The Cheap Trick book, This Band Has No Past

It’s been a long time since my last post, but I’m ready to get things rolling again.

Last spring I wrote about Brian Kramp’s run-in with the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), a short-sighted entity who temporarily shut down his music podcast, Rock and/or Roll. The silver lining in this fiasco was that it freed up Kramp’s time to complete This Band Has No Past: How Cheap Trick Became Cheap Trick, available now at Bookshop.org, Barnes and Noble, and other bookstores. I am not a die-hard Cheap Trick fan by any means, though I do think that Dream Police and In Color are nearly perfect power pop albums. Beyond that I’m a modest fan at best. Nonetheless, I found Kramp’s 300-plus-page read to be a delightful trip to the world of live music in the Upper Midwest during the 70s, and a meticulous record of how this band earned their success. If the book can capture the interest of a casual fan, I think that hard-core Cheap Trick followers will be ecstatic.

Kramp conducted more than eighty interviews for the book, including particularly insightful contributions from original drummer Bun E. Carlos and band manager Ken Adamany. The other original band members – Tom Petersson, Rick Nielsen and Robin Zander – didn’t participate, but their words are well-documented from past interviews, and I didn’t find their lack of direct input to be a drawback. If anything, it may have helped to keep the book focused and allow for more contributions from other players in the band’s history.

This Band Has No Past, a title taken from the mock-biography included in the band’s debut album, meticulously covers the origins of Cheap Trick from its modest roots in Rockford, Illinois, with forerunning bands such as The Grim Reapers, Bo Weevils and Fuse, to the recording of the wildly successful Cheap Trick at Budokan, the album that finally garnered the sales that eluded the band through their first three releases. You might be asking, “How the heck can a 300-page book only cover the band’s first few albums?” Kramp does this in a multitude of ways, all of which I found appealing.

First, he put the band’s evolution in context with contemporaneous events like the Vietnam War and the releases of Jaws and Star Wars, plus events that played tangential roles in band members’ lives, such as the details of the Richard Speck murders (which would inspire the song, "The Ballad of TV Violence") and the story of the plane crash that took the lives of Otis Redding and six others in 1967. As it happened, future band manager Ken Adamany owned the Madison, Wisconsin club where Redding was to appear that night, and Rick Nielsen’s band, The Grim Reapers, opened for what turned out to be somber occasion.

Second, Kramp’s devotion to details that other author’s may have deemed unimportant give the story its scope and vibrancy, such as the story of Chris Crowe, a graphic artist who created the band’s logo, the inclusion of setlists from various shows, and an in-depth analysis of which of the debut album’s sides was supposed to be played first (it’s not as obvious as one would think). Kramp scoured seemingly every publication that included even a passing mention to the band – the Racine Journal Times, the Rockford Register Republic, Estherville Daily News, etc. Seriously, I admire the efforts it must have taken for Kramp to amass so much information and portray it in an entertaining fashion. Hell, he included two pages worth of adjectives that various publications used to describe Cheap Trick, and another two pages of adjectives used to describe at Rick Nielsen. Kind of crazy, but really rewarding!

Which brings me to the third point: just as Kramp appears to have worked tirelessly to write This Band Has No Past, the book highlights just how hard-working the members of Cheap Trick and a multitude of other bands were at the time, playing show after show after show at tiny venues throughout the Upper Midwest, from bowling alleys to high school dances to clubs to festivals. The book serves as a time capsule of the gritty but vibrant live music scene during the 70s, a scene that modern day musicians can only long for. While most of the venues were foreign to me, I have to imagine that anyone from the area who came of age during the 70s is going to be thrilled with this trip down memory lane.

Most illuminating for me was the realization that Jack Douglas, the producer of Cheap Trick’s debut album, hand-picked the songs for that 1977 release, overlooking tracks that would later prove to be very important to the band’s success, most notably “I Want You To Want Me” and “Surrender.” And it’s mind-boggling to me that “Hello There” wasn’t chosen to open the first album; it would have rivaled other great debuts such as “Welcome to the Working Week,” “Let the Good Times Roll,” “Chuck E.’s in Love” and “Runnin’ with the Devil.” A fan of alternative history might ponder what would have transpired if these songs had been released earlier. Perhaps success would have come sooner, but perhaps Budokan wouldn’t have become phenomenon it became

Somehow it all worked out. And thanks to Kramp, much of it has been documented in an enjoyable read, and the book itself is an attractive, sturdy publication with color photos and appealing typesetting, making it well worth the price.

The Stupidity of the Recording Industry

Before I get started, allow me to note that the podcaster Brian J. Kramp who I discuss below is also the author of the upcoming book, This Band Has No Past: How Cheap Trick Became Cheap Trick, available on September 6, 2022 in paperback from bookstores everywhere, including Bookshop.org, Barnes and Noble, and other on-line bookstores. You can pre-order your copy now. I will be covering this book in more detail once it’s released.

Okay, let’s begin.

The Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) is a trade organization that represents the recording industry. It states on its website that it “advocates for recorded music and the people and companies that create it.” Allow me to put a spotlight on a situation where the RIAA practices something very different from its stated intent.

Enter Brian J. Kramp of Wisconsin, a self-described music obsessive who’s been hosting the terrific music blog Rock and/or Roll since 2015, with over 300 episodes. Brian is the kind of fan the record industry wants, or should want: someone who’s into music exponentially more that the average person. He buys tons of music, owns tons of albums, and he’s been spreading the message of music for years, covering metal, AOR, power pop, classic rock, alt country – you name it, this guy has it, often illuminating listeners about hidden gems by unknown bands whose music might be challenging to find. (Kramp’s recent podcast on AOR included bands like Under Fire, Razor Sharp, Fake ID and Babe Blu. All new to me!).

In short, Brian offers the record industry what it should be coveting: free advertising and unbridled enthusiasm for recorded music. Instead, in the summer of 2020, Brian received an email from Podbean that began:

"Dear Podcaster, we have been notified that your podcast content contains infringing content. Please check all your episodes and delete all copyrighted material. Please notice that repeat violation of copyrights will cause your account to be suspended. We've blocked your podcast site from public view. Please remove all infringing content and update us when this is done." 

Podbean was of course doing what they had to do. The real bully behind the letter was none other than the RIAA.

In August of 2020, Brian, obviously frustrated and bewildered and uncertain of what to do next, stated in his podcast: "What the RIAA is too dense to realize is that they're dealing with their best customers here. I have been buying music obsessively for more than 30 years. I have purchased exponentially more music than the average person, obviously, and the same goes for the kind of person who listens to these podcasts. So we are their best customers and they're treating us like the enemy.”

Brian then referenced a question that he had posted on his Facebook page: "Who's bought music because of the podcast?" After posting, it garnered a flood of positive responses, and Brian concluded that his podcast had exposed people to music that they “didn't even know about. Wouldn't that be exactly what the RIAA would want? It’s a free commercial for them.” Regarding his podcast, he added, “I’ve never made a penny off of it. The entire podcast is about loving music.”

So what’s behind all of this? Why does the industry actively inhibit this type of music endeavor when the result is music fans obsessing over music and seeking out music that they hadn’t heard before? If the RIAA’s objective is in fact to represent “people and companies” that create recorded music, aren’t they doing these people and companies a disservice?

If I were a recording artist who’s music was previously featured on “Rock and/or Roll,” I would welcome the advertising and I would wonder why the RIAA is making it harder for people to hear my music. But as I stated a few weeks ago in my last blog, the music industry isn’t necessarily in the business of promoting new music or lesser-known older music when it’s more lucrative to promote established catalogs of music at a fraction of the cost. After all, record companies have already spent hundreds of millions of dollars for these catalogs; now they need to recoup their investments.

Consider this: yesterday I saw a preview for the upcoming Disney/Pixar movie, Lightyear, and it featured the David Bowie song, “Starman.” It’s a fine tune, but whereas Pixar hired Randy Newman to compose new music for the original Toy Story back in 1995, spawning the gem, “You’ve Got a Friend In Me,” the new movie is promoting a 50-year old song, in this case “Starman,” owned by Warner Chappell Music, the publishing arm of Warner Music Group, which is owned by Access Industries.

Warner Music is one of the big three recording companies, along with Sony Music Entertainment and Universal Music Group. In short, these three music behemoth’s carry a lot of weight, and I suspect they’re willing to twist a few arms to get their high-priced music acquisitions featured on major motion pictures. I think the days of a modern songwriter being asked to compose three original tracks for a large, animated film are over. If there are exceptions – and I hope there are – I bet it’s for films with smaller budgets.

So where does that leave Brian Kramp and “Rock and/or Roll”?  Well, there is a happy ending to all of this, albeit one that grew out of frustration. As I already mentioned, Brian took the hiatus after 2020 to complete his book on Cheap Trick, a labor of love that he’d started in 2017. Also importantly, Brian began to post podcasts again two months ago after signing on with the Pantheon network and agreeing to “fade out” music per Pantheon’s policy. In the age of music streaming, why the hell it matters if a podcaster plays an entire song or fades it out is a question for the ages. Somehow the distinction is critical for the RIAA’s mission of “advocating” for recorded music. Go figure.

How else will Brian’s podcast change? It remains to be seen, but Brian wrote to me that he would likely avoid big-named artists and “stick to the original spirit of the podcast: rare and obscure music.” Brian is also reediting a number of his older podcasts and rereleasing them without complete songs.

In the meantime, new artist without large followings and more obscure older artists must face the facts: the RIAA doesn’t care about them or their music, and they care even less about their fans. What they do care about is placing songs of big-named artists with highly-priced catalogs in as many commercials, movies, TV shows and video games as possible.

Get used to it, folks. You’ll be hearing David Bowie ad nauseam for the next century.

Twelve Albums from the 50s through the 80s

Last week I highlighted eleven albums from the past thirty years that have grabbed my attention as of late. Below I’ve listed an additional twelve albums in reverse chronological order from the 50s through the 80s that have inspired me recently. Next week I’ll discuss new musical artists and their struggle to find an audience. Stay tuned.

Dire Straits – Love Over Gold (1982).  Rewinding almost a decade from last week’s blog, this release was a regretful omission from my original list a few years ago. One of my all-time favorites. I’ll never forget camping up in Shawano, Wisconsin and awaking to the live version of “Telegraph Road” from the live Alchemy album (that is sadly unavailable on Spotify). It’s such a moody and moving piece, rivaled perhaps by the title track and “Private Investigations.” Wonderful.

Missing Persons – Spring Sessions M (1982).  Back when I was a snotty little teenager, I played in a band called The Grab, and we did the song “Walking in LA” by Missing Persons. Something prompted me to listen to the whole album a few years ago, and my, oh my, what a powerhouse of a record, led by the then-husband/wife duo of Dale and drummer extraordinaire Terry Bozzio. The album still sounds fresh and present, not of its time despite the synths. This might have something to the superb drums – the work of Terry on “U.S. Drag” is ridiculous.  In addition to “Walking in LA,” you probably know “Words,” “Windows,” and “Destination Unknown.” Once of those bands that never again reached the heights of their debut LP.

Donald Fagen – The Nightfly (1982).  Make it a trifecta from 1982!  Another album I overlooked in my top albums blogs, this is such a fun, positive and sophisticated album, in contrast to the ofttimes cynical Steely Dan. Not a bad cut on it. I love the comedic elements of the title track and the tight harmonies of “Walk Between Raindrops” and “Ruby.”

Jackson Browne – Hold Out (1980).  I’ve already listed Browne’s 2014 masterpiece Standing in the Breach as one of my favorite albums, but this release from when I was 12 years old put him on the map for me, and it hangs together oh so well, with a great combination of rockers along with some heart-felt numbers. Friends of mine who are a bit older prefer Jackson’s earlier records, but for me those releases have amazing songs along with some real clunkers. Hold Out holds up! If you want an example of horrific rock journalism, read the original Rolling Stone review of this release. It’s a mess.

Cheap Trick – Dream Police (1979).  Another one of those gems from the greatest year in music, I eliminated this from my original list of desert albums because of one song, “I Know What I Want,” but that was silly. The album is amazing! For me it’s one of the two best power-pop albums ever released, along with Off Broadway’s On.  I have some friends for whom “Gonna Raise Hell” doesn’t work, but I could probably put that song on repeat for several hours before pressing pause. Marvelous.

Gerry Rafferty – City to City (1978).  My son became familiar with “Baker Street” through a movie or game or something, and he would quiz me on the singer’s name, because, well, my mind is sometimes a jumbled mess of pop culture references and I can’t always keep things straight. But since then I dived into Rafferty’s City to City and I no longer have that problem. My favorite track – one that I have a faint recollection hearing in my childhood – is “Home and Dry,” without a doubt among my top 100 songs of all-time, but the whole album is strong. Rafferty has one of those voices that is instantly recognizable, but after a few follow-up albums, he disappeared from the charts.

Procol Harum – Grand Hotel (1973).  I was told that their 1969 release, Salty Dog, was the bee’s knees, but this one wins the prize for me. Full of bombast that might turn some people off, I love the complex chord changes and soaring melodies of the title track, “TV Caesar,” and “A Rum Tale,” a lover’s lament if ever there was one. And there’s some humor here too with “A Souvenir of London,” which was banned from the radio at the time!

Stevie Wonder – Innervisions (1973).  Another release from ’73 (a darn-good year for music – Quadrophenia, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Selling England by the Pound, Dark Side of the Moon, Houses of the Holy, Tales from Topographic Oceans, Band on the Run, etc.), I listened to this album in the car a few months ago, and damn, it’s nearly perfect, with Wonder doing the “wonderful” and handling virtually every instrument and vocal on the album. The funky tunes are balanced out nicely with the beautiful “All In Love Is Fair,” and “Visions,” a heartbreaking wish for a better world that seems especially current. The opening of “Living for the City” gives me chills. Perfect.

Rod Stewart – Every Picture Tells a Story (1971).  I originally went back and forth on this one, but there’s simply no denying that this is a stupendous effort from Stewart. The music is rough and raw and sloppy, the downbeats often played by three instruments at three different times, but damn, the energy the band (basically The Faces) exudes is infectious. One of those country-tinged efforts that I often eschew, but this one hits the mark for me, with wisely-chosen covers balancing out the marvelous “Mandolin Rain,” Maggie May,” and – among my favorites ever – the inimitable title track.

Emitt Rhodes – Emitt Rhodes (1970).  Chalk another one up for Spotify. While listening to Utopia’s self-titled 1982 release (which has already made by best-of list), the streaming service’s algorithm played the song “Somebody Made For Me” and my ears pricked up. Rhodes is another one of those artists like Nick Drake and Rodriquez who didn’t make the splash he deserved and got royally screwed by the record company. This is a power-pop masterpiece, with every instrument and vocal performed by the man himself. There’s a nice 2009 documentary about Rhodes called The One Man Beatles, and after a 43 year hiatus he managed to put out an album in 2016 before dying in 2020.  Here’s a nice summary of another record collector’s discovery of this fantastic musician. Isn’t it cool that my knowledge of Utopia led to Emitt Rhodes who then led to The Red Button (mentioned in last week’s blog). The musical rabbit holes you can go down are endless, especially since the advent of streaming services.

The Zombies – Odessey & Oracle (1968).  Yeah, I apparently was the only person on the planet who had never heard of this album despite it being listed as one of the best on most rock album retrospectives.  I came upon the 2008 40th anniversary live concert of this album on Spotify and actually like it better than the original release. The transition from “Brief Candles” to “Hung up on a Dream” makes to cry every time. I don’t know why, but the crowd reaction helps, and the chord progression of the latter tune is perfect, surprising the listener with the six-major chord after what starts as a very basic sequence. I’ve since discovered that my daughter sometimes plays “This Will Be Our Year” for her psych patients as a music therapist. Nice! Odessey & Oracle is the first new-pressing album I purchased since 1986! I’ve purchased quite a few more since then.  Once you break the seal, you’re in trouble.

Wild Bill Davison – Pretty Wild (1956).  This one is courtesy of my dad, who cleared out a bunch of his vinyl a half a decade ago or so, and I inherited a couple of dozen jazz records, some of which I’d neglected to listen to until recently. This recording is one of those lilting listens that calms my nagging nerves, neither calling too much attention to itself nor putting me to sleep. I don’t know if this is considered great jazz, but the combo of strings and Davison’s pure tone hits the spot.

So there you are! Twenty-three albums (between last week and this week) that have caught my attention over the past three years. Some of it old and familiar, much of it old and oddly unfamiliar to me, and a couple of newer releases.

There are some people who argue that there isn’t any good music today, to which I cry, bullshit. It’s harder to find good music on the radio than ever before, but there is so much good music coming out today it’s overwhelming. I’ll write about new music and how it’s harder and harder for today’s artists to find an audience in next week’s blog.