Wretched Records and Crappy Covers Again: One More Wicker Man

Oh, Danny Boy! Sharp-dressed in his wicker nest.

Discovered another Wicker Man hiding on an old SD card. I snapped this pic last year, and I now regret not saving Danny from the oblivion of the Goodwill junk bin. I just have too many damned records. You may recall that I blogged about 1970s album covers festooned with wicker chairs a few months back (original post here). I'm just sorry for bringing Danny late to the party. At least he's fashionably late.

The Virgin Suicides

The Living Stones, four singing sisters and their poorly conceived suicide note.

Taking their lives might have been the most selfless act the Living Stones could have made to atone for this inept stillbirth of gospel music. The girls’ pastor, who just happened to be the album’s producer, thought the title—Take My Life—spoke of the sister act’s commitment to Christ. He learned just how horribly wrong he was when, a few weeks after the LP’s unsuccessful launch, he discovered their headless bodies lying in a bloody heap on the basement floor of the parish community center. Just as they harmonized in song, the siblings synchronized their exit with a simultaneous hanging. However, their choice of heavy-gauge low-E guitar strings as nooses proved to be a rather unfortunate—and messy—decision. The strings didn’t just snap their necks when pulled taught, they ripped their heads clear off. Melba’s wobbled some 20 feet down the hall before coming to its final rest just outside the men’s room door, a wavy trail of crimson occupying the distance between head and body. One positive outcome in all this was that it served as the inspiration for the soundtrack that in turn inspired the movie that in turn inspired the novel The Virgin Suicides. 

This is a work of fiction.

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers Redux: Wicker Up Front

We may never know what begot the wicker chair trend of the 1970s, but it hardly matters. The fact of the matter is that these specimens of dreadful design exist and continue to haunt the bargain bins and thrift stores near and far. Besides, who in their right, sober mind would claim credit for conceiving these Sears-studio-quality jackets? Because let's be honest: they're all likely the product of the same art director, who, along with his or her one idea, bounced from label to label, starting with the wonderful Al Green (whose album is pretty stunning despite the jacket; have you listened to "Look What You Done to Me" lately? The Late Teenie Hodges' gorgeous and sublime guitar work is just the beginning.) and ending with the miserable Ron Hudson. The only thing missing from these album covers besides tasteful graphic design is a lap dog ... or cat.