Can't Put A Price On Love

The Knack's "Can't Put a Price on Love": A Hidden Gem from the Power Pop Vault

Ah, the early '80s—power pop was fizzing like a shaken soda can, and The Knack were right in the thick of it, fresh off their monster hit "My Sharona." But let's talk about a track that slipped under the radar: "Can't Put a Price on Love," from their 1980 sophomore album ...But the Little Girls Understand. It's one of those songs that captures the band's snappy, Beatles-meets-new-wave vibe, but with a twist of romantic defiance. I remember spinning this one on vinyl back in the day, feeling that infectious energy bubble up. What makes it fascinating? It's the story of a band chasing lightning twice, only to stumble in ways that reveal the raw heart of rock 'n' roll.

The Spark of Creation: Post-Sharona Pressures

The Knack formed in Los Angeles in 1978, a quartet of sharp-dressed guys—Berton Averre on guitar, Jack Green on bass, Bruce Gary behind the drums, and frontman Doug Fieger with his razor wit. "My Sharona" had exploded in '79, selling millions and topping charts worldwide, but fame's a double-edged sword. By 1980, the band was under the microscope, signed to Capitol Records and expected to deliver another smash. That's the context for "Can't Put a Price on Love"—written amid the frenzy of their debut's success and the sophomore slump looming large.

Doug Fieger penned the lyrics, drawing from that classic rock trope of love's priceless chaos. It's got this urgent plea: money can't buy what the heart wants. Anecdotally, Fieger once shared in interviews how the song emerged from late-night jam sessions in their Laurel Canyon hideout, where the band riffed on '60s influences like The Beatles' "Can't Buy Me Love." But here's a juicy tidbit—during creation, Averre's blistering guitar riff almost got shelved because Fieger thought it too "poppy" for their edgier image. They kept it, thank goodness, turning what could have been a B-side into a track that pulses with the band's signature crunch.

Recording in the Heat of the Spotlight

Recording happened fast and furious at Sunset Sound in Hollywood, the same studio where legends like Led Zeppelin cut loose. Producer Jack Douglas, fresh from Aerosmith triumphs, helmed the sessions for ...But the Little Girls Understand. The band aimed to recapture Get the Knack's raw energy, but tensions simmered—Fieger's perfectionism clashed with the clock ticking toward release. "Can't Put a Price on Love" was tracked in a single marathon night, with Gary's drumming locking in that tight, driving beat while Averre layered harmonics that echo The Who's mod pop.

One anecdote sticks out: midway through, a power outage hit the studio, forcing the band to unplug and play acoustically for an hour. That unplugged jam infused the final take with an organic spark, making the song feel alive, almost desperate. No overdubs could fake that—it's pure Knack magic, bottled under pressure.

Release, Reception, and the Elusive Hit

The album dropped in February 1980, with "Can't Put a Price on Love" as the second single after "Baby Talks Dirty." But here's where the story twists: while "My Sharona" had radio in a chokehold, the follow-up faced backlash. Critics slammed The Knack as one-hit wonders, and "Baby Talks Dirty" fizzled at No. 38 on Billboard. "Can't Put a Price on Love" barely charted, peaking outside the Hot 100, overshadowed by the band's "sellout" stigma. Capitol pushed it with a cheeky video, but MTV was just budding, and the single sold modestly—think regional airplay in the Midwest, where power pop fans latched on.

Success? Commercially, it was no blockbuster, but it kept The Knack touring, proving their chops live. The album itself hit No. 15, selling over 500,000 copies, so the track contributed to that momentum before the band's '81 breakup.

Cultural Echoes and Lasting Groove

Culturally, "Can't Put a Price on Love" embodies the '80s tension between punk's grit and pop's polish, influencing acts like The Cars or even later indie rockers like Weezer. It spoke to a generation navigating post-disco excess—love as the ultimate rebellion against materialism. For Gen X kids, it was that B-side you'd hunt on mixtapes, a reminder that not every hit needs a chart trophy to endure.

Looking back, it's poignant how this song foreshadowed The Knack's fate: brilliant but brief. Reunions in the '90s brought it back to life, with covers popping up in films like Reality Bites soundtracks. If you haven't revisited it, do— that riff still hooks you, proving some loves, and some songs, really are priceless.