Presenting: the winner of the most inelegantly named piece of machinery I’ve ever seen.
Saw this Friday as I was walking around downtown. It was a day of punishing heat, but I need to take that daily walk no matter what. Workmen were setting up Hennepin avenue for the Aquatennial’s opening event, and I strolled around taking a few pictures, thinking: all these years, and I’ve never participated in the Aquatennial. Not once. But I’m always vaguely glad that it’s going on. Parades, boat contests, concerts - yes, I’m in favor of all of them. I’m pro-water.
I was amused to see that the evening’s concert would star Cheap Trick. They’re one of those punchline bands now, one of those Spinal Tapped-out bands that just plug away until all the band members have more metal in their hips than in their music. I saw them in 1978. Opening act: The Romantics. Tenth row seats. I went with Brigdette, a redhead who also worked at the Valli.
The Romantics were pretty good - they were coming off the big hit, which still might be the best rock and roll single of the 70s, period. Cheap Trick, touring behind the second album, were just fabulous. Really. Hit after hit. You have to put this stuff in context - in 1977 / 78, when Cheap Trick hit big, radio and pop music was split a dozen different ways. You had disco, which all guys felt obliged to insist SUCKED; you had California pop made by smug bearded laid-back troubadours; you had cowboy rock a la The Outlaws, Marshall Tucker, etc.. You had progressive rock, which was the favorite of geeks who’d gone directly from Tolkein to marijuana without stopping at Girls; you had punk, which was mostly unheard in the midwest but, one suspected, was changing everything. You had New Wave, which was this nervous stuff full of bile and catchy tunes; you had the new improved Shiny Metal of Boston and the Boston clones.
And then you had Cheap Trick, which was almost New Wave, almost Metal, but had this unashamedly pop tang that made everything else look dour and overproduced, and they flavored it all with enough Beatlesque details to make the brainy critics swoon. It was just fun to listen to, and it had these hilarious personas - the fat chain-smoking drummer, the Huntz Hall guitarist, the pretty-boy singer and bassist. Scoff if you will, but Rick Neilson was the Chuck Berry of the latter 70s.
The first album had a couple of scorchers that would peel the skin of Metallica’s face today; the second was all pop; the third showed that they had every intention of getting lazy and indulgent; the fourth proved it, and after that I just let them go. But I’m always happy to see that they kept going. It’s always sad to see a band keep going until everyone’s ready for assisted living, but on the other hand, it’s sadder to learn that your childhood hero is now an assistant manager at a McDonald’s in Rockville, Illinois. This is their job; as long as someone pays them to do it, good for them.
Not that I went to the concert. Wish I had, though - it would have been fun to run into Brigdette. Say she got married and had a couple kids after we saw that concert, and brought the family to the show; I’ve no doubt that we would have stopped, stared, jaws open, and then had a good, long laugh. Emphasis on good.
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