More like Spamloaf, Jack. This greasy mixture of pseudo-Springsteen (if that’s at all possible) street lyricism, garbage dramatics, and dog-pus guitar drone is like the odor of three-week-old chopped meat doing the maggot number in your sink because when ya took it outta the freezer you was so drunk that it took you three days to sober up and by the time that happened the fog from the kitchen was so bad you couldn’t even get three feet near to it. I mean, this is as cute as a plague victim walking into a beauty parlor and asking for a perm.
It’s this kind of junk that gives rock music an even worse image than it already has, a manic fusion of progressive and heavy metal that just doesn’t work. Why don’t all you pro-oids out there in the flatlands of doom give up the search, ’cause no matter what happens, you’ll never have the subtlety to understand the essence of electric music. Try sex, it’s much more creative.
So big deal, the guy in this group is fat, so he thinks it’s cool to call himself Meat Loaf, there’ve been a lot of fat rockers and they didn’t have to crawl under the guise of protein to project the angst of carbohydrate overload. Take for instance Fats Domino, Big Tiny Little, Barry White, and Leslie West; they’re all rotund but they’re not afraid of using their real names. So big deal, the guy in this group sets up the Mutt ’n’ Jeff routine by gettin’ ace-skinny Todd Rundgren to sidekick him on guitar. So big deal about this record.
About the only creative thing about this record is the cover painting by ace-illustrator Richard Corben and ya know the music’s gotta be pretty dull when all a reviewer can talk about is the damn record cover. I guess what it all boils down to is this record is one of the very few that come along that have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Bat Out Of Hell is more like a wimp outta watter. Later.
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