Attempting the unenviable task of protecting Meat Loaf from debris and holding the crowd back was my pal Marty. He was standing in the pit directly on front of the stage, swatting beer cans when suddenly, everything in the community centre went into slow motion.
Marty recalls: “The lights caught something shiny and a second or two later I saw it. I thought ‘oh no… this is it… show’s over’…”
Flying through the air was… a wheelchair.
The chair flew directly over Marty’s head. He turned just in time to see Meat Loaf’s eyes swell with an unusual mixture of both fear and wonder. The burly singer put out an arm and attempted to step back. The stage was so small he stumbled into the drum riser just as the wheelchair crashed onto the boards in front of him. In slow motion the big man appeared to fall, the empty wheelchair bouncing to his left, one wheel comically spinning.
Marty remembers the crowd cheering. He was sure he could make out someone screaming, but by the time he could react Meat had gotten to his feet, grabbed the mic, roared at the audience and hurled it at them as he stormed off.
However, the lead of the mic was too short and it hit the advancing Marty, whose own incredulity at what had been launched onto the stage had prevented him from getting up there sooner. As he climbed onto the stage the band were already leaving it. The show was not even a half an hour old.
As he arrived backstage to find Meat Loaf ablaze with swearwords, anger and American hand-gestures, Marty decided to let the concert promoter do the talking. There was no way Meat Loaf would return to the stage. “No fucking way!” said the big man. “Not after what they did to that poor kid in the wheelchair.”
“Christ!” thought Marty. “Who was actually in the wheelchair?” There was no way of knowing if there was a poor kid, such was the volume of people within the Community Centre, and there was no way Meat Loaf was going back in front of them to find out.
They lairy audience began to get even more restless. A riot – unheard of in rural rocking circles, though another pal of mine swore blind his emigrant brother was at a Dio-era
Black Sabbath gig in the states when one broke out – was almost certainly on the cards.
Despite pleas that returning to the stage would calm the restless natives, Meat Loaf stormed out of the venue towards his bus, his band and entourage close behind in a show of solidarity and strength. The promoter, his entourage and my pal Marty tried to reason with him, but to no avail. Out of the blue, an angry man in a denim jacket appeared.
Could he be linked to the wheelchair? Er, no.
“Get back on that stage ya bollocks,” he roared at Meat Loaf, as he stormed over to him, arm coiling up to his side. “We paid good fucking money to see you!”
The man went for Meat Loaf. Would Meat Loaf go for him? The man’s fist looked deadly. He raised it back and pushed it out. Acting on instinct, my pal Marty dived in to protect Meat Loaf. He was, after all, on security detail.
Again, everything suddenly went into slow motion. Marty’s feet left the ground as he launched himself into the air. As his face flew into view and blocked Meat Loaf’s head, the irate audience member’s fist stuck, connecting with his nose. Blood spurted loose as Marty completed his dive and landed on the tarmac.
Meat Loaf’s own people managed to get their man out of the way and within seconds he was on a bus, bound for the hotel. My pal Marty lay on the ground, his nose broken, but no injury could dent his pride at ‘taking a bullet’ for Meat Loaf.
“It was like a Presidential movie,” he recalls. The tour resumed in Carlow the following night, where Meat Loaf personally thanked Marty for intervening the night before. Security was tightened up considerably, with a load of army and hardy FCA (local defence force) boys drafted in on the promise of free tickets, a couple of cans and a few bob, and for the first time on the sold-out tour, ‘house full’ signs were erected and the doormen said no.