Super-misogynistic-expialidocious!

Herb Jeffries (name misspelled on the cover), Devil Is a Woman (Golden Tone, 1957)

No, I'm pretty certain the so-called devil woman who inspired the conception and delivery of this red-hot piece of trash was not actually a woman, but a group of men, who, were there any justice, never enjoyed the company of women (or licked their boots) again.

The Devil and Robert Johnson

Sic him, hellhound! Robert Johnson reincarnated.

I wonder if this asshole made a deal with the devil, too. Judging from his astonishing travesty of recorded music, this Robert Johnson probably blew the stop sign at the fabled crossroads and kept right on trucking to Squaresville or whatever shithole flea-market stage would have him. Or maybe this is thee Robert Johnson—reincarnated and forever doomed to haunt the junk store record bin with his goofy-ass smile, regrettable haircut, and dumbshit Chuck Berry-style pose. Maybe, just maybe, you shouldn’t fuck around with the devil. 

Fantasies of a Country Clown

File under Comedy/Fantasy: Miserable Moe Bandy's 1979 vinyl turd, It's a Cheating Situation.

Sorry, Moe, but you're dreaming. That said, I doubt your sister (or right hand) will mind.

For the Birds (and Goodwill Bins): Cock Robin

At the height of the 1980s cock rock phenomenon emerged cocks of a different feather, the inimitable, though short-lived synth-pop sensation COCK ROBIN. Owing nothing to the sausage fest sounds of Hollywood's Sunset Strip, this American band had to cross the Atlantic to achieve cock stardom. And achieve it they did, if only for a boner's duration.

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers: Both Sides of the Covenant Four

And the Grammy for Most Laughable Use of a Picnic Tablecloth on an Album Cover goes to...

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers No. 89

"GOODBYE, JANNA."  - Jesus

Fat Stevens

Following the photo shoot for Swedish folk singer Cornelis Vreeswijk’s homage to Evert Taube, the six-string acoustic cradled in the sweaty embrace of Cornelis’s ample, unburdened loins required months of intensive counseling and a full refinish. So traumatized was the guitar, nicknamed “Raggmunk” after Cornelis’s favorite potato pancake recipe, he (yes, it's a he) never played the same again. Some say that the humiliation Raggmunk was forced to endure at the hands of a hack photographer bent on transforming his subjects into steamy sex symbols caused Raggmunk to lose his will to carry a tune. Nevertheless, the guitar remained close with his owner, Vreeswijk, often spending many hours with him on the couch—not playing, though, but watching their favorite films, Lee Hazlewood’s Cowboy in Sweden and Torgny Wicket’s Anita: Swedish Nymphet. And when Vreeswijk succumbed to liver cancer in 1977, Raggmunk mustered the strength to perform an elegy to his mate at his funeral. Appropriately, it was a meditation on the song “Nudistpolka” (no translation necessary) from the infamous Cornelis sjunger Taube LP (“sjunger” means “sings”). It was also Raggmunk’s last performance. As he downstroked the final chord of his poignant tribute, Raggmunk did so with such cathartic force that his strings snapped, filling the mouse-quiet cathedral with a ringing cacophony of profound sorrow. Raggmunk then collapsed on the altar, just a few feet from Vreeswijk’s coffin (a reinforced refrigerator box), his neck breaking off in the process. Sobbing, Cornelis’s brother, Gard, scooped up the broken and now deceased Raggmunk and placed him tenderly in the cardboard casket atop the corpse of his brother. Luckily for Raggmunk, this time Cornelis was wearing pants.

Yes, this is a work of fiction. No need to get upset.

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers: Summer Sausage Edition

Summer is here, ladies and men! And Michael Henderson (known for his electric bass work with Miles Davis, among other more notable accomplishments) has waxed up his ... um ... surf board and is expecting you to join him (and his junk) for a little summer frolic and fun on the beach of Lake Flaccid. Won't you come? I love that this masterpiece is titled Slingshot. I guess it could have alternatively been called Packin' Heat or Holster or Banana Hammock or Summer Sausage Fest or Low-Hanging Fruit Cocktail or Love Cradle or P-Junk or Strapped On. Yeah, Slingshot seems to do the trick. By the way, there's a tune on this record called "Geek You Up." Not quite sure what to make of that. I suppose I could have listened to the song, but why spoil the mystery?

Pin the Singer on a Pinto

You know you’re in trouble when your record label believes so much in your new album that they slap a Ford Pinto on the cover. Named for the Jim Croce hit song that country singer Tony Booth turned into a hit of his own, Workin’ at the Car Wash Blues may not have been the product of Booth's actual experience slathering suds on Pintos, Pacers, Gremlins, and the like; however, Booth was no doubt singing these blues for real after this 1974 album stalled in the bargain bin.

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: Let's Get Physical

Hmm … judging by the illustrations, this doesn’t look like any ordinary exercise album. Backdoor pantomiming, pelvic thrusting, and checking a counter’s sturdiness are generally associated with exercises of a different sort. Not to mention, the whole shebang is narrated by a “physical fitness expert” named Vic Boff. Vic fricking BOFF, ladies and gentleman.

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. 

Marcy the Malevolent

After this photo, Marcy's duet partner never wore another smile.

On this album cover, Marcy's new partner failed to smile enough. She never got a second chance.

Tiny terror: Little Marcy swings!

There’s something you should know about a Marcy. She’s not the lovable proselytizing puppet she appears to be both in her songs and on the covers of her many records. No, there’s something quite sinister about her. Have you seen a more hateful smile? Unless it came from the face of the Twilight Zone’s “Talking Tina,” you most certainly have not. Unlike Talking Tina, Marcy actually exists. And not just in your nightmares. But because this adorable little devil is fronting with that whole “I’m in the Lord’s Army” bullshit while outfitted in the most precious jumpers, Marcy’s adoring fans are content to look past the figurative and literal skeletons decomposing in her closet. And the evidence is right there on her album covers. As the LP jackets posted above attest, Marcy changes singing partners more often than Catholic priests find themselves in a bit of … well, you get the point. See the women pictured alongside perky little Marcy? That’s right, they have neither been seen nor heard from after smiling for the camera alongside the tiny terror. I’m sure both singers were beguiled by Marcy’s sweet, innocent charm, whimsical voice, and seemingly genuine love for her lord and savior. They probably thought they were doing the lord’s work by helping Marcy connect with her peers (which include headless child-size mannequins from Sears, ventriloquist dummies, ineptly crafted sock puppets, and various Pinocchios) before she likely sent them packing for heaven when she strangled them to death with the razor wire of her “puppet strings.” Marcy shares the spotlight with no one, which is underscored by the LP cover depicting the pint-sized monster swinging solo. Next to Marcy, the blackest metal from the darkest corner of Norway is just child’s play. Speaking of child’s play, wasn’t that also the title of the first “Chucky” movie? Coincidence? Maybe Marcy is the true bride of Chucky.

Young Hungry Bastard

Christian folk's Captain & Tennille take on the great orphan crisis of 1974.

This 1974 album details one child’s harrowing and heartbreaking journey through the foster care and orphanage system. Ron and Haven's opus garnered 47 Grammy nominations in 1975, including “Best Mustache Depicted on an Album Cover,” “Best Use of a Prop on an Album Cover” (for Ron and Haven's use of a real orphan as their fictional adopted son), and “Concept Album of the Year.” I’m Adopted is still in print today, available for sale on Ron and Haven’s website (which I'll let you search for); however, the song titles have all been changed. Should you be interested in adopting this landmark LP for your collection, seek out the original, with its hard-hitting, unvarnished songs, such as: “Orphanage Head Lice Blues,” “If God Is My Father, Who Is This Guy?”, "Wallpaper Paste Tastes Like Oatmeal," “Bedbugs and Dried Boogers,” “Adoption Day Blues (No Home for Me),” “Ballad of a Young Bastard,” “They Found Me in a Dumpster,” and “I Come with a Warranty.”

Free to Fly

Put a Bird on It: Merv & Merla break wind.

If Merv and Merla hadn't been so bent on festooning their album cover with cliché Christian symbolism, they never would have released this innocent, young dove into the waiting embrace of a cruel, godless world. Weeks after the cover’s photo shoot, the bird was spotted foraging for food in a depressed part of town. Sporting a tattered “Jesus Saves” T-shirt to conceal the filth sullying its formerly snow-white plumage, the dirty dove, now just a common city pigeon, dodged stumbling footfalls of addled zombies as it pecked the crust of dried vomit fused to the sidewalk in front of an abandoned convenience store with busted-out windows. Shame on you, Merv and Merla.

Blinded by the Light

Ronnie Milsap's unfortunate 1976 album, 20-20 Vision 

One advantage of being a blind singer is never having to look this album cover in the face. So far a reissue of this album, entitled 20-20 Hindsight, featuring a revised cover has yet to surface.

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.

Music to Be Murdered By

Long before they instigated the Good Friday massacre, during which they torched dozens of churches and committed innumerable heinous acts of violence and in so doing transformed a normally tranquil if hopelessly clumsy Norway into an unimaginable dystopian nightmare. Long before they slaughtered their pet goats and drank the blood, donned corpse paint, rechristened themselves as Demonic Infestation, and unleashed a towering inferno of black metal chaos so menacing and intense that it induced legions of young evil-doers to take up guitars, embrace the southern Lord and wreak unrelenting havoc across Northern Europe. Long before all this, they were Norway’s most delightful export since lutefisk, a husband-and-wife folk duo known as Mike and Else.

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers II

Since when is pinning down and forcing one’s self upon an incapacitated and presumably disinclined partner a “Serenade for Love”? A year after this controversial record hit stores (only to be withdrawn and deleted by the label), Dick Hayman found himself donning a new set of stripes. This time it was he who was the unwilling recipient of another man’s “Serenade for Love.”

A forgotten Bourbon Street fixture, Rev. Bob Harrington achieved a bit of infamy in the 1970s for changing booze back into water, and tacky wallpaper into blazers.

What could be more terrifying on Halloween than a “Christian perspective” on the holiday? Fear not. Come October 31, this record won’t be knocking at your door for a trick or treat. All known surviving copies—four to be precise—have been consigned to haunting the basement of a small, dilapidated chapel in Beaver Dam, Kentucky.

Barbra Streisand: Unmasked, Unplugged, Ungodly!