We don’t age alone. This can be both a comfort and a wake up call.
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My 35 year old son surprised me with the tickets for himself, his 33 year old brother, his mother, and I (his Dad) to see the rock legend, Meatloaf, in concert. Meatloaf! My boys danced to the album, “Bat Out of Hell,” 30 years ago. What a treat to look forward to seeing the artist known as Meatloaf, in the flesh.
Mr. Loaf is 68 years old. I’d hoped that like the Rolling Stones, while his flesh might be a bit wrinkled, that his power ballad singing voice would still be smooth and strong. There is something inspiring about watching rock legends who can still bring it. Meatloaf brought it. His first song was simply horrible. I was embarrassed for the man. His back-up band was great, but not cool enough to refrigerate away the sad truth that the Meatloaf was no longer edible. I settled in for a long night of wincing. I hoped that the audience would be kind enough not to boo. A timeless rock icon deserved respect.
He just kept pouring his heart out that was, “still, beating, beating. . .” He made a spectacle of himself, a spectacle of inspiration.
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I was encouraged by the early polite applause. As Meatloaf warmed up something started to happen. The applause grew stronger. Meatloaf was turning up the oven. The man proceeded to move and sweat, juices flowing. It was not a dancing like Jagger strut. It was a orthopedic shoe, tottering shuffle, but the man was clearly all into it. I looked over at my two sons, who are both part time rock musicians, up and dancing like they were in their childhood living room again. Their daddy doesn’t rock and roll, but these old bones started grooving along with many others in the audience, who were now on their feet dancing.
The Old Bat out of hell could’t sing anymore, but was flying just the same. It was the opposite of lip synching or auto-tuning. Meatloaf came to the theatre unafraid to be raw and was cooking up nostalgic delight for all ages.
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Although I never could dance or sing on key, I know that the normal progression of my Parkinson’s disease could progress what moves I had to a shuffle and then into a wheelchair, my voice to a whisper. I’m probably on the road from forgetting the lyrics to forgetting who the singer is, to forgetting who I am. I could find myself “praying for the end of time”, so I could end my time with me. Meatloaf had every right to rest his vocal chords and legs and sit on his laurels. Instead he was out on stage making his characteristic eye contact with audience members, I caught him once looking at me. He just kept pouring his heart out that was, “still, beating, beating…” He made a spectacle of himself, a spectacle of inspiration.
My mind did a small twist listening to “I want you, I need you, but there ain’t no way I’m ever going to love you, but don’t be sad because two out of three ain’t bad.” I pictured a future where I would become physically and mentally dependent on my family and no longer able to love them due to not knowing who they were. One day soon I might be rocking in a wheel chair lost in Lewey Body dementia, but that night I was dancing and singing like a rock star and so was my family. Gotta keeping rockin’ like Meatloaf. Gotta keep making the memories.
“And I think somebody somewhere must be tolling a bell and the last thing I see is my heart breaking out of my body and flying away, like a bat out of hell. Oh, like a bat out of hell.”