In 2014, my favorite radio station, a member-supported public radio affiliate, presented a countdown of the worst songs of all time. They set aside a Saturday afternoon and played — in ascending or descending order (depending on your personal preferences) — a collection of some of the most horrible songs from the past forty years. While a few of the selections, like Daft Punk's "Get Lucky" and ABBA's "Dancing Queen," had some listeners scratching their heads over their inclusion on this list, others, like Starship's "We Built This City" were understandable in their ranking.
Coming in at numbers 12 and 29 respectively (or disrespectively) were two songs from the catalog of heavyweight rocker Meat Loaf. Number 29 was Mr. Loaf's comeback epic "I'd Do Anything for Love" and over a dozen spaces later was "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," the Wagnerian suite of teen sexual frustration.
The latter had me outraged.
In early 1978, I stumbled upon an album at a Sam Goody record store, a place I frequented often to peruse the latest musical trends and to find that elusive release to beat my friends to the punch. The cover caught my eye first. It was a hellish depiction by Heavy Metal Magazine artist Richard Corben, featuring a muscular guy on a motorcycle emerging from the ground of a cemetery in a hail of white energy. At the top, in a Gothic looking font were the words "Meat Loaf." Below that, in thin caps, it read "Bat Out of Hell." At the very bottom was this unusual credit: "Songs by Jim Steinman." I didn't know what to make of this. I had never heard of this singer (or band, for all I knew) "Meat Loaf." I never before saw a songwriter receive credit on the front cover of an album — especially one I never heard of.
So..... I bought it. And, after just a few plays, it quickly became one of my favorites. I spun it on my family's turntable over and over. Each song was a lush magnificent symphony — thanks to equal parts of Todd Rundgren's Utopia and contract players from Bruce Springsteen's legendary E Street Band. The lyrics formed modern-day librettos that rivaled La bohème and Carmen. Each lengthy composition was delivered with tongue planted firmly in cheek — by the multi-octave vocals of Meat Loaf, the mysterious moniker adopted by one-time high-school football star, Marvin Aday. As the album unfolded, Meat Loaf spun otherworldly tales of demonic messengers from Hell, angst-filled adolescent ultimatums and unflinching declarations of unrequited love — all against a multi-layered musical backdrop running the gamut from soaring guitars to sad piano. There were even sounds of grinding gears and a cameo by former Yankee Scooter Rizzuto to round things out. Needless to say, it was unlike any album I owned. And my parents hated when I played it — so, I loved it even more. The album took off nationwide and high-tailed it up the charts, eventually landing at Number 1 and staying there for seven weeks. (40 years after its release, "Bat Out of Hell" still sells an estimated 200,000 copies per year.)
Then, while preparing to record the follow-up, Meat Loaf lost his voice. A panicked Jim Steinman decided to record the album himself. In 1981, Steinman released "Bad for Good," a near clone of "Bat Out of Hell." The songs and production were stellar, but Steinman's thin, uneasy vocals paled in comparison to Meat Loaf's robust vocals. While it yielded a hit ("Rock & Roll Dreams Come Through," rerecorded by Meat Loaf years later), "Bad for Good" was no "Bat Out of Hell." By the time Meat Loaf was able to release a proper follow-up, the fickle public had waited long enough and had moved on, leaving only die-hard fans (like me) to support the once mighty Mr. Loaf. I even bought a few more, lesser-received Meat Loaf albums, including the UK-only release "Bad Attitude."
I saw Meat Loaf in 1982, when he brought his "Midnight at the Lost and Found" tour to Philadelphia. Meat Loaf and his band played the Ripley Music Hall* on South Street. My friend Sam and I were kept from a front row seat by a guy who spent the entire show silently mouthing every single word to every single single song, all with his head bowed and his eyes tightly closed. We thought for sure that this guy would produce a gun during the encore and shoot Meat Loaf point blank. (He didn't.) However, the place was relatively empty, revealing a definite wane in Meat Loaf's popularity.
My admiration for Meat Loaf began to stray as well. I stopped buying his albums and stopped keeping up on his career.
In 1993, sixteen years after "Bat Out of Hell," Meat Loaf came back with "Bat Out of Hell II," an over-ambitious sequel to the original, sporting the unimaginative subtitle "Back Into Hell." Once again, it featured songs by Jim Steinman, reunited with his collaborative partner after a few years of legal battles. He even filched a few tunes from his own solo effort. The new album — which was purchased by everyone my age with nostalgic longing for their awkward high-school days — was properly overblown and perfectly bombastic. It was everything you'd expect from a Meat Loaf album. But perhaps that only had appeal to a younger audience.... in the late 70s. I played it exactly once and then continued on in my sans Meat Loaf life.
Some time after the "Worst Song" countdown, Dan Reed, the afternoon drive-time disk jockey on my favorite radio station introduced a mid-week segment on his show called "Worst Song in the World." Every Wednesday afternoon around 4:30, Dan selects a terrible song from those suggested by listeners and spins it for the campy displeasure of the listening audience. He recently told the story of how he was inspired to create this weekly feature. He explained that a song came across his desk from a new Meat Loaf album. When he listened to it, he was prompted to deem it the "worst song in the world, " thus creating a new feature on his afternoon program. The song in question was "Speaking in Tongues," from his most recent release "Braver Than We Are" ... and it was, indeed, pretty bad — the songwriting, the arrangement and, sadly, the vocals. Meat Loaf sounded as though he was straining to get the words out. Though, judging by such phrases as "There are things we learn by science/There are things we learn by art/There are things we learn from the fires of love/An erection of the heart," perhaps he was embarrassed to sing these "phoned-in" lyrics from the once clever pen of Mr. Steinman. (I know I would be.)
Meat Loaf still tours. Jim Steinman still writes. I'm just not interested anymore.
* The Ripley was a small venue on South Street. When The Ripley closed, it became a Tower Records and then a Walgreen's. I believe it's a sneaker store now.
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