It’s 1983. Y&T drops “Meanstreak”, their moment to conquer America after ruling Europe and Japan.
The riffs were sharper, the hooks bigger, and the hunger unmistakable.

My own Y&T journey ran in reverse. I started with “Ten”, then “Contagious”, before discovering the holy A&M years. That’s where the magic really lived, the years when hard rock still sounded like truth.

Produced by the in-demand Chris Tsangarides, “Meanstreak” was Y&T’s bid to capture their ferocious live power with studio precision, heavy rock guided by an engineer who spoke their language. The goal was simple: keep the fire, clean the signal.

As Meniketti told Hit Parader in December ’83,

“We want to break America, that’s the idea behind this record.”

And what an opening riff. In F♯ minor, it slices like “Crazy Train” but rolls with the swagger of “You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’”. It’s the sound of ambition tightening its grip, a riff that moves like hunger itself.

“Meanstreak” is a deliberate attempt to balance muscle and melody, heavier riffs with stronger hooks. They weren’t chasing radio at the cost of power. They just learned how to shine without softening the blow.

Meniketti doesn’t sing about fantasy. He sings about reality, the kind that cuts.

Credit Phil Kennemore, bassist, main lyricist, and quiet architect of Y&T’s soul.

Because “Meanstreak” isn’t just about her.

It’s about you, the part that keeps giving, hoping love or success will finally stop asking for more.

“Big, better, best, tell me where does it end?”

That’s the question of the modern world, isn’t it?

We used to chase meaning. Now we chase upgrades.

The next car. The next house. The next version of ourselves we swear will finally be enough.

That line hits like a slap because it’s not about her greed, it’s about ours. The human compulsion to measure worth in things that depreciate the moment we touch them.

Meniketti saw it coming in ’83, the MTV illusion that one more purchase could make you lovable.

The truth?

There is no “best.”

There’s only empty once you get there.

“Better bend, or you’re gonna break.”

That’s the line every overachiever ignores until they burn out.

You bend for your job, your partner, your image, telling yourself it’s just temporary.

But rock ’n’ roll, like life, is a tension game. Bend too far, you snap. Stay too rigid, you shatter.

Meniketti’s warning isn’t moral, it’s mechanical.

Everything has a breaking point. Even pride.

Especially pride.

“You’re never good enough in the eyes of a woman with a mean streak.”

That’s not about her cruelty. It’s about his delusion. If you’re addicted to approval, you’ll always find someone to withhold it. That’s how the cycle works, you attract what exposes you.

This lyric isn’t just romantic tragedy; it’s psychological truth.

The mean streak isn’t just hers, it’s his self-punishment disguised as devotion.

Love becomes a transaction, and he’s paying in self-worth.

“It could be different now, if she thought you’d say goodbye.”

That’s the quiet genius of the song.
The line isn’t loud or angry, it’s strategic.

Control only exists when the threat of loss is real. Power shifts the moment you stop fearing solitude.

And that’s not about leaving her. It’s about reclaiming gravity. Meniketti frames freedom not as rebellion, but as resolve.

You don’t win by shouting. You win by walking away, and not explaining.

“How could you be so blind?”

Every Y&T fan knows that line lands heavier than the riff that follows.

Because blindness isn’t stupidity, it’s comfort.

You don’t want to see what’s real, because truth ruins the fantasy you built around it.

That’s the human condition in one line, our capacity to choose illusion because honesty hurts too much.

We’re still living this song.

The house isn’t big enough. The phone isn’t new enough. The partner isn’t perfect enough.

And we keep bending for approval, validation, and a fleeting sense of peace that never lasts.

Y&T weren’t philosophers by title, but “Meanstreak” reads like Stoicism in leather and denim, a call to self-respect disguised as a rock anthem.

A reminder that loving something, or someone, doesn’t mean surrendering who you are to keep it.

In 1983, it was about a guy and a girl.

In 2025, it’s about all of us — and the systems that feed on our wanting.

Maybe the real mean streak isn’t in the lover.

Maybe it’s in us, the world that taught us to confuse love with obedience.