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[ they just seem a little weird ]
In the early '70s, friends Tom Petersson and Rick Nielsen moved to Philly. Sometimes, they called themselves the Nazz with Stewkey, sometimes they were Fuse and eventually they were Sick Man of Europe. But Petersson and Nielsen figured out like everybody did in the '70s that Philly was nowhere, so they left, hooked up with singer Robin Zander and drummer Bun E. Carlos and became critical power pop darlings Cheap Trick. This week? Petersson and Nielsen are back, screening Cheap Trick at Budokan at the Piazza and playing with Squeeze at the Mann. Oh Tom.
City Paper: It's 1971 and you're in Philly. What's wrong with that picture?
Tom Petersson: We were working with our singer named Stewkey and he got some sort-of-a deal. He wanted Rick and I to come out there so we did.
CP: That's trusting.
TP: We knew him. Trusted him. Hell, even if we didn't there wasn't much for us to lose. I loved it there. We lived in Center City. I had just turned 21. I had a blast.
CP: Why some 28 to 29 years later did you come to write "Sick Man of Europe" for your most recent album The Latest?
TP: That's the ballad of Cheap Trick, a joke really. The short version of our life story.
CP: Do you feel like the shorthand that exists with a band that's been together so long is a blessing or a curse?
TP: Knowing people so long you get to know when to stay out of people's way. It's one big long compromise — like being married to several different wives.
CP: Let's talk Budokan. What do you remember about filming and taping those few days?
TP: That we weren't thinking about being recorded at all. It really was being done for a local TV show there. It wasn't [The Who's] Live at Leeds. We didn't even realize they were there the first day. We thought that they forgot about us. We were pretty burned out by that point: 300 shows a year, two albums every year. Nursing hangovers. We were completely turned around at that time.
CP: Japan's love for you guys had to mean something?
TP: But we couldn't see the country. We couldn't even look out our hotel windows or eat at any restaurants. It was fun but it got old kind of quick.
CP: You just reminded me about how many albums the Trick did a year — that's like Meet the Beatles-era style releasing. How come?
TP: Mainly because they were unsuccessful. We just kept cranking them out fast. ... We just figured we were going to get dropped so we just made 'em fast and got 'em on the shelves. The only reason we didn't get dropped was because we had great press. Lead reviews in Rolling Stone but zero sales — that type of thing. We just kept going. 'The next one's the one' became our mantra. We'd barely get one out before we heard that line. [laughs]
CP: Cheap Trick tours with the most radically bizarre slate of acts: Poison, Guided by Voices, Aerosmith, Squeeze. What's the logic?
TP: Money. It may not always be the best thing, or the coolest band. Sometimes we cringe. All we can do is make great records that last. The live shows? Those memories often change with age. Was Lollapalooza really that much fun outdoors? Or Woodstock? No. I bet it wasn't.
CP: How does it feel being the ultimate American power pop act?
TP: It's funny. You don't see it. We're too close to it. It's like having someone tell you that you look like your sister and you go "C'mon." The hits that gave us that title are cool. But sometimes I just think of us as a prog rock act, equally inspired by Soft Machine and King Crimson as we are The Beatles. I think at times we were as close to sounding like the Mahavishnu Orchestra as we were the Kinks. Changing time signatures. Discord. We've been like this since we were Sick Men. And when we did those songs with those big epic weird breaks — people couldn't even be bothered to boo. Booing meant you cared. [laughs] Here's another song you'll hate. We weren't trying to be the kings of power pop. It just happened that way.
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