(September 29, 2010)
It’s seven-thirty. I’m driving my youngest son, Jack, to school. I have a surprise for him. Instead of nasal sounding Bobby Zimmerman, this morning we’re going to listen to something louder, something orchestral, something guitar driven, bu still lyrical. Jim Steinman’s youthful indiscretions channeled through the Big Man. No, not Clarence Clemons. Meatloaf. That’s right. The guy who, when “Two Out of Three ain’t Bad” was at the top of the charts, came on SNL and blew his appearance. He sucked so bad that night, I actually turned the channel. But hey, you gotta love a guy who dusts himself off and keeps at it. Like a certain regional fiction writer we all know. Am I right?
“Bat Out of Hell” blares. Rundgren’s guitar sings. Meatloaf belts out the tune like he’s seventeen years old. Bittan’s fingers tickle the ivories. Weinberg thumps the skins. The music is an awesome wall of teenage angst driven by a tight band, eloquent vibrato, and campy lyrics.It’s a whale of a lot of fun.
“Did you ever see Meatloaf in concert?”
My son’s question comes as I am assisting Meatloaf by adding some slightly off-key harmony.
“Nope. But I’ve seen the guy playing guitar, Todd Rundgren, and most of the others.”
“Is the band still together?”
“It’s not a band: It’s a group of session players, guys Jim Steinman, the producer, pulled together. Out on the road, it’s likely a different group.”
We drive on. I drop the kid off. I turn up the volume. “Two Out of Three” comes on. Now I’m signing at the top of my lungs. I don’t know why. I don’t sing nearly as often as I used to. Maybe I’ve heard too many critiques. Maybe being surrounded by the residue of crime and the sad, sad stories I hear everyday in my “real” job likely has taken a toll over the past 12 years. Maybe the birds don’t sound as sweet as they once did, the sun’s just a tad less bright, and my heart is a bit heavier as a result of having vicariously endured the tragedies the befall others. Understand, I know I have a great life. A great woman. Fine sons. A fantastic corner of the world on a beautiful river. I thank God every day for those things. But somehow, the world has a way of sneaking into your psyche, of breaching your defenses, of eroding happiness.
But not today. Today, for whatever reason, I started off in the shower singing Queen. You can guess the song, right? “Bohemian Rhapsody”. All the parts I could remember anyway. I’m no Freddy Mercury. No one can duplicate his voice. But I gave it a try in the shower and no one complained.
So as I bob my head and sing Steinman’s lyrics in my Pacifica on the way in, sometimes screwing up the words, sometimes hitting a sour note, but every once and awhile, hitting the tune out of the park, things are alright. Meatloaf for breakfast isn’t a bad thing despite what my mom might say.
Peace
Mark
