I think the biggest mistake my generation ever made, aside from casting aside funnyman Norm MacDonald once he was fired from Saturday Night Live, was believing from day one that Weezer was just kidding around about all those ’70s hard rock references. Oh, those jokers, we thought the first time we heard “In the Garage.” No way do they have KISS posters on their walls. It’s probably all Frank Black collages. We were similarly tickled when the Weezer logo was unveiled: a giant W that aped the famously flashy symbol of party metal gods Van Halen. Finally, Generation X had taken a direct shot at those Dutch assholes, and it felt so good. The Cobain spirit would live on thanks to these four plucky, underfed nerds who looked more like library volunteers than musicians. We praised the alterna-gods and looked forward to numerous years of classic rock mockery.

A decade later, you’d be hard-pressed to find a Weezer fan from way back when who isn’t infuriated by the trajectory their career has taken. The quirky little bubblegum grunge band behind such heart-on-the-sleeve anthems as “Say It Ain’t So” and “Tired of Sex” has become an arena-filling Top 40 machine, authoring vapid hits like “Beverly Hills” (the video of which was filmed at the friggin’ Playboy Mansion!) Shame on them for selling out? No, shame on us for not realizing the sickening truth much sooner. Weezer’s prime directive never had anything to do with earnest songwriting or anti-rock stardom. This slick, LA-born band wasn’t mocking Van Halen when they added those wings to their massive W; they did it because they wanted to be Van Halen. If you ask me, they came pretty damn close.

Ultimately, the confusion stems from those wacky, irony-drenched ’90s, in which every reference to any pre-1980 person, place, or thing could be construed as an eye-rolling poke to the ribs. The line was forever blurred when K.C. himself appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone wearing that famous “Corporate Magazines Still Suck” t-shirt. The Janeane Garofalo mindset had officially taken over. Everything—from breakfast cereal to bowling to Bob Barker—was at least partially lame. That was 1994. We elected a President two years earlier in part because he played a crappy saxophone solo on a syndicated talk show hosted by the guy from Coming to America who wasn’t Eddie Murphy. I think that just about nails it. Thus, we couldn’t help but smirk when we saw pictures of Judas Priest in the Weezer CD booklet. Sure, guys. Livin’ after midnight. Guffaw.

The fact of the matter is, though, Weezer never came out and officially stated on the record, “Yeah, we were just joshin’ ya, those guys aren’t our real influences—let’s talk about Echo and the Bunnymen now.” The nerdy quintet’s musical roots actually do lie in ’80s metal. Various biographical accounts claim founding-bassist Matt Sharp spent a considerable amount of time during his formative years listening to thrash, while guitarist Brian Bell and singer-guitarist Rivers Cuomo both applied and were accepted to California’s famed Guitar Institute of Technology, which has churned out an endless array of wild fret board shredders since the late-’70s (according to the Registrar’s office, Bell never showed up for class, but Cuomo dutifully attended). On top of that, Cuomo was actually in a metal band named Avant Garde, later changed to Zoom for unknown reasons. He had the poofy hair, the severe facial expressions, and the six-string wizardry. Had grunge not stomped the Sunset Strip’s skull with its giant Doc Martins in the early ’90s, there’s a good chance we’d know Rivers today as spandex-clad virtuoso Peter Kitts, which is the name he used in his pre-sweater days. Luckily, Cuomo wasn’t just a wanky guitar player; he could also craft a tear-jerking melody or three. This asset would prove useful in the heyday of Luke Perry’s monstrous sideburns and would make Cuomo the Clinton era’s Eddie Van Halen (read: guitar-wielding pop warrior with a funny name).

Much as Eddie and the boys rocketed to fame quickly on the strength of 1978’s Van Halen, Weezer busted out of the gate in ’94 with a critically-acclaimed eponymous debut of their own. Sure, Weezer (a.k.a. The Blue Album) had its gentle, introspective works, but it also had plenty of rockin’ radio anthems teenagers loved to blast as they peeled out of their high school’s parking lot. “My Name is Jonas”, with its signature opening arpeggio and strangely empowering engineer-themed lyrics, was the “Running With the Devil” of the X-Files era (which I suppose would make “Feel Your Love Tonight” the “No One Else” of the Rockford Files era). “Surf Wax America”? Not even the sunburned potheads in Sublime could craft a more carefree beach-going tune. Weezer was definitely the record you threw on at a party if you wanted people to start rocking out. Guys dug the punchy guitar work and isolationist lyrics; girls loved the melodies and wished Rivers would read poetry to them. This broad appeal and demographic balance was something bands like Everclear and Silverchair couldn’t quite master. At a time when it was still slightly frowned upon, the guys in Weezer were America’s only true rock stars.