Cheap Trick live on even now because they understood so deeply what a song needed to do when it was coming through some kid’s FM radio. It was basically the Motown model, but pushed all the way through the Who and returned mussed and breathless to the teens of 10 years later, who had fast cars and romance but needed something to hook the two together. So the song would start off smart and distinctive to clean out whatever the DJ was fading away, then ease in a teaser verse, fall into a big booming chorus that beams out as much as light as music, and then the true mark of the classic—the hallelujah, in industry terms, which is the moment when the angels burst through and haul the song up to heaven, where every band that faded out their best single is preserved in perfect eternal outro. It’s more a pop trick than rock & roll because it needs smoothness and sentimentality and simplicity, and although we can all appreciate a columnated domino, there are times (particularly at night) when (as the columnators said later) it’s just gotta be automatic. And Cheap Trick was the undisputed machine, just knocking out perfect teen car chow like the government was paying them to do it. They are America’s ultimate county-fair band: built for millions who all have their own special little memories of catching mom and dad out on the couch, and if you buy the $1,200 ticket for this then you are just the coolest dad ever.

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