For a big man, Meat Loaf is all too small, standing shy of 6 feet, more lumpy than hefty. Nevertheless, he is, according to those who know him, larger than life.
But smaller than an average bear, which is quite what he resembles as he roots around a SkyDome luxury box as if it were an unattended campsite. "Meat," as he prefers to be known, skewers a hot dog with a plastic fork, gnawing at it Pogo-style as he makes his way to a second food table across the box. Once there, he strips a chicken wing clean as he mulls over the spread in front of him.
Meat Loaf is in town to promote a new album, Couldn't Have Said it Better, due to be released next Tuesday. Part of the promotional tour involved the performer donning a Blue Jay uniform top and lobbing a ceremonial first pitch. As it did with actor David Spade two weeks earlier, the ball club imposes an indignity on its celebrity tosser, requiring Meat Loaf to throw from a spot well in front of the mound, shortening considerably the distance to home plate.
Dinner plate, home plate -- Meat Loaf hasn't missed many, and he throws a strike here. By the time he makes it back up to the luxury box, the Blue Jays' own pitcher, a rail-thin journeyman by the name of Josh Towers, has served up on the third pitch of the ball game a home run to leadoff hitter Melvin Mora. A quick 1-0 lead for the visiting Baltimore Orioles, and maybe the Jays would have been better off leaving their celebrity guest out there.
But then Meat Loaf has pitched erratically himself over the years, following up his hugely successful debut album Bat Out of Hell in 1978 with a series of forgettable releases until he came back large with Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell, in 1993.
Both those albums -- and the new one to come -- were of the same mould: bombastic rock-opera and grand power ballads that resembled the theatrical pomp of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a film that Meat Loaf had a small role in.
Of course there are no small parts, only small actors, and we allow that Meat Loaf is not that. Earlier in the day, the 55-year-old performer spoke at some length about his duel acting-rocking career.
"I'm an actor," Meat Loaf explains, in somewhat rehearsed style. "That's what I've been my whole life, that's how it started. I've never seen myself as a musician. I create characters; I create personas."
Is Meat Loaf a character? "Well, we didn't say that. Acting is about being real, and when you say character, people think cartoon, and it's not."
Actually, in many ways, it is. With his ample expanse covered by frilly shirts and his manner marked by overdramatic gestures, Meat Loaf was ever the animated figure.
On the strength of singles Two Out of Three Ain't Bad, You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth and Paradise by the Dashboard Light, the album Bat Out of Hell has sold 30 million copies. But the work has never been held in serious regard, its singer lampooned more than lauded. Rolling Stone once referred to Meat Loaf as "undoubtedly the heftiest footnote in rock history."
The man's acting is quite the other matter. You may or may not have recognized Meat Loaf as the anti-Semitic neighbour of William H. Macy and Laura Dern in Focus. He portrayed a corrupt sheriff in Crazy in Alabama; he was the dying steroid abuser (the one with the hooters) in Fight Club.
Commenting on his thriving acting career, Meat Loaf recalls the days when dual pursuits weren't so easily accepted. "When I first started trying to do rock 'n' roll they kept saying to me 'You're an actor, and actors don't do rock 'n' roll.' Then it came all the way around, that I was a musician who wanted to be an actor. Now it's come full circle, where you're kind of allowed to do both."
Some things you may not know about Meat Loaf: Born Marvin Lee Aday, his father hung the nickname on him. He has since legally changed his name to Michael Lee Aday, and it drives him crazy when people refer to him as the one word "Meatloaf" in print. "It doesn't make any sense, because it's on every album as two words." Meat Loaf, a former decade-long vegetarian, still does not eat meatloaf -- "not if I can help it."
As part of his day-long press blitz, Meat Loaf participated as guest DJ on a local radio show. As our interview draws to close, I ask our man to name his three "desert island" albums.
He quickly names the Eagles' Hotel California and Bob Seger's Greatest Hits, before sputtering, stumbling and ultimately failing to make the third choice. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, "I guess there's only room for two."
No problem, Meat. As the song goes, two out of three ain't bad.
Brad Wheeler