Cheap Trick
At Budokan

THE REVIEW

I checked several times, “At Budokan” still isn’t (wasn’t) immortalized on this well-stocked site.

And yet it’s an excellent work, quite famous in the rock world, and back in the day, it sold very well. It still sounds wonderful on the stereo, confirming that this concert hall in Tokyo really does have a special quality in providing a rich environment for outstanding sonic blends and vigorous performances, fueled by the typical Japanese enthusiasm for Western rock.

So, after pioneers like Deep Purple with a good chunk of their legendary “Made in Japan,” and right after Bob Dylan followed by Clapton (“Just One Night”), here come the then little-known Cheap Trick who hit the jackpot and become an international attraction thanks to these ten gems, all recorded in that very same Japanese multipurpose arena, originally built to host the Olympic judo competitions in 1964.

Cheap Trick had already released three studio albums—each one better than the last—but, for example, nobody in Italy even knew they existed. Through these forty minutes of live music, the success of this band’s peculiar hard pop takes shape, which can be roughly summarized as Beatles with massive guitars.

The singer screams—but does it well. Despite his skinny frame and almost too-blond look, he has a devastating, incredibly powerful voice, still intact to this day. The dark-haired bassist, on the other hand—and here’s another curious thing—can’t manage to play only four strings, not even five like many snobs: he plays eight, or even twelve. So from his huge hands comes a gargantuan sound, capable of giving the lone guitarist a hand in filling out the mid frequencies.

The guitarist decided right from the start to combat his shyness by always dressing like a clown, a bit like Jovanotti, constantly hopping around the stage while playing in a way reminiscent of our very own Lorenzo. But he really plays; he’s not faking it like the faux musician from Rome/Cortona—he never misses a note, and he knows rock’n’roll guitar as a fine art. He skillfully reels off all the licks from Berry, Page, Richards, etc., with energy, taste, and great tone, switching guitars for every song (he owns about five hundred of them). A real rock nerd, a perfectionist.

In short, through this album, Cheap Trick (“Scherzo Da Prete” as we’d say) manage to carve out a rock subgenre all to themselves—unless you want to crudely lump them in as arena rock people.

The sound is deep and powerful, yet extremely melodic and accessible; the abandon of the four musicians and the drive of their musical blend are equally so. This is greatly enabled by the (again) curious drummer: chubby, bespectacled, and semi-bald, looking exactly like the grocer who slices your ham and wraps your cheese. But with that look, he’s behind the kit smashing cymbals and drums, tough as nails, and with a very recognizable style made of lots and lots of snare work and zero swing: really heavy, in short.

Quickly, the best tracks: above all, I adore “Need Your Love”—a true hard rock marathon nearly nine minutes long, as sharp as vinegar in transmitting rock’s true sexual urgency, with the guitar running wild in a “rhythm solo” packed with sublime cascading riffs. Then there’s the irresistible “I Want You to Want Me” and “Surrender,” two tracks in which Robin Zander’s voice couldn’t be more different—on the one hand searing, and on the other a powerful howl. The cover of “Ain’t That a Shame” by Fats Domino is also mighty, a heavy blast spiced up with spectacular stop&go moments and the usual monumental mix of thunderous guitar and bass, overflowing with harmonics.

They don’t make records like this in rock anymore… Besides, rock itself is dying, a slow and incurable death. This is one of the top ten in the field, for me. Alongside those by Purple in Japan, The Who at Leeds, James Gang at Fillmore, Atlanta Rhythm Section, Foghat, Rory Gallagher, Grand Funk, the young Led Zeppelin, the Outlaws. Augh.