Cheap Trick and the Discovery of New Music
by J. J. Thayer
by J. J. Thayer
My fifteen-year-old daughter–mentioned elsewhere in these pages–is a music lover. She is always DJing: cranking the Alexa, blasting her bluetooth speaker, or grabbing the aux in the car. I can tell exactly how she’s feeling based on what she chooses to play. This is a good thing for a parent of a teenage girl.
We share music (including Pitch Perfect albums I think she’d particularly enjoy), and I love hearing her eclectic playlists. Over the course of an hour, she’ll move from The Crystals’ “Then He Kissed Me,” to Kayne West’s “Gold Digger” and back to Elton John’s “Take Me To The Pilot.” That’s quite a trip, and somehow she fits it together into a coherent whole.
Imagine my delight when I heard one of my own favorite bands throbbing through the floorboards, in the form of Bun E. Carlos’ unmistakable drum intro to “Surrender.” My sister introduced me to Cheap Trick back in the late 1970s; Heaven Tonight and At Budokan featured heavily in the soundtrack to my formative years. And now my daughter was singing and dancing along to those very same records.
As it turns out, Cheap Trick–still on tour, forty-five years later–had a show slated for a small auditorium not far from us. Even better for a school night, it started early. I grabbed two floor seats and booked a surprise “special daddy-daughter time” evening.
We arrived at the show; there was no marquee, keeping the surprise intact. I steered her away from the merch tables and bought her a Sprite instead. She knew we were seeing a rock band–there was no curtain hiding their equipment–but she didn’t know who would be playing. Finally, the lights went down, and a recorded announcement played over the PA: “And now, the greatest band in the world… Cheap Trick!” The look of joy on my daughter’s face was worth the price of admission, many times over.
The concert itself was a fine, professional outing. I’d seen Cheap Trick several times before; the set list and the on-stage antics haven’t really evolved much. They trotted out the big hits (“I Want You To Want Me,” “Dream Police,” “The Flame”), and sprinkled in just enough deeper cuts (“Hot Love,” “He’s a Whore,”,“Baby Loves to Rock”) to satiate casual and ardent fans alike. Front-man and guitarist Rick Nielsen showered the front rows with guitar picks, and displayed a fun slice of his vast six-string collection. In a nod to age, he played his heavy five-necked monster for only one short song (“Goodnight”), but it still elicited the appropriate wows and wide-eyed looks from the audience. Singer Robin Zander, as usual, was in terrific form. Has he ever, in his whole career, missed a note?
Cheap Trick, at this show, was a family affair. Original drummer Bun E. Carlos stopped touring with the band years ago; his drum throne is manned capably by Nielsen’s son Daxx. Bassist Tom Petersson was recovering from open-heart surgery (“so he won’t be making the gig”, Nielsen told us), and his brawny twelve-string bass lines–so key to the Cheap Trick sound–were covered by Zander’s son Robin Taylor Zander.
About halfway through the show, the younger Zander stepped to the mic to sing “Downed,” a deep cut from the band’s In Color album. I look over to my daughter, and she is tapping away on her phone. “Pay attention to the band!” I admonish her. She tells me that she loved the song, and was adding it to a playlist. Oh. Well, okay then. Sorry honey.
As we drove home, I was pleased that my daughter had loved the show, and that the surprise went over so well. We had a great time together. But then I got to thinking–how did she not know that this was Cheap Trick until they were actually announced? Cheap Trick has always incorporated visual cues into their “brand,” and those cues were on display while we waited for showtime. There was the stamped, not-quite-Courier-New printing. Audience members (including, as it turns out, Robin Zander’s daughter) wore Dream Police hats. And everywhere, everywhere, the black-and-white checkerboard. It’s so ingrained in me that when I see tablecloths, kitchen tiles, and chess sets, I think of Cheap Trick. I may be a bit more obsessed than your average fan, but this is an iconic, ubiquitous look from a well-known band–how did my daughter not pick up on it?
She had already given me the answer, of course, during “Downed.” She punched half a phrase into the Amazon Music search engine, the track popped up, and click, she’s got it. The whole process, from song discovery to ownership, took mere seconds, and she didn’t even have to stop what she was doing.
Contrast that to the music-acquisition experience that her parents went through. If “Downed” came on the radio, we hoped that the disc jockey would announce the band and title. If not, we had to find some friends who might have heard it, or even call the station to ask them what just blew our ears off. Armed with this basic, and possibly inaccurate information, it was off to the local record store, hoping that In Color was in stock. Of course, we didn’t know that it was In Color–we had to rifle through all the Cheap Trick albums in the bin. We’d take them out one by one (perhaps seeing One On One in the stack), and flip each over to read the track list, searching for that elusive song. It was a tactile experience. The records weighed in our hands; we soaked in the album art–Cheap Trick’s checkerboards, cool guitars, and look. We got a sense for their history and progression as artists through touch, not a Wikipedia page.
Assuming we found our target record, we walked to the counter and paid–in cash, each lawn-mowing or babysitting dollar brushing our fingertips before it went into the jaws of the register. Then we made our way home, the sense of anticipation building as our turntable drew closer and closer. Before we got the record out of its packaging, we were invested in the music. We’d touched it. It was on our skin, in our pores.
And so we were going to listen to that record–not just the track that grabbed us, but all of the others too. We’d play “Downed” first, but let the record spin through “You’re All Talk.” We’d flip it over and check out “Southern Girls” and “So Good To See You.” We were physically connected with the records, so we’d play them more than once, even if the songs didn’t land the first few times through. There was room for artists to stretch their legs, and we trusted them to take us somewhere. As a result, each of our friends had different deep-cut album favorites.
I fear this type of interaction with music is lost on my daughter. It’s so easy to acquire–and surrender (sorry)--music now: does she ever invest herself into that partnership with the artist? Does she ponder the art, the writing credits, the inserts? Does she wonder about the producer, the session players, the people who received “special thanks”? I want her to experience this pleasure. As such, I gave her a gift certificate (cleverly packaged in an old 8-track shell) to a local used-record store. We will work through the milk crates together. I’ll make sure she flips her 45s over and plays the B-side. She can discover her own hidden gems.
I also gave her a copy of Cheap Trick’s Christmas Christmas on CD. I will be quizzing her on the liner notes.
We share music (including Pitch Perfect albums I think she’d particularly enjoy), and I love hearing her eclectic playlists. Over the course of an hour, she’ll move from The Crystals’ “Then He Kissed Me,” to Kayne West’s “Gold Digger” and back to Elton John’s “Take Me To The Pilot.” That’s quite a trip, and somehow she fits it together into a coherent whole.
Imagine my delight when I heard one of my own favorite bands throbbing through the floorboards, in the form of Bun E. Carlos’ unmistakable drum intro to “Surrender.” My sister introduced me to Cheap Trick back in the late 1970s; Heaven Tonight and At Budokan featured heavily in the soundtrack to my formative years. And now my daughter was singing and dancing along to those very same records.
As it turns out, Cheap Trick–still on tour, forty-five years later–had a show slated for a small auditorium not far from us. Even better for a school night, it started early. I grabbed two floor seats and booked a surprise “special daddy-daughter time” evening.
We arrived at the show; there was no marquee, keeping the surprise intact. I steered her away from the merch tables and bought her a Sprite instead. She knew we were seeing a rock band–there was no curtain hiding their equipment–but she didn’t know who would be playing. Finally, the lights went down, and a recorded announcement played over the PA: “And now, the greatest band in the world… Cheap Trick!” The look of joy on my daughter’s face was worth the price of admission, many times over.
The concert itself was a fine, professional outing. I’d seen Cheap Trick several times before; the set list and the on-stage antics haven’t really evolved much. They trotted out the big hits (“I Want You To Want Me,” “Dream Police,” “The Flame”), and sprinkled in just enough deeper cuts (“Hot Love,” “He’s a Whore,”,“Baby Loves to Rock”) to satiate casual and ardent fans alike. Front-man and guitarist Rick Nielsen showered the front rows with guitar picks, and displayed a fun slice of his vast six-string collection. In a nod to age, he played his heavy five-necked monster for only one short song (“Goodnight”), but it still elicited the appropriate wows and wide-eyed looks from the audience. Singer Robin Zander, as usual, was in terrific form. Has he ever, in his whole career, missed a note?
Cheap Trick, at this show, was a family affair. Original drummer Bun E. Carlos stopped touring with the band years ago; his drum throne is manned capably by Nielsen’s son Daxx. Bassist Tom Petersson was recovering from open-heart surgery (“so he won’t be making the gig”, Nielsen told us), and his brawny twelve-string bass lines–so key to the Cheap Trick sound–were covered by Zander’s son Robin Taylor Zander.
About halfway through the show, the younger Zander stepped to the mic to sing “Downed,” a deep cut from the band’s In Color album. I look over to my daughter, and she is tapping away on her phone. “Pay attention to the band!” I admonish her. She tells me that she loved the song, and was adding it to a playlist. Oh. Well, okay then. Sorry honey.
As we drove home, I was pleased that my daughter had loved the show, and that the surprise went over so well. We had a great time together. But then I got to thinking–how did she not know that this was Cheap Trick until they were actually announced? Cheap Trick has always incorporated visual cues into their “brand,” and those cues were on display while we waited for showtime. There was the stamped, not-quite-Courier-New printing. Audience members (including, as it turns out, Robin Zander’s daughter) wore Dream Police hats. And everywhere, everywhere, the black-and-white checkerboard. It’s so ingrained in me that when I see tablecloths, kitchen tiles, and chess sets, I think of Cheap Trick. I may be a bit more obsessed than your average fan, but this is an iconic, ubiquitous look from a well-known band–how did my daughter not pick up on it?
She had already given me the answer, of course, during “Downed.” She punched half a phrase into the Amazon Music search engine, the track popped up, and click, she’s got it. The whole process, from song discovery to ownership, took mere seconds, and she didn’t even have to stop what she was doing.
Contrast that to the music-acquisition experience that her parents went through. If “Downed” came on the radio, we hoped that the disc jockey would announce the band and title. If not, we had to find some friends who might have heard it, or even call the station to ask them what just blew our ears off. Armed with this basic, and possibly inaccurate information, it was off to the local record store, hoping that In Color was in stock. Of course, we didn’t know that it was In Color–we had to rifle through all the Cheap Trick albums in the bin. We’d take them out one by one (perhaps seeing One On One in the stack), and flip each over to read the track list, searching for that elusive song. It was a tactile experience. The records weighed in our hands; we soaked in the album art–Cheap Trick’s checkerboards, cool guitars, and look. We got a sense for their history and progression as artists through touch, not a Wikipedia page.
Assuming we found our target record, we walked to the counter and paid–in cash, each lawn-mowing or babysitting dollar brushing our fingertips before it went into the jaws of the register. Then we made our way home, the sense of anticipation building as our turntable drew closer and closer. Before we got the record out of its packaging, we were invested in the music. We’d touched it. It was on our skin, in our pores.
And so we were going to listen to that record–not just the track that grabbed us, but all of the others too. We’d play “Downed” first, but let the record spin through “You’re All Talk.” We’d flip it over and check out “Southern Girls” and “So Good To See You.” We were physically connected with the records, so we’d play them more than once, even if the songs didn’t land the first few times through. There was room for artists to stretch their legs, and we trusted them to take us somewhere. As a result, each of our friends had different deep-cut album favorites.
I fear this type of interaction with music is lost on my daughter. It’s so easy to acquire–and surrender (sorry)--music now: does she ever invest herself into that partnership with the artist? Does she ponder the art, the writing credits, the inserts? Does she wonder about the producer, the session players, the people who received “special thanks”? I want her to experience this pleasure. As such, I gave her a gift certificate (cleverly packaged in an old 8-track shell) to a local used-record store. We will work through the milk crates together. I’ll make sure she flips her 45s over and plays the B-side. She can discover her own hidden gems.
I also gave her a copy of Cheap Trick’s Christmas Christmas on CD. I will be quizzing her on the liner notes.