Brilliant … But Bouncy

Me and Meat.

There aren’t too many celebrity deaths that actually bring me to the point of tears. But today Meat Loaf died, and I couldn’t contain myself. His death took a part of my youth with him.

Silly, I know, that someone who names themselves after a hunk of ground beef with ketchup would mean so much to me. I never understood the name. Perhaps his size – substantially reduced in recent decades – was the reason for calling himself Meat. Honestly, none of that mattered to my 14-year-old self; I just adored him.

It was the iconic Bat Out of Hell that resonated with me, the album purchased by more than 40 million consumers. Even after the rest of the world had tossed its albums in a corner, I bought the CD and blasted it in my car, my throat sore after every attempt to hold those power notes at the end of the title track. I never could hold them quite as long as Meat Loaf did.

During high school, I wore my stereo-tethered headphones, lying on my bed and devouring every track on that album. I sang Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad to the boys of my dreams. You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth made me laugh out loud every time, long before “LOL” was a thing. And All Revved Up With No Place To Go made me invincible.

Later Paradise By The Dashboard Light would play at frat parties so that the guys could watch the girls throw their drinks on the floor and swarm to the middle of the room, dancing and screaming lyrics at top volume. When the duet part started, some would sing the female part, some the male part, before we regrouped for the finale.

I always sang the male part: me and Meat.

I was a Rocky Horror fanatic for many years; Meat Loaf roared onto the screen every weekend on his motorcycle, with comically short hair and singing Hot Patootie. And every weekend, I was saddened when he was viciously murdered and eaten like the Loaf he claimed himself to be.

Meat Loaf showed up randomly over the years on some of my favorite TV shows, like House and Elementary. My husband and I started watching Monk during the pandemic and, wouldn’t you know, Meat Loaf showed up there, too.

Meat Loaf is one of the few artists my husband and I both loved. Bill had the “other” CDs; he enjoyed the sequels as much as the original. So when Meat Loaf came to Constitution Hall – a small venue in Washington, D.C., we immediately got tickets.

The concert was acoustic – his Unplugged tour for MTV’s series – and Bill and I had tickets in the seventh row. Powerful and compelling in song, Meat Loaf told hysterical stories, too.

Bill went to the restroom mid-show. He came back sheepishly trying to make his way to his seat there in the seventh row, and Meat Loaf stopped the show.

“Do you need a minute, Sir? We can wait.” The audience sang with laughter along with us. It was a great moment to be recognized by a great man, in spite of the reason.

We all knew Meat Loaf had health issues, that his heyday was well in the past. But I loved that he would appear randomly on the screen. And I still know every word to every song on that first album.

I only taught myself to play one of his songs on the guitar – and it’s the one that’s now stuck in my head, burning through my tears, wishing it were still true:

“Heaven can wait, and all I’ve got is time until the end of time….”

I guess Heaven couldn’t wait anymore.