The music industry is an insatiable machine that requires a constant influx of 'saviours'.
Every few years, record labels, radio pluggers, and the ink-stained press conspire to identify a new act that will supposedly redefine the cultural landscape, sell millions of records, and render everything that came before them obsolete. This cycle of hyperbole creates the 'Next Big Thing' – a title that is as much a curse as it is a compliment. In the high-stakes eras of the 1960s through the 1980s, the distance between a magazine cover and the bargain bin was often shorter than the length of a single tour.
Whether they were victims of over-marketing, internal friction, or simply a lack of the 'X-factor' that justifies a stadium-sized ego, the following eleven bands prove that you can buy a lot of billboard space, but you cannot buy a legacy.
1. The Knack
In 1979, the hype surrounding The Knack was suffocating. Capitol Records launched a marketing blitz that positioned them as the 'New Beatles', going so far as to use the iconic black-and-white photography style of the Fab Four on their debut album, Get the Knack. And, for a moment, it worked: single 'My Sharona' became a global smash and one of the sounds of summer '79.
However, the backlash was swift and brutal. Critics found their power-pop sound derivative and their lyrics surprisingly predatory. The public quickly tired of the relentless branding, and by their second album, the oddly titled ... But The Little Girls Understand, 'Knuke the Knack' movement was in full swing. They went from being the biggest band in the world to a punchline in less than 12 months.
2. Moby Grape
Moby Grape is the ultimate cautionary tale of corporate overreach. In 1967, Columbia Records was so convinced this San Francisco quintet was the definitive answer to the Summer of Love that they released five singles simultaneously. It was an unprecedented move that backfired spectacularly.
Instead of making the band ubiquitous, it made them look like a manufactured corporate product in an era that prized 'authentic hippiedom'. Combined with a disastrous launch party and a string of legal woes involving their manager, the band’s immense talent was buried under the weight of their own promotion. They were a great band killed by a 'great' idea.
3. Sigue Sigue Sputnik
In the mid-1980s, Tony James (formerly of punk band Generation X) decided to treat rock music as a purely commercial transaction. He hyped Sigue Sigue Sputnik as the high-tech, ultra-violent future of rock, famously selling 'advertising space' between the tracks on their debut album, 1986's Flaunt It. The media fell for the neon-and-chrome aesthetic hook, line, and sinker.
However, when the music actually arrived, it was thin, repetitive electro-punk that lacked the substance to match the style. Once the novelty of their 'designer' rebellion wore off, the public moved on, leaving the band as a kitschy relic of 80s excess.
4. Blind Faith
When you combine Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood and Ginger Baker, the term 'supergroup' feels like an understatement. In 1969, the hype for Blind Faith was so intense that their first show at Hyde Park drew over 100,000 people before they had even finished their first album. The press hailed them as the spiritual successors to Cream and Traffic.
But the pressure was immense, and the band’s internal chemistry was nonexistent. They released one self-titled album – now famous largely for its controversial cover – and disintegrated after a single tour. They weren't a band; they were a corporate merger that couldn't survive the reality of the road.
5. Hype
David Bowie’s short-lived 1970 project Hype was intended to be a theatrical revolution. Bowie, Mick Ronson, Tony Visconti, and John Cambridge dressed as superheroes – The Rainbowman, Gangsterman, Hypeman, and Cowboyman – vowing to bring 'glam' to the masses before the term even existed.
While they were a massive influence on what would become the 70s rock aesthetic, Hype's initial performances were met with stunned silence and derision from audiences who wanted bluesy riffs, not spandex costumes. Bowie quickly realized the concept was ahead of its time and pivoted back to being a solo artist, leaving Hype as a fascinating, over-hyped footnote.
6. The Nice
In the late ’60s, British music papers treated The Nice as the vanguard of a radical new direction: classical grandeur fused with rock muscle, led by Keith Emerson’s knife-wielding, organ-abusing showmanship. On paper, they were the future: sophisticated enough for jazz heads, heavy enough for blues-rock fans, and theatrically unruly enough to feel dangerous. Labels and promoters assumed they’d dominate the coming decade.
But The Nice were a prototype more than a finished product. Their live shows could be astonishing while their recordings often felt undercooked or conceptually cluttered. They had the ideas, but not yet the production budgets or songwriting discipline that progressive rock would soon demand. When Emerson formed ELP, everything The Nice hinted at suddenly arrived fully formed: bigger, louder, sleeker, and unmistakably ready for the arenas.
The Nice didn’t flop; they merely proved that sometimes the Next Big Thing is actually the warm-up act for the real one.
7. Klaatu
In 1976, a rumour swept the music world that a mysterious band called Klaatu was actually The Beatles recording in secret. The evidence? They were on Capitol Records, their album had no credits, and the music featured lush, Harrison-esque guitars and Lennon-style vocals. The hype drove their debut album into the charts as fans scoured the lyrics for clues.
When it was finally revealed that they were actually just three talented Canadians from Toronto, the disappointment was palpable. Through no fault of their own, Klaatu became 'the band that wasn't The Beatles', and their genuine musical merit was forever overshadowed by a conspiracy theory.
Check out their 1976 hit 'Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft': The Beatles meets Yes as one viewer perceptively observes.
8. Big Country
With widescreen guitar tones and Celtic flair, Big Country were touted as Scotland’s answer to U2 or Simple Minds – earnest, stirring, and festival-ready. Instead they settled into respectable mid-tier success. Not a flop, but not the epoch-defining breakthrough critics predicted. The hype machine misread the room: U2-style emotional grandiosity can generate headlines, but only a few bands can turn that into lasting mass appeal.
9. Jobriath
Marketed as 'The True Heir to David Bowie' and 'The American Glam King', Jobriath was the subject of a promotional campaign that would make a modern influencer blush. His manager, Jerry Brandt, spent $200,000 on a Times Square billboard and booked him for a massive debut at the Paris Opera House.
Jobriath was talented, but the hype was so aggressive that it felt forced. As an openly gay performer in 1973, he faced immense homophobia, and the hype machine only made him a bigger target for critics. He released two albums of sophisticated, theatrical rock that were commercial failures, and he eventually vanished from the scene entirely.
10. Grapefruit
Named by John Lennon and launched with a massive 1968 press junket attended by John, Paul and Ringo plus fellow '60s music luminaries Brian Jones, Donovan and Cilla Black, Grapefruit was the ultimate Beatles-adjacent hype story. As the first band signed to Apple Publishing, they were marketed as the melodic heirs to the Sgt. Pepper sound.
Despite John Lennon and Paul McCartney personally supervising their debut single 'Dear Delilah' and a promotional blitz that featured all four Beatles as celebrity patrons, the band couldn't escape the shadow of their mentors. Lacking a unique identity beyond the Fab Four endorsement, the hype quickly curdled into obscurity.
11. Hagar Schon Aaronson Shrieve
Featuring the considerable talents of singer Sammy Hagar (ex-Montrose), guitarist Neal Schon (Journey), bassist Kenny Aaronson (Foghat) and drummer Michael Shrieve (Santana), HSAS arrived in 1983 with the kind of pedigree that should have dominated FM radio, yet they remain a cautionary tale of supergroup fatigue. The primary reason for their failure to deliver was a fundamental lack of original identity; the music felt like a rushed compromise between Neal Schon’s slick, melodic arena-rock and Sammy Hagar’s boisterous, 'Red Rocker' machismo.
Instead of forging a new sound, Through the Fire came across as a collection of high-quality demos that lacked the hooks of Journey or the urgency of Montrose. Furthermore, the decision to record the album live over two nights in San Jose – with studio overdubs added later – resulted in a sterile, disjointed energy. Ultimately, HSAS felt like a temporary side-project rather than a committed band, failing to survive the immense gravity of its members' individual legacies.
12. Silverhead
Fronted by the charismatic Michael Des Barres, Silverhead was the 1972 answer to the Rolling Stones. They had the swagger, the sleaze, and the endorsements of the London elite. They were hyped as the band that would bring dangerous rock and roll back to the charts.
Despite a few cult-classic tracks and legendary live shows, however, Silverhead failed to translate the hype into record sales. They were perhaps too rock 'n' roll for the radio and not quite revolutionary enough for the underground, leaving them as a stylish footnote in the history of glam-rock 'almosts'.
13. The Herd
In 1967, The Herd was positioned as the sophisticated face of British mod-pop, fuelled by a massive publicity machine that dubbed 16-year-old Peter Frampton (an old schoolmate of Bowie's, interestingly) 'The Face of '68'. Despite high-concept hits like 'From the Underworld', the band’s musical ambitions were sabotaged by their teen-idol marketing; they were too 'pop' for the burgeoning underground scene and too intellectual for the screaming fans.
Frustrated by the 'pretty boy' labels, the band fractured by 1968. Frampton famously moved on to form the heavy-rock powerhouse Humble Pie before achieving solo superstardom with Frampton Comes Alive!, while keyboardist Andy Bown eventually became a permanent member of Status Quo.
Top pic Hagar Schon Aronson Shrieve, 1983
Pics Getty Images
