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RIP Meat Loaf


Trey3216

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Sorry, producer. 

Not a big ML fan either but it is a pretty cool album. They were lucky to find TR. Nobody else would do it. I think he ended up funding most of it.
Somebody else might have eventually done it, but he may have been the only one who could put the material together in a manner that would yield such a huge hit.
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I saw Ricky Horror exactly 25 times in SA c. 1978. A bunch of my HS friends went every weekend, sometimes twice until too many people started ruining it by dressing in costume. We would sneak cases of beer in through the emergency exit right after the lights were dimmed. The theater had a curtain in front of the exit, so lights from the parking lot didn’t expose us. When I started getting arthritis in one of my knuckles, I explained to my wife and kids that it was in my E knuckle. They had no idea what I was talking about.

3613-A7-F7-9-C25-4-C7-D-99-F7-6-C78-D706
 

Bat Out Of Hell was one of my first albums. It was ruined along with a few dozen other records when I left a box sitting in my car on an asphalt parking lot on a sunny August day in San Antonio. 

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On 1/21/2022 at 3:12 PM, Firemans4Horn said:


 


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19 hours ago, M12BH said:

I would do anything for love.  But I won't get vaxxed.  


Yep, we finally learned the mystery that has been around since the early '90s.

Oh well. As long as he didn't give it to anyone else. 

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he was great, but never one of my favorites back in my younger days. 

nobody's mentioned he sang vocals on 5 or 6 songs on Ted Nugent's Free for All album. "Together" was greatness. if I remember correctly, he was paid about $750.

Edited by tejas60
$$. and ou sucks
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Coach Meat:

https://deadspin.com/meat-loaf-was-my-softball-coach-5821391

 

Quote

In 1991, I was a high school freshman in the small town of Redding, Conn. My brother was a senior, and his prom date was one of our neighbors down the street, a junior, Pearl Aday. Pearl would drive me home from softball practice when her father, our coach, was unable to. I preferred Pearl, as her dad drove a red sports car, pushing it to its capabilities through our small, winding roads … like a bat out of hell. His name was Marvin Lee Aday, but he was better known to the world as Meat Loaf. To the scrappy group of girls he was trying to mold into softball players, he was Coach Meat. 

 

 

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The JV team was orphaned at birth that year. No one wanted to coach us, and it was getting down to the wire when Meat Loaf volunteered, despite being on the verge of filming three movies and being in the midst of recording Bat Out Of Hell II. Coach Meat took the game very seriously. When we prodded him to sing us one of his hits, we were denied. Instead, he taught us a team chant: "What do we wanna do? Kill! What do we need to do? Kill! What are we gonna do? Kill! What do big dogs do? KILL!"

 

Quote

Soon after he signed on, journalists started coming to our practices, something Meat had little patience for. He nearly bit the Sports Illustrated reporter's head off for daring to walk right onto our field, then made the guy sit on the sidelines quietly for the entire session. He extended practice that day by more than half an hour, presumably just to piss the guy off. It made us, this big dog's orphaned litter, feel special.

 

Spoiler

At games, the other team, their coaches, their parents, their entire town would come and circle over our benches to get an autograph or photo-and again he would try to protect us from it, playing only the role of "coach." He broke character only once, after our first win (suck it Abbott Tech). When we loaded on to the bus, he started belting out, "I Will Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)." We had never heard the song, and the public wouldn't hear it for nearly two more years.

Again, we felt special, but we still wanted one of his classics. We prodded him for more as we sang him our own song: "La Di Da, We Know Meat, He Does It, In The Backseat... but only with Mrs. Aday!" A few encores of that and we were finally interrupted: "I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday, parking by the lake and there was not another car in sight." He sang his parts; we sang the girl parts. (Had it only been the era of the iPhone.)

The Sports Illustrated piece—which came out after the season was over—called him a "spirited, gentle skipper." Coach Meat had told the reporter that all the games were won or lost by one run. "That's .... such close ball!" he said. "We should have won them all! I kept telling the team that it was my fault and not theirs, that I had made coaching mistakes. If a player knows she's made a mistake, then she doesn't need to be yelled at. If she doesn't know, it's my job to make her understand she made a mistake without yelling at her." Which, in retrospect, sort of just sounds like a nice way of saying it was our fault.

Coach Meat had to depart early to finish up his album and to film some movie parts. Before he left, we had a big pizza banquet, where we took this photo. He gave us his address in L.A., and told us to write, and that he'd be back next year to coach again ... and he was, running laps right alongside us.

In May this year a publicist asked me if I'd like to interview Meat Loaf about an upcoming movie he was in. I hadn't seen him for a decade and replied that I would love to do the interview, adding that he was my old softball coach. In the end, the publicist was "unable to accommodate me" after all, "due to his schedule."

It was OK. Coach Meat was still the one who'd taught me how to throw the ball straight. "Pretend like you are drawing down a blind," he said.

 

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And:

 

https://www.ctpost.com/opinion/article/Opinion-Meat-Loaf-was-my-Little-League-coach-16795453.php#photo-21942379

 

Quote

In 1979, Marvin Lee Aday moved to Stamford. And like a lot of middle-aged parents he wanted to get involved in local sports so he signed on to coach Little League baseball. Normally the story would end there, but Marvin Lee Aday was better known as Meat Loaf. And he was my coach.

At the height of his popularity he did it not for fame or glory but for the love of the sport. He made it to each game, each practice. And he taught. He really knew baseball. And he really cared.

 

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I still have a letter he wrote to parents at the beginning of the season. “We will stress fundamentals, and how to execute them, teamwork, sportsmanship, and most of all the enjoyment that little league baseball has to offer,” he wrote.

He invited us to New York City to the premiere of his movie “Roadie.” We all went in limos and felt like rock stars. The season-ending picnic was at his house, where we had the run of the place, including the pool. We were even featured on TV, on “NBC Sportsworld” and “PM Magazine.”

 

Spoiler

Wins and losses didn’t matter. We played at Chestnut Hill Park in North Stamford, walking distance from Meat Loaf’s house on Eagle Drive. We got to meet cool people, musicians whose names (Blondie, Ted Nugent, Alice Cooper) mean more to us now than they did then.

It was two years of my life when baseball meant the world to me. And Meat Loaf was my coach.

RIP Coach.

 

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