Meat Loaf's Loss Is Someone Else's Gain - Part I: Air Supply

It's 1981. The evening sunlight streams gently into Jim Steinman's apartment. He scribbles some final notes onto the sheet music, and then slams it down onto the top of the piano. "Meat Loaf! Where in God's name is Meat Loaf? Have I got two songs for you!"

Ah, but Meat Loaf - poor Meat Loaf - never did record those two songs. What strange twist of fate intervened and prevented Marvin Lee Aday from performing those two Jim Steinman jewels that were hand-crafted just for him? Well sources differ, but according to Wikipedia, either he rejected them, or his record company refused to pay for Steinman's material. For Meat Loaf's sake, one can only hope it was the latter, but the end result was the same: neither song made it onto his 1983 album, Midnight at the Lost and Found. Instead, Meat Loaf wrote most of the album's material himself. You probably don't need me to tell you that Midnight at the Lost and Found was not terribly successful.

Ah, but Jim Steinman refused to let his precious creations go to waste. In the end, two lucky artists managed to cash in on Meat Loaf's greasy leftovers.

I doubt the first act that came to Jim Steinman's mind as a substitute for Meat Loaf was Air Supply. I believe he referred to them as "two boring idiots from Australia." But hey, everyone needs an image makeover now and then, and it turns out that, for Air Supply, a Jim Steinman power ballad was just the thing. Also, throw in the E Street Band's Max Weinberg and Roy Bittan, and hard rock guitarist (and frequent Weird Al collaborator) Rick Derringer, and Air Supply's new smash single was guaranteed to make all those grannies stain their panties. Anyone familiar with Steinman's later "I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)" will recognize some of his pet rhetorical tricks:

I know just how to whisper
And I know just how to cry
I know just where to find the answers
And I know just how to lie

I know just how to fake it
And I know just how to scheme
I know just when to face the truth
And then I know just when to dream

And I know just where to touch you
And I know just what to prove
I know when to pull you closer
And I know when to let you loose

And I know the night is fading
And I know that time's gonna fly
And I'm never gonna tell you everything I've got to tell you
But I know I've got to give it a try

And I know the roads to riches
And I know the ways to fame
I know all the rules
And then I know how to break 'em
And I always know the name of the game

But I don't know how to leave you
And I'll never let you fall
And I don't know how you do it
Making love out of nothing at all

Out of nothing at all? Doesn't that defy Newton's laws of physics? Well, Steinman never claimed to be much of a scientist, but the man certainly had a PhD in Power Ballad Studies. Thesis #1: the moment, right when Russell sings "And I know the night is fading," where the massively overdubbed backing vocals enter through both stereo channels, like an army of mechanical soft-rock witches. Thesis #2: the way Russell sings "And-I'm-never-gon-na-tell-you-every-thing-I-gotta-tell-you-but-I-know-I've-got-to-give-it-a-try," as if he's struggling to get each syllable out of his supremely sensitive mouth. And how many good Christian Air Supply fans do you think called into the radio station to complain about the band's new direction once they got a taste of Derringer's raunchy guitar solo?



I also must admit I chuckle a bit as I hear Air Supply using football metaphors ("I can make the runner stumble/I can make the final block/And I can make every tackle at the sound of the whistle/I can make all the stadiums rock"). Just picture Russell and Graham tackling somebody. Go ahead, do it. Another nice touch: right after the lines "stadiums rock," Derringer throws in a killer guitar lick into each stereo channel, as if to say, "This is the sound a rocking stadium would make."

Maybe Air Supply's problem wasn't a Jim Steinman power ballad, but a lack of more Jim Steinman power ballads, as "Making Love Out of Nothing at All" ended up being their biggest, and last, major hit. Meat Loaf, however, would live to see another day.

Air Supply - Supplying Far Too Much Air

If you've ever wondered who the wimpiest band of the '80s were, you can wonder no longer. It was Air Supply. Look at them. Air Supply were the guys who got their lunch money stolen by the school bully. Air Supply had to beg and plead not to be subjected to wedgies in the P.E. locker room. They were, in the words of Jim Steinman, "two boring idiots from Australia." And they were huge.



Air Supply had a supply all right: a bottomless supply of melancholy choruses and heart-tugging chord changes, recycled from every Bee Gees and Elton John song known to man. They couldn't stop. Even if Air Supply had wanted to stop, they couldn't have stopped.



Find pop music too threatening? Never fear. Air Supply is here to save the day. Step into their magical world of scented candles and chamomile tea. Worried that a painful, unpleasant thought might poke its way through your pop music and puncture that seamless, WASPy bubble you prefer to live in? No need to worry about that with Air Supply. With Air Supply, you're in safe hands.



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Before we all die from air poisoning, maybe it's time to take a few breaths of Cosby Rock.

Waiting For A Wimpy #2 Foreigner Ballad Like You

Foreigner rocked. They rocked hard. First they were Hot Blooded, then they were Cold As Ice. When you heard a Foreigner track in the late '70s, it Felt Like The First Time you heard a Bad Company or Aerosmith song, only crappier. But the point is, they rocked. No wimpy little ballad crap for this band, all right?

But what Foreigner didn't know was that we were waiting, desperately waiting, for a wimpy ballad from Foreigner. The Iron Curtain couldn't fall unless we had a wimpy ballad from Foreigner. Stanley Kubrick couldn't release another movie until we had a wimpy ballad from Foreigner. But how? To make a wimpy ballad, Foreigner needed a wimpy synthesizer player. Where were they going to find a wimpy synthesizer player at this time of night?

Enter Thomas Dolby.



Yes, that Thomas Dolby. In fact, with the money Dolby made playing synthesizer on "Waiting For A Girl Like You," he was able to fund the recording of his first album, The Golden Age Of Wireless. Just think - without Foreigner, she never would have blinded us with science! My God.

Turns out Foreigner weren't just waiting for a girl like you; they were waiting to have a #1 hit. And they weren't just waiting a little while. They were waiting for 10 freaking weeks. What could have possibly stood in their way? Well, let's just say it was some teeny little song by Olivia Newton-John. From Wikipedia:

"Waiting for a Girl Like You" achieved an odd chart distinction by spending a record-setting 10 weeks in the #2 position of the Billboard Hot 100 chart, without ever reaching the top. First appearing on the Hot 100 in October 1981, it reached #2 the week of November 28 where it was held off the #1 spot by Olivia Newton-John's single "Physical" for nine consecutive weeks then by Hall & Oates' "I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)" for a 10th week on January 30 1982.

Ha! Hall & Oates totally cock-blocked you Foreigner. I mean, here you are, "Physical" finally slips out of the top spot, and you totally have your chance, your moment of glory is at hand, and then BAM! Hall & Oates slide in from out of nowhere and completely steal your thunder. I can just see Lou Gramm now: "But ... but ... we've been waiting here for nine weeks! Isn't there a line or something? You guys just got here!"

The Lord works in mysterious ways, and Foreigner would eventually have their #1 hit. But they were just going to have to wait a little bit longer.

Paul Davis - "Cool"; Not Actually Cool

Did you know that Axl Rose's father used to be a soft rock musician? All right, so Paul Davis was not Axl Rose's father. But he should have been. Or Gregg Allman's long-lost brother. Either way, he was one scraggly-looking Yacht Rock singer.

Davis had two big hits in 1982. Nothing gives me that "supermarket in Palm Springs" vibe like "Cool Night," a song so breezy it could have given the Sun goose bumps. "Cool Night" might also boast the best example of what is known in YouTube-speak as a "TUKC" - Totally Unnecessary Key Change. In addition, Davis became the first songwriter to ever rhyme "night" with "light" and "right." Why hadn't somebody thought of this before?



"65 Love Affair," on the other hand, was like a nostalgic pastiche of '50s nostalgic pastiches such as "Crocodile Rock." It was a song that was nostalgic for '70s nostalgia songs. It was like nostalgia cubed.

A Washed Up America Creates One Last Piece Of Pop "Magic"

No, I'm not talking about our great nation; I'm talking about '70s soft rock juggernauts America. Yes, they named themselves America. There's a well-acknowledged rule among rock critics: don't name yourself after a big, impersonal place. See: Boston, Kansas, Chicago, Europe, Asia, etc. Besides, America didn't sound "American" so much as Californian. They should have called themselves "Southern California." But that probably didn't fit on the t-shirt.

At their peak, America were like Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young with a lobotomy. The sound was there, but the lyrics probably needed some work. "A Horse With No Name," "Ventura Highway," "Sister Golden Hair," "Tin Man," "Lonely People" - if you didn't care for lyrics, then America were the greatest band in the world. But try these on for size: "The heat was hot and the ground was dry"; "Ain't it foggy outside/Guess the planes have all been grounded/Ain't the fire inside/Let's all go stand around it"; "But Oz never gave nothing to the Tin Man/That he didn't already have/And cause never was a reason for the evening/Or the Tropic of Sir Galahad." Say what? I mean, if they had been trying to be a weird, arty band, this would have made sense. But they were trying to be Seals & Crofts.

By 1982, the only thing America were trying to be was relevant. Life on the county fair circuit surely awaited them, when suddenly, out of nowhere they pulled a tasty little rabbit out of the Yacht Rock hat.



America sure did "magic" all right. They "magically" resuscitated their career.  Which would swiftly die soon after. For real this time. But hey, they sure showed everybody they still had that one extra hit in them!

Here they are, performing on what appears to be a "magic" cloud. Gerry Buckley looks like the local high school math teacher, while Dewey Bunnell apparently just came back from a sailing adventure with Popeye. Also, a little known fact: before becoming a stand-up comedian, Jeff Foxworthy used to be the drummer for America.

"You Can Do Magic" was one of many late '70s/early '80s songs about magic: Pilot's "Magic," Olivia Newton-John's "Magic," the Cars' "Magic," just to name a few. Ah, but not only was America's song imaginatively titled "You Can Do Magic," it also had that spectacular little chiming sound that made a special little "ding" every time the word "magic" was sung. Try to out-magic that, fuckers!

You Mean The Song That Sounds Like An Eagles Song Isn't, And The Song That Doesn't Sound Like An Eagles Song Is?

You're being held captive in a dungeon. A sick, psychopathic terrorist has tied you to a chair resting over a trap door. Beneath the trap door is a pit of flames, or acid - maybe both. Answer the question correctly, and he unties you from the chair. Answer the question incorrectly, however, and you meet your doom. So what's the question? The evil terrorist mastermind plays you two songs from 1980. One is an Eagles song, the other isn't. All you need to do is correctly identify which song is by the Eagles and which song is not. But you lose. You die. You burn to death in the pit of flames and/or acid.

Why? Not because you're tied to a chair being forced to listen to the Eagles. Oh no. That would be too easy. It's because the song that doesn't sound anything like an Eagles song is actually an Eagles song, and the song that sounds exactly like an Eagles song isn't a fucking Eagles song!

In 1979, the Eagles were on their last legs. Although Hotel California had been purchased by, from what I understand, every resident of said state (and became the de facto album of choice to play when chopping up one's lines of coke), the band members could barely stand each other. Also: coke. By the time the band released The Long Run, founding member Randy Meisner had been replaced by former Poco bassist Timothy B. Schmidt, who had also - get this - replaced Meisner in Poco when Meisner originally left Poco! Timothy B. Schmidt just hung around to lick up Randy Meisner's sloppy seconds, OK? At any rate, although technically released in 1979, Schmidt's vocal showcase "I Can't Tell You Why" became a hit in 1980. Its smooth, Quiet Storm vibe remained a fixture of easy listening radio throughout the decade.



Later I learned who the Eagles were. I "can't tell you" how surprised I was when one night, while listening to the radio, a DJ informed me that this smoky little R&B ballad that I'd heard on the radio a million times had been performed by ... the Eagles. But ... but ... that's ... that's impossible! Of course, it hardly sounds like the Eagles because ... the new guy was singing it! Not fair. Cheating.

Then there's this other song, also released in 1979 but achieving hit status in 1980, with a shuffling Latin beat straight from "Tequila Sunrise," which was obviously by the Eagles. Except the DJ said it wasn't by the Eagles. It was by J.D. Souther. Who the hell was J.D. Souther? And why does he sound like he's in the Eagles? I can tell you why J. D Souther sounds like he was in the Eagles. Because he just about was.



J.D. Souther was like the 6th Eagle. He co-wrote Eagles songs such as "Best of My Love," "New Kid in Town," and "Heartache Tonight" (with Bob Seger!). All well and good, but he also sounds like a dead ringer for Glenn Frey. They could have traded places and no one would have noticed, like Sydney Carton and Charles Darnay in A Tale of Two Cities. So along comes J.D. Souther with his "first" hit, the hypnotic Roy Orbison homage "You're Only Lonely," but it sure didn't feel like his first hit. Probably because, in a sense, it really wasn't.

Taking Notes? There'll be a quiz after. Remember: pit of flames.

Robbie Dupree "Steals Away" Michael McDonald's Sound

A funky drum beat. A sparkling keyboard. A bouncy piano riff. You're thinking, "All right, 'What A Fool Believes'! I love Michael McDonald!" There's just one problem: it's not Michael McDonald. It's ... Robbie Dupree.



"Steal Away" is the best Michael McDonald rip-off of all time. It sounds exactly like "What A Fool Believes." But see, the brilliance of it is, it doesn't sound exactly like "What A Fool Believes." Go ahead, name the one melodic element that is directly stolen. You got nothing. And yet, when you listen to it, you know what song it sounds like. Listen to the backing vocals during the bridge (at the 2:08 mark). It even sounds like Michael McDonald is singing backing vocals. It's about as close as you could get to covering a song without actually covering it. It's like those disclaimers at the beginning of bio-pics stating "Based On A True Story." "Steal Away" is "based" on a Michael McDonald song.

According to Wikipedia, "On May 21, 2010 Dupree performed on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon as part of Jimmy's ongoing tribute to Yacht Rock." So wait, not only did Robbie Dupree steal away Michael McDonald's sound, now he's stealing away Michael McDonald's leftover nostalgia residue?

Yacht Rock Favorites (a.k.a. Soft Rock So Soft It Hurts)

As brilliant as it may have been, the Yacht Rock online video series, to quote the conclusion of my last Yacht Rock post, "only dipped its toes in the vast ocean that is early '80s soft rock." Well friends, it is time to dip those toes back into that sweet, sweet water.

This series is for all the Yacht Rock one-hit wonders, the Yacht Rock also-rans, the bands left over from the '70s who had that one perfect Yacht Rock classic - in short, the artists who really didn't fit neatly into the narrative of the first series.

When cultural commentators wax nostalgic about '80s pop, they tend to talk about New Wave, Synth Pop, Hair Metal, etc. But that wasn't necessarily the '80s I remember. What everyone wants to forget is that a lot of '80s pop consisted of endlessly, shamelessly inoffensive romantic ballads. This was really leftover spillage from the '70s, as record companies took the mellow California singer-songwriter genre and removed all those pesky dark, thoughtful lyrics from it.

The music that J.D. Ryznar and friends affectionately named Yacht Rock has more commonly been going by a label that, for many rock critics, is a somewhat notorious, seemingly oxymoronic one: soft rock. It sounds like a term coined by record company executives to put conservative middle-American listeners at ease. "Want all the catchy, melodic qualities of rock without all that 'energy' and 'rebelliousness'? Then have we got the genre for you." Isn't the very point of rock to not be "soft"? Who in God's name would want their rock to be "soft"?

Five-year-old me, that's who.

But while I think it's safe to say that, just as all rhombi are parallelograms, but not all parallelograms are rhombi, all Yacht Rock is soft rock, but not all soft rock is Yacht Rock. What might the difference be? Well, whereas I think Yacht Rockers may have at least occasionally harbored the vague notion of rocking at some point, there were many soft rockers who just wanted to lull you into their fluffy pillow world. They weren't even trying to rock. "Rocking" may have actually harmed the appeal to their intended target audience. For some of these guys, the wimpier, the better. Their soft rock was so wimpy, it was too wimpy for Yacht Rockers.

So light a candle, pour some wine, and fluff that pillow. It's time for Yacht Rock Favorites (a.k.a. Soft Rock So Soft It Hurts).