescreen of the “Top Gun” soundtrack. It is a thrilling and exhausting run that can make “Marquee Moon” or “Free Bird” sound like quaint Pop music. And while it is likely an awesome experience for guitarists and audio engineers, it is not especially enjoyable as a straight listen. For roughly a quarter of the album, you feel like you are getting an elaborate, brilliant experiment more than a finished Tom Scholz product.
Fortunately, the spaceship returns to orbit for the home stretch. “What’s Your Name” is a warmer, mid-tempo, heavy Adult Contemporary winner. The guitars are both dense and spread open -- a hallmark of Scholz’s innovation. It’s smokey and alluring, in a middle-aged way. But the hook is delectable and Frank Cosmo nails his job -- throwing the ball right down the middle. It also features the rare combination of a spaceship metaphor and banal romanticism, two very on-brand tropes for Boston:
Well I saw her just as I was leaving
Crossing in between the cars
Sometimes seeing is just not believing
Like a spaceship coming down from Mars
(Oh) Total attraction
You're driving me insane
A chain reaction
Baby, tell me what's your name
Baby, what's your name
Finally, and triumphantly, “Walk On” closes with “We Can Make It,” a song that one ups Queensryche’s “Silent Lucidity,” which was, itself, a very direct homage to Boston. Shifting effortlessly from delicate twelve string to handclaps to a conquering chorus, the song confirms Scholz’s singular ability to construct a fully functional product from seemingly disparate elements. After five and a half minutes, Scholz and his starship take off, leaving behind a cloud of guitar dust and smoke, another platinum-selling album and the promise of more product in eight to ten years.