11. Paradise by the Dashboard Light, Meatloaf

Unlike other artists whose work I consistently bought (see TK sidebar, above), Meat Loaf burst onto the rock scene like a Bat Out of Hell with one transcendent, explosive, almost-perfect record, so good you felt there was nothing more to say. Sure, Meat (or should I say Mr. Loaf) bowed to commercial interests and put out Bat 2, Bat 3 and maybe more, but this seven-song monster was “it,” and of the seven, one stood head and shoulders above the rest. There are other great songs that tell the story of a relationship over the years – John Cougar’s Jack and Diane, Billy Joel’s Scenes from an Italian Restaurant spring to mind – but none are as raw or as closely married to the music as Paradise. The title itself – by the Dashboard Light –  sets the scene: it’s a makeout session in the car. We follow the boy around the metaphorical makeout bases – more on that later – until they’re about to “do it,” when, all of a sudden we hear the girl: “Stop right there; before we go any further, do you love me, will you love me forever…will you make me your wife.” What a dilemma! But the passion is too strong, he foolishly makes his commitment to love her till the end of time…And now, he’s praying for the end of time, “so I can end my time with you” – a phrase that can be read in two ways, but is bleated with such despairing urgency that the singer’s meaning is clear.

            That’s just the story. The music is similarly operatic, as it progresses through three acts, nine rhythm changes and the aforementioned dialogue between Meat and backup singer Ellen Foley. Numerous Jim Steinman lines are classics: “We were barely seventeen, and we were barely dressed”; “It was long ago and it was far away, and it was so much better than it is today.” But what made Paradise hit not just a home run but a grand slam with me was its interlude featuring Yankees broadcaster Phil Rizzuto. The Scooter’s inimitable style was one of the things that made writing Diary of a Yankee-Hater such a pleasure for me, and when he called me a “huckleberry” on the air I was in my own paradise. On-air he was so straight, so old-school about controversial topics like sex: what was he thinking when he recorded the saga of “this boy” going from first base to second base to third base to “holy cow, I think he’s gonna make it!” It was delicious to think that maybe the record producers didn’t even tell him that there would be sounds of panting in the background! Then there was the issue of the baseball analogy’s not even being correct: if there are two outs when the batter bunts, the defense wouldn’t bother with a play at the plate; a suicide squeeze wouldn’t be called and wouldn’t work. Oh, the levels of analysis afforded by this eight-minute rock epic, the only song for which I ever interrupted a dinner party to play for our guests.

Sidebar: Personal Connections

Phil Rizzuto was not the only connection that perhaps elevates Paradise to a higher spot in my pantheon than it might occupy in someone else’s. Shortly after Bat’s emergence I discovered Meat Loaf’s role as Eddie the biker in what became my all-time favorite rock movie, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I do mean “discovered,” because when I walked into a midnight show at New York’s Beacon Theater I had no idea what was coming. And a more significant discovery was how I came upon the album: a tip from People Magazine’s rock writer Roger Wollmuth. Buying the record before I’d heard it on the radio and it became a hit gave me a personal investment, familiar to rock fans who, say, adopt a group when they’re only playing in clubs and follow them to the heights. I first heard about REM’s Life’s Rich Pageant traveling in Assisi, Italy, when we ran into a younger couple from California, whom I instinctively recognized as hipper than me. From then on, I felt a personal connection with REM, even as their songs became ubiquitous on the airwaves.

            Something of the same sort occurred when we moved to Minneapolis. The workmen who helped us remodel our basement guestroom told me about the Gear Daddies and Uncle Tupelo, two recently defunct bands who had never made it out of the Midwest. The Gear Daddies became an instant all-time favorite, undoubtedly helped by the fact that I knew about them and my friends back East didn’t. I didn’t warm up to Uncle Tupelo as much, but my insider status led me to buy subsequent Son Volt and Wilco records, which finally paid off with Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I had a soft spot for David Bowie and Elton John because I “discovered” them on BBC International when I was in Libya, before they got to America. Ultimately, the songs on this list stand or fall on their own merits, of course, but there’s a lot of room for taste, and one’s personal connections do have an influence.