Acid Casualty

In conceiving this terrible LP in the early 1970s, well-meaning Christians had tried their darnedest to re-brand the initialism of LSD into “Leadership, Service, Dedication.” Big mistake. No one bothered reading the fine print on the cover. And when some talking head on national TV declared that the cover of The New LSD alone had the power to transform minds, hordes of pimple-faced teens took heed of his innuendo and stormed the nation’s record stores for a taste, ripping the cellophane from the records and ravenously ingesting their covers, expecting them to be laced with acid. The only trip they experienced was a ride to juvie, though. As punishment for the destruction of merchandise, the aspiring acid casualties were ordered to suffer through the LP's sermon, “The Price of Leadership and Discipleship” as told by one Charles “Tremendous” Jones. But that was of no consolation to “Tremendous” Jones and his record label. While the contents of The New LSD may have been wholesome enough, its image was forever tainted thanks to those no-good kids. Record stores wanted nothing more to do with the record and refused to restock it. And just like that, The New LSD had evaporated from the market.

Songs of Drugs and Devotion 2: The Addicts Choir

With the Addicts Sing (see entry below) shooting up the record charts and intoxicating fans with the invigorating power of a speedball chased with angel dust, Word Records was eager to get the coveted teen market hooked on the nascent addiction craze, birthing a crack baby of an album called Teen Challenge, the debut from the all-teen Addicts Choir. Unlike the original Addicts Sing record, Teen Challenge doesn’t conceal the money shot—an illustration of a dude mainlining—on the back cover. This time, the label puts it right there on the front, right next to co-ed Addicts Choir, in all its graphic glory for all to enjoy: a darkened full-color action shot of a young man, presumably a teen, shooting up in the shadows. The album cover and record contained within became the hit of 1965, outselling all Beatles and Rolling Stones albums combined. After a long stint in rehab, the Addicts Choir took their show on the road and earned a coveted spot opening for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir at the Joseph Smith Coliseum presented by Alpo in Provo, Utah. Sadly, the sold-out crowd never got to experience the Addicts Choir. En route to the show, on a perilous stretch of highway near Moab, the group’s bus driver nodded off at the wheel (he had more heroin in him than an Afghani poppy field), and the bus careened off the highway, plunging some 2,000 feet to the canyon floor below, so ending the Addicts Choir and the whole addiction fad. In 1997, more than three decades after this leading light was forever snuffed out, a feisty punk rock band from Spokane, Washington, called the Flies emerged with an EP called Teen Challenge (Empty Records)—a worthy tribute to the Addicts Choir and their great album.

Songs of Drugs and Devotion

It’s a tragedy that some of the most brilliant and inspired music of the 20^th century languishes in the limbo of America’s junk stores, awaiting resurrection in the digital age. One such album that’s yet to transition to the almighty digital format is The Addicts Sing by the Addicts (a.k.a. Nine Former Addicts—formerly recovering addicts, that is). Issued on the Christian music imprint Word Records in 1963, just months before the arrival of the Fab Four, The Addicts Sing was a God-send, a true revelation. For this album marked the first time American audiences could delight in the sublime exploits of authentic drug addicts without feeling exploitative, shameful, or guilty. Sure, drug abuse and addiction was common in music—from smack in jazz to booze in blues—but it wasn’t part of the show: musicians kept their habits concealed—confined to the backstage, the shooting gallery, the back alley, public toilets, mom’s basement. The Addicts changed all that; they embraced and celebrated their addictions and the drugs that fueled them. No longer were fans left to wonder whether their favorite band were a bunch of strung-out junkies, speed freaks, pill poppers, hash heads, etc. The Addicts proclaimed with defiance, “So what if we are.” And just look at the album cover. Notice the not-so-subtle sky scraper puncturing the pink type? Might that be a hypodermic needle in disguise? And just what of big, bold, bright hot pink lettering: The Addicts Sing. You couldn’t dream of a flashier billboard. Flip jacket over and what do you see, but a graphic illustration of a dude shooting up—and he ain’t mainlining insulin. If that weren’t enough, take a look at the Addicts Dodge tour van, the original Mystery Machine. Imagine seeing that bombing down the highway. Smoke ’em if you got ’em! Indeed, the Addicts had declared war on the undeclared war on drugs. Still, they knew their progressive message might meet resistance, so to allay the fears of worried parents, the Addicts chose not pitch their circus tent in the country’s juke joints, roadhouses, or after-hours clubs. Instead, they went to America’s churches and sang about Jesus. How could a parent not feel good about that? “Well, gosh, Mabel; these drug-addled dirtbags are going on about the Lord! I guess they ain’t so bad. I mean the Lord did say to love your fellow man—even if they smell bad and have hepatitis C.” By the time the Beatles, Stones and their merry prankster contemporaries got around to dreaming up their own acid-laced, smack-tastic fever dreams later in the decade—and to worldwide acclaim—they had Addicts to thank.