In retrospect, it’s so obvious: we were depressed.

Vietnam was a raging stalemate. Watergate cast a shadow over everything. Woodstock began to seem like an ideals-snuffing, mud wrestling match. Altamont, on the other hand, appeared to be the deeper, darker truth. The dream was over. John even said so. The Beatles were really, fully done. Paul may have been the only happy man on the planet. But bummer fluff like “My Love” wasn’t helping. In general, it was a terrible time to be a rock band. Singer-songwriters ruled the day. Jim Croce, Carly Simon, Elton John and Kris Kristofferson had four of the ten biggest Pop songs of the year. The top spot belonged to "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree'' by Tony Orlando and Dawn. Just listen to that song and try not to be depressed. I dare you.

But those tan, cigarette-stained days weren’t simply glum, they were also weird. Hard Rock had not yet melted into Metal. The New York Dolls were secretly the greatest band on the planet, but the germs of Punk were still largely undetectable. There was Iggy and a few loud, primitive numbers by Mott the Hoople that people still called “Glam” because there was no other word for it. Speaking of which, T-Rex were still massively important and Bowie was a bonafide star. On the surface, it was all ABBA and Carpenters. But, if you tunneled deep down and headed far to the east or midway to the west, you might hear something else: opportunity. 

Cheap Trick was the sound of opportunity — proof that anything was possible. Born in 1973, they were four, mostly regular guys from a town in Illinois that was much closer to Wisconsin than it was to Chicago and where everyone worked for Chrysler. They didn’t have much, except for a love of The Beatles and a passing awareness of Slade and Sweet. Rick, the guitarist, looked like the dictionary definition of a “dweeb,” but might also have been a prodigy. Ben, their drummer looked like a mechanic and kept a low profile, except for the fact that his name was Bun. And Tom, their bassist, looked like Marc Bolan, but with just a hint of muscle.

Two years later, but still years before they were stars, Robin Zander signed on as their new lead singer. And, with that, Cheap Trick, as we know them, was born. One guy who dressed like Angus Young if he were auditioning for a role in the Archie comics. One guy who seemed unconcerned with style. And two guys -- one on bass and one on guitar and vocals -- who were pretty enough to be (female) fashion models. If The Beatles were a team and The Stones were a gang, Cheap Trick seemed like two, irreconcilable couples. They were like chocolate and salmon.

In spite of their evident (half) beauty and talent, however, Cheap Trick were hard to pin down. By 1976, they had signed a major label deal and had begun to nestle somewhere in the giant chasm between Queen, Badfinger and AC/DC. They had no obvious hits, no significant fanbase and no discernible niche. On the other hand, their neither fish-nor-fowlness proved to be a feature. Their songbook and setlists hopped from theatrical Pop to Hard Rock. And their singer's tenor could stretch from sweet to sexy to artsy to angry without sacrificing any quality. Their pliability (and their beauty) made them an ideal opening act for superstars. First, they landed a spot on the road with Aerosmith. And then KISS. And then Queen.  

That last tour took Cheap Trick into Japan, where, in spite of their very modest reputation back home, they were received with Beatlesesque fervor. Some of the delirium was, of course, on account of the music. More of it, was likely on account of their good looks and cartoonish style. But, most of it might have been the result of one simple song that helped millions of Japanese learn a new language.

If you wanted to write a song with this specific intent, you could do a lot worse than “I Want You to Want Me.” Live, Zander kicked it off by plainly articulating the titular sentence. Then, the band builds the verse around a simple, familiar progression: A. F#. D. A. F#. D. A. Meanwhile, Zander just repeats the title, swapping out the verb, but keeping the same noun and pronoun. “Want” becomes “need” and then “love” and then “beg.” The first time you hear the song, you can sing along. The second time, you know it beginning to end. It’s a silly song. But it was impossibly effective in connecting with and exciting its Japanese audience. In America in 1977, it was not even remotely a hit. But in Japan in 1978, it was as though The Beatles and Sesame Street had conspired to produce an anthem. Cheap Trick was delighting Japanese fans while also teaching them English.

Within weeks of that Queen tour, Cheap Trick were on the covers of Japanese music magazines. They were also rendered in local cartoons, where Nielsen’s boyish style and Zander’s blonde locks were especially useful. Their appeal was so intense and so sudden, in fact, that Sony rushed out a live album to appease the market’s demand. “Cheap Trick at Budokan'' was released in Japan in the fall of 1978. It captured ten songs, including that revved up version of “I Want You to Want Me,” expertly performed for a screaming audience. Its success in Asia was not unexpected. What was much more of a surprise, however, was the demand it spawned on American radio. Stations began playing “I Want You to Want Me (Live).” And then replaying “Surrender.” Neither song was new. Neither song charted their first time around. But, after years of going nowhere in America, Cheap Trick was suddenly everywhere.

“Cheap Trick at Budokan” is the rarest of things -- a platinum selling live album from a band who’d never previously had a hit song or album. Traditionally, the phrase “big in Japan” confirms the obvious: that a band is successful in Japan. But the implicit joke, of course, is what is not stated: that a band is much less successful back at home. Cheap Trick was absolutely “big in Japan.” But, for most of the later seventies, they were so much more. Along with Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith and The Doobie Brothers, they were the music of middle America — and especially midwest America. They were certified platinum. They were arena-filling Rock stars. The “next Beatles.” They were an anti-depressant. They were proof that anything was possible.

Until it wasn’t. Soon after “Dream Police,” Cheap Trick began to fade. Their next two albums still sold reasonably well, but their regression was unmistakable. By 1982, Mike Damone, in spite of his considerable charm, could not give away a pair of Cheap Trick tickets in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” He pleaded, “Can you honestly tell me that you forgot? Forgot the magnetism of Robin Zander or the charisma of Rick Nielsen?” But, Dina was unmoved. She responded quickly and dismissively, “That’s kid’s stuff.”  

Eventually, Cheap Trick’s were only “big in Japan.” Hard Rock had fallen out of favor in America. Glam and Punk had given way to New Wave. And it was the dawn of global Pop music. Theoretically, Cheap Trick was well suited for the transition. They were musically elastic. They were unafraid of silly clothes. At least half the band would look great with makeup. They knew how to use synthesizers. And they loved Pop music. There was no good reason that Cheap Trick couldn’t be like Blondie or, at least, like The Knack. Or, they could have loaded up and gone heavy, beating Bon Jovi or Poison to the punch. But, they didn’t. They remained mired in Power Pop, except without sufficient power or pop. The band that recorded “Dream Police” and “Surrender” never fully returned. Cheap Trick spent the first half of the 1980s, far from the charts, trying to rediscover themselves.

Rediscovery can be brutal. For Cheap Trick, it involved touring buses (not planes), opening for RATT, declining sales, internal conflict and, frankly, not a whole lot to write home about. Eventually, it also meant that change was forced upon them. For their entire run, Rick Nielsen had been the group’s primary songwriter. But, nearly a decade removed from their last top forty hit, they reluctantly agreed to invite other writers in. For half of 1988’s “Lap of Luxury,” Nielsen was paired with legendary balladeer Diane Warren and Eddie Money’s “song doctor,” Todd Cerney. For the other half, the band recorded other writer’s compositions -- one of which was a melodramatic, acoustic power ballad entitled “The Flame.”

Though it does not resemble anything else on the record, or really anything else in their discography, “The Flame” rescued Cheap Trick’s career. Around the time of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” (Poison), “Heaven” (Warrant), “When the Children Cry” (White Lion), “Close My Eyes Forever” (Ozzy and Lita Ford), “I’ll Be There for You” (Bon Jovi), and “Without You” (Motley Crue), Cheap Trick reemerged as a hair metal band. Sort of. While “The Flame” is all soap opera sentimentality, milked vocals, twelve string acoustic guitar and hairspray, it was also an outlier. To note, the other hit from “Lap of Luxury” was a cover of Elvis’ “Don’t Be Cruel.” And so, while it was the first (and only) number one hit of their career, “The Flame” also begged the question: was it the band, the song or, simply, the style?

The answer came quickly: It was the style. In 1988, America really wanted big hair and big ballads. But, when the winds changed direction, Cheap Trick was left behind, again. Their second run at the top was even shorter than their first. In less than two years, they were hanging on for relevancy. In 1991, they released their prime-ending greatest hits package. And by 1994’s “Woke Up with a Monster,” they were only “medium in Japan.”

While in their third purgatory, however, a generation of Cheap Trick fans were coming of age. Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl were true believers. Billy Corgan was in the fan club. So was Rivers Cuomo. In some ways, during the mid-90s -- the years of Alt and Hip Hop -- Cheap Trick seemed untenable. But, many years removed from their last hit, and nearly two decades removed from their breakthrough, there were rumblings of another comeback. And why not? As much as Alt and Indie were born from Punk or New Wave, and as much as Grunge was born from Hard Rock or Metal, they were also born from a try anything, kind of long haired, kind of short haired, Power Pop band from a remote part of the midwest. 

The idea of a “return to form” is nothing new. Neil Young’s “Freedom” was billed as his “return to form.” So was Clapton’s “Journeyman.” Dylan has probably returned to form half a dozen times. The implication is always the same: that some beloved, aging artist who had lost their way is finally making great music again -- music that confirms their original brilliance. In 1997, ahead of their thirteenth studio and their second self-titled album, writers and publicists were insisting that Cheap Trick’s latest was a “return to form.” The moment had apparently arrived. Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins and Weezer portended the event. Cheap Trick were going to get their due. They’d heard the call. And they’d answered. Ahead of the release of their thirteenth studio album, Rick Nielsen said: "This is the first album of the second half of our career. We have a past, but we have a future as well. We are still angry and hungry; it is still exciting for us."

While fans were readying themselves for the return to form, however nobody remembered to ask: “what form?” Were they imagining a straight Power Pop record? A baroque Pop record? Throwback Rock and Roll? Something to fill arenas? Glam Metal? While it was easy to acknowledge Cheap Trick’s brilliance, it was harder to ignore their fleeting nature. They’d exploded onto the scene and then, promptly, disappeared. Nine years later, they did it again. After so much time and such short memories, it was fair to wonder what was Cheap Trick returning to. What was their form, exactly? 

It turns out that, in 1997, they sounded a good deal like Nirvana if Kurt Cobain’s loadstar had been “Plastic Ono Band.” “Cheap Trick” is a “lo fi” record, released on an indie label and made at a time when that moniker was esteemed (Sebadoh, Dinosaur Jr, Guided by Voices, etc.). The cover of Cheap Trick’s self-titled debut was all black and white. Every album cover that followed, however, was in color, and most featured photos of Robin and Tom on the front and Rick and Bun on the back — a wink to their relative telegenics. Twenty years after their debut, Cheap Trick’s second self-titled album is a return to black and white. The members do not appear on the cover; only their instruments. Nielsen’s five head guitar and Bun’s bass drum are shown on the front, an inversion of the historical trope. On some level, the change is purely symbolic — an inside joke for the few who’d notice. On the other hand, the volume of the guitar, the amount of distortion and the weight of the drums are literal, palpable. And though “Cheap Trick” may not be a “great” Rick and Bun album, it is a heavy Rick and Bun album.

The best moments on the album are also likely the angriest. Zander is surprisingly effective when pissed off or frustrated. On “Hard to Know,” he uses more throat than voicebox to transport a song from the Abbey Road through The Paisley Underground and into Maximum R&B. You can still detect the original band, but you’ve never heard them this ragged. “Wrong All Along” taps into a similar vein, but with more bile and more blood, pumping faster. It’s two minutes of Chuck Berry melted into something more elemental, like AC/DC. As it races towards a closing, ten second guitar solo, you barely remember that it’s Cheap Trick. It’s much closer to The Oblivions than to Slade. “You Let a Lot of People Down” presses the point further. While it’s probably too slow to be considered Power Pop, it is has the heaviness of Nirvana “Unplugged.” The hurt is palpable and the guitars aim to prove it. 

Though frequently loud and loose, “Cheap Trick” is not without range. “Carnival Game” is jauntier than most of the tracks, evoking T-Rex or later 70s Queen -- extra bounce in the hook and some light gymnastics in the vocals. Twenty something years in, their harmonies can still shine and Rick Nielsen can still write a Pop song. “Say Goodbye” is similarly hook-laden, if more bitter than sweet. Zander adds a spoonful of syrup to his vocals, bringing to mind George Harrison solo or Jeff Lynne. Whereas they spend much of the album in chasing the youthful vigor of Nirvana or GBV, here they settle in to middle age, sounding a good deal like The Traveling Wilburys.

There are no bombastic power ballads on the album. There’s no Heavy Metal. And very little in the way of electronics. Just four guys, sounding like a live (though I’m sure it was not) band. By my count, they stray from that mode two times. First, on “Shelter,” which is ostensibly a minor chord nursery rhyme delivered in three verses -- one for child, one for mom and one for dad. Formally, it is even simpler than “I Want You to Want Me.” But whereas their iconic hit was basic in the very best way, this ballad lands on the wrong side of simple. “Eight Miles Low,” the record’s other outlier, pays off its wonderful title with the twangy buzz of a tamboura (I think), some tremolo and Robin Zander’s high tenor. It’s by no means the best song on the record, but it’s a curious and compelling capstone to a curious and compelling album.

Just months after the “Cheap Trick” was released, Red Ant, the record label that had recently, proudly signed the band, filed for chapter eleven bankruptcy. In the wake of the financial disaster, Cheap Trick was left holding a handful of loving reviews and plans for a year on the road with Mötley Crüe and Stone Temple Pilots. There would be no third peak. They had “Budokan” and “Dream Police,” then “The Flame” a decade later and then, beginning with “Cheap Trick,” a series of modest, lower stakes efforts. Their denouement was not without small victories, however. They made a live album along with members of Smashing Pumpkins. They recorded a cover of Big Star’s “In The Street” that was played a zillion times, for what seemed like a hundred years, as the intro for “That '70s Show.” Their fanbase, which had dwindled from millions, to hundreds of thousands to, presumably, something smaller, coalesced into a reliable, steady cult. And, eventually, after many years of near misses, they were enshrined in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2016. 

Since 1997, the band has released six studio albums, a Christmas album, a couple of live albums and a series of compilations and reissues. Tom Petersson cut his hair but Robin Zander barely did. They are still very big in Japan, but they are no longer just “big in Japan.” The reconsideration of Cheap Trick began, appropriately, with a couple of midwesterners -- Chuck Klosterman and Billy Corgan. In time, the campaign spread to both coasts. Today, they are so much more than “I Want You to Want Me.” They are considered, alongside Big Star, to be the gold standard for American Power Pop. When most of the country was down -- way down -- Cheap Trick was up -- way up. But we couldn’t see it then. We needed millions of screaming Japanese teenagers and Mike Damone to show us the way.

by Matty Wishnow