We Will Rock You, awful album covers Options

[PalePhoenix]

You'll find the original inspiration for this installment at Zonicweb.net. It's amusing, and far more extensive, as it was at their site, but I decided they hadn't heaped enough derision on these "works of art." Let's kick things off at the Eleven setting!

Rocking you. Like, umm, a hurricane.

We'll see some more from the Germans in a bit. For now, feast your eyes on this Dali-esque Melting Titty. The guy is probably thinking to himself, "She doesn't seem to notice, but why is she holding her hand so firmly over her crotch? Might I find more Bubblicious there?" Either that, or he picked up some other player's cast-off hooker, tossed from the first limo, just after she hit the sidewalk. People back then weren't so conscientious about using the proper receptacles for their trash.

Not to be confused with Stryper.

The latter was a "Christian Metal" band from California. I think these guys might be Czech. No matter what, they make Ratt, Poison, and their elders, Kiss, look demure. They have tipped over from glam rock into what appears to be vying for the role of Frank in a Rocky Horror floorshow. It's also true that their name may be derived from a variant of 'strychnine,' a deadly alkaloid known to cause convulsions and respiratory failure. Since neither Wikipedia nor Google had much to say about them, I would guess their career got its dose in a hurry.

My love for you is like a horrible mutant.

This post-apocalyptic plaything actually went platinum three times 1995. It was pretty much their last solid effort, and probably the last one Valerie Bertinelli bought. Siamese toddlers in the process of tearing themselves apart may have held some deeper meaning for this band, who are currently courting David Lee Roth for a Reunion Tour-slash-Nostalgia Greedfest. This is what happens when you're just a gigolo...and you don't wear condoms with the groupies after doing a shitload of drugs.

[PalePhoenix]

Metal - Clothes = OMGWTF ur so gay.

When their album sales took a nosedive, they were probably ready to cut their locks and appear in an Olivia Newton-John video on this fantastic new channel, called M-something. "All Men Play on Ten" may well have been the inspiration for Spinal Tap, or it was one too many screenings of Conan the Barbarian what cost several production artists their jobs. They were likely attempting to cash in on some yet-published Norse mythology that presented Odin and Thor visiting sweatlodge-type bath houses and hammering each other with "thunder and lightning."

"Let's Go to the Beach," and pray for jellyfish

Maybe they would prefer a man-o-war? This was another unpopular duo, but one that was doubtlessly a hit with the Spanish-speaking NAMBLA crowd. While a lesson to be learned here is that you should never target such a marginal audience with your debut, there is certainly another in knowing when NOT to take your shirt off for a publicity photo of any kind. I'm just guessing, but theirs was probably a sort of salsa-beat Brian Wilson and Mike Love. Do we also have to guess which one was the Bitch Boy? Speaking of whom...

"For the first time." We hope, the last.

Poor Tino. Was he some reject from Menudo, or just a young latino caught up in the heady drive of a LA music producer's 1981 coke binge? Although it is curious to note that Izods have made a comeback during his hiatus, we know nothing of this promising singer's work. It has been lost to the tide of time and the Bargain Cassette bin at Sam Goody.

[PalePhoenix]

Translation: "I Have Appallingly Bad Taste."

Actually, it reads "Mom, I'm a Gay Christian." While it is evident that some performers felt no need to veil their sexuality, or the inherent homoeroticism of their genre, in loincloths and baby oil--and I do applaud this brave stance, given both the era and the presumed audience--there are just some people for whom we want no sexuality at all. And just to get one thing clear, a guy isn't gay because women don't want him. If you are so heinously unattractive that not even your manager can get you to remove your Casio digital watch for the cover shoot, then we do have another musical choice for you...

You are not seeing double.

I'm going to presume that this was meant solely as a 'joke album,' like Allan Sherman recordings of "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah." I always find it somewhat amusing when dog owners (or cat owners, or anybody who has a semi-intelligent pet) believe their companion animals share their orientations. Of course, we presume most pets are straight...at least until we do what Bob Barker tells us to. To clarify another Homo Myth: Cutting a canine's balls off doesn't make it gay. Unlike their owners, they'll still hump just about anything, and they'll usually adopt whatever behavior the "alpha" around the house does for fun. Don't want a gay dog? Lock him out of your bedroom when you have company and DON'T put this music on.

It is possible. I saw it on Jerry Springer.

A lesser-known sophomore endeavor from the same band who brought you, "Who Stole My Patchouli?" "I'm Not Wearing a Bra Either," "Gay Men Ruin the Commune" and other hits from K-Tel. Since I wouldn't want to be eating out any woman who farmed that much garlic in a day, I suppose we could all use a lesson. It's a butchy/androgynous clan of Southern Dykes, bedecked in their best plaids and denims, who you'll turn to when it's time to fix that tractor of yours. Mark my words.

Still not as good as fresh-squeezed.

This must have been for the Get-It-Done-in-a-Hurry types. When you didn't have time for collegiate experimentation, or hooking up with that imaginary MySpace girlfriend, then you could skip right into Hitachi Magic Wand Land. Lesbian Concentrate has 50% less pulp than your last relationship, and won't leave that same sour taste in your mouth. Be sure to rinse.

As a side note, I did want to mention how much I admire neologisms. No, that's not another name for a set of hands-free sex positions. Words like "lesbianthology" delight me in their novelty and creativity, much more than "womyn," "wimmin," or "U.S.E."

[PalePhoenix]

Take that, Family Values!

We need not dwell in the abomination of sodomites without a reverent nod to those folks who engaged in more than their share of procreative intercourse. Trust me, we'll be seeing a lot more of them, soon. Unlike some of the examples to follow, these were probably not the most biblically inspired of groups, but they were trying to ride the crest of that Partridge Family wave...not knowing how many sharks are mysteriously attracted to bright, floral prints. Mother must've had a jolly good time giving birth to that colt.

Supposedly, no relation to Nicole, or Lionel.

Technically, they drew their name from producer Ritchie Rome, and were created by the same fellow who invented the Village People (Up NEXT!) This is so obviously a rip off of "Let's Get Physical" (Xanadu is never far away for some of these, is it?), that it's possible to forget everyone from the Pointer Sisters to Sister Sledge was using the same motif, at one time or another. They could have done this shoot, dressed exactly as they are, with the same expressions, and been far more memorable. The Athletic Model Guild wasn't even necessary, but it did scream "Play me at 3 AM in a disco, dammit!"

It takes a village. A very, very gay village.

Clearly, someone deliberately set out to prove that if you make a flaming pop group nelly enough, they might just swing back around to seeming hetero again. Guess what...they failed. How do you out-glam the glam rock? How do you buckle to the trends of fashion without giving up your identity? No one involved in the creation of this album cover knew, but that wasn't going to stop them. With "Y.M.C.A." a veritable anthem at every Middle American little league game these days, I wonder what that lot might think if they saw this mismatch of "In the Navy" and "Hungry Like the Wolf."

I also note that the original cast is short a member or two. Gone are the fetish costumes of Cop, Construction Worker, and Native American. Though the outfits may change, the beat goes on.

[PalePhoenix]

Let's get biblical...biblical.

We don't want to "know" you in that way. If your old 78 rpm LPs didn't provide enough salvation from the mind-warping torments of rock 'n' roll, then there was still a safe haven for you. No, this isn't an Elks Lodge stag party OR the Winnetka chapter of NAMBLA, so it's safe to presume that the "him" to which they refer is likely "Jesus." If I were Jesus, and I had a listen to this, then I wouldn't bother coming back because I'd realize the Four Horsemen had already done a drive-by.

Toot, toot, tootsie, goodbye.

If cleanliness is next to godliness, then wholesomeness is ostensibly adjacent to matching outfit-ness. A vast contingent of this genre would appear to have procured their musical presence from the Sears Portrait Studio. All sartorial sense aside, they insist that they're "God's Children." Nowadays, we use that expression pejoratively, to refer to the profoundly disabled or mentally retarded. Can you spot any difference here?

Test Pattern.

Fortunately for Little David, he was a few years before Little Michael, from a little band called the Jackson 5...but not by too many years. Take a long, hard look at these faces and convince me that Daddy isn't a wife-beating, child-molesting sociopath. Mommy's got that deer-in-the-headlights look of denial, the eldest daughter's smile is more of a wince, and Little Susie wants that fucking paw off her arm more than anything.

Not all families have value.

A lot of people forget that Chuckie here was a ne'er-do-well folk singer, sorta like how Hitler was a failed artist. One wonders, if either had only stuck to their craft--instead of being ambitionless, psychopathic cowards--how history and our understanding of megalomania may have been affected. To be bluntly honest, Manson's music actually wasn't among the least talented or worst performed of its kind, but it definitely wanted for a different message. Because we all know how fast he bypassed "peace, love, and understanding," we tend to be more discriminating, but his material was no less cultish or egocentric than any of the above in this post.

[PalePhoenix]

No one is immunne. Not even them.

Worst. Beatles. Ever.

"Yesterday" was a seminal tune for multiple generations, but can you believe they let this horrific, clinical mess get released? This is pre-acid, pre-India, pre-Peter Max...but not by much. I think John and Ringo have some butcher's offal as jewelry. It's almost more meaningful than Yellow Submarine, and probably should have been the shot for Revolver. I think Mother Superior photographed this one.

And here's proof of poor decision-making skills.

We're accustomed to the Leibovitz pic, I think...not all their naughty bits. Despite the fact that Ms. Ono made an interactive art piece of taking a scissor to her clothes, I always admired them both for this image. It shouldn't really be listed among the most abhorrent album covers, because it's more pure than most of us could hope to be. Still, as a marketing strategy, it tanked faster than a Lance Bass spread in Playgirl. There are just some things most of us don't care to see at the time.

And behold, there were Germans, and they were...

...the Non Sequiturs of the Western World. Also Sprach Zarathustra? Shaddap, bitch. When they weren't withdrawing from foreign cultures, they were attempting to commandeer them, and only recently have they learned to send us...this. Lest you forget that the Beatles were Brits, here's a reminder that bad marketing knows no nationality, but it should've paid attention. The sticker reads "A gift for the whole year," but I'd prefer to think that--if this didn't liminally resemble a dear, Belgian friend--I'd run the fuck away in far less than a day.

[PalePhoenix]

Puppets suck. Literally.

I hate puppets. Maybe the title referred to his ventriloquism props, but it looks more--by the musculature of the back--that the "Filthy Honkey" was the white guy sucking his dick. If this was the best they could do for publicity, and couldn't hire a member of the Ritchie Family, then he deserved to fall into the abyss of anonymity. I definitely don't know a single one of his records. If YOU do, then I humbly suggest that you stop shoving your hand up various asses.

WARNING: Ventriloquists Ahead. Beware of falling jaws.

And when we mention "Geraldine," we're not talking about Flip Wilson anymore. Not only could she make a piece of wood speak, she could communicate with living trees. Never mind the pre-Michael Jackson outfit or the tropical spread. This witch meant business, and it was going to cost you $2.99 via mail order (plus thirty cents shipping and handling) to find out what she channelled through her lap-slave. Don't expect it, or her, to say that pixie collars and dickies were passé. The whole mock-turtleneck thing seems to be catching.

Comedic props aren't limited to the inanimate, unfortunately.

Before Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, or ANY of the so-called "Kings of Comedy," there was Redd. And Moms Mabley, but who remembers any of her albums? America was still treating black people as burlesque or minstrel shows. You think that sounds racist? Wait until you see...

[PalePhoenix]

"Mr. Tambourine Man" would have been an improvement.

White men in blackface insult us all. Even though I understand the temporal context, I find it difficult to accept that it was a popular album, in its own day. This inheritor of Al Jolson, lacking all other talents, could play the banjo. Bully for him. Even if I could blow a G-note over the lip of a ceramic jug, I'd never have tried to trade on this repugnant stereotype. Was he simply born too early for the Dave Matthews Band or Hootie and the Blowfish? Frankly, I think the latter's career has sunk so low, they should be playing bar mitzvahs as "Yehudi & the Gefilte Fish."

Is there a dance mix for the Cake Walk?

Whoop...there it is, literally. "Music for Pleasure Present," it begins. Whose? Some VFW hall in Alabama? You can tell from the quality of the photo and its coloration that this was created past mid-century. And I DO mean the Twentieth, not the Nineteenth.

Does the gay stuff seem tame yet?

[PalePhoenix]

Hey, have you hugged your kid today? Gary has.

As the 1970s blended somewhat less than seamlessly into the Eighties, artists who'd previously enjoyed their excesses in private were now parading them for all the world to see. "Let's do a few lines of coke off some boy in the bathroom!" Well, that was just Liz and Malcolm at Studio 54. I'm sure Liza and Bianca were there. Here, the Glitter Band seems almost tamed, heroin-thin to fit into their Barnum & Bailey outfits, not a single one even remotely appealing. They didn't care. "Do you wanna touch us?" NO.

She's been compared to Gladys Knight.

She appears to be squeezing out a few of the pips. Though I've never heard of her, she apparently has a fairly lengthy discography, and still performs to this day (the cover is from a 1989 release). By then, she would have been easily overshadowed by the likes of Anita Baker or Jody Watley. A word to Miss Jackson, cuz she's nasty: If you're going to title your album "Back to the Shit," then there are probably at least half a dozen less literal visual metaphors you could have chosen to commemorate your 'release.'

We are the Champion. You will be assimilated.

Look, it's Freddie Mercury sans moustache! Who knew. This disturbing composite reminds me more of Joseph Merrick than anything else. A shorn Farrokh Bulsara (Mercury's birth name) means he wasn't long for this world and did, in fact, die two years after this album came out. Which is particularly ironic, if only in that HE never really did until quite near the end, casting a shameful face on AIDS when he could have done so much to help prevent its spread. Even if he'd just stopped sleeping around.

[PalePhoenix]

Everything's coming up lasers. I've got to boogie!

Despite an incredibly bad overlay or double exposure, this image is--by turns--uplifting and depressing. Ethel was a notorious faghag, and was even said to have done some fuzz-bumping with Jackie Susann. I'm sure she spent many a late night/early morning partying with the 'girls.' The old joke states that she requested coffee at one of those 24-hr diners after her disco festivities. "How would you like it?" the waiter asked, to which she attempted to wryly insinuate, "I like my coffee like I like my men." "I'm sorry," he replied. "We don't have any gay coffee." At least that wasn't the only time someone handed Ethel her hat.

There was no other way to get out of dinner with you.

I doubt he's visiting Ms. Merman's grave. The smaller copy reads, "Founder and Director of PULPIT IN THE SHADOWS - A ministry dedicated exclusively to youth victims of drug abuse." Must suck when your congregation keeps dropping like flies, but what's a preacher to do? Visit their remains and shake a bible at them, that's what. I figure this album--and godsknow what sermons it contains--was intended to convey the slavery and sadness of addiction, but it merely manages to seem morbid. To my knowledge, this title was later reused by at least one punk band, and we'll have some more knee-slappin' Christian fun after this short message from our sponsor...

Take. Your. Medication. Fool.

As the subhead here is more legible, I'll leave suspension of disbelief entirely in your own capable hands. "Talking in tongues," for Pentecostals and others, was not necessarily a sign that one was possessed by anything less than the spirit of the lord. To vouch for the inhabitation of a demonic presence, I suppose the satanic minion had to arrive with an ID card or something. For instance, if you started repeatedly shrieking, "Come on down! You're the next contestant on 'The Price Is Right!'" then it could be fairly assumed that only the most unholy of disembodied forces had its grip on you. Or you'd forgotten your last dose of Prolixin.

[PalePhoenix]

You didn't ask for him, yet here he is.

Well, it's very much the same thing as any other fave selection: Spare and creepy, you're the next host for this perturbed fellow. Bar the door! He's stopping by your phonograph, or visiting your Victrola, and no one can stop him! You can imagine the withered ghost of Karen Carpenter lurking beyond him, can't you?

Everything's coming on Eileen.

Dexy's Midnight Runners have nothing on Mr. Rowland. This was his attempt to make good on his solo ability. Unfortunately, he wandered off into the Land of Lingerie, and eventually forgot how to sing. Personally, I admire this--for what I figure is a knowing bit of self-mockery--but it was never musically viable. In all honesty tho, the last guy--in a park somewhere--who tried to play Peek-a-Boo with his package like this, looked pretty much the same.

[PalePhoenix]

Heaven

And to prove it, here's a giant cardboard stand-in.

Gotta give credit to these Louvin Brothers. (Was it pronounced lovin', I wonder?) They appear to have actually gone on a photoshoot to some active volcano. Maybe it was Don Ho's backyard. Or it was the local "Tire Fire," à la Springfield, instead. Regardless, they couldn't even get a guy in a devil costume? They also lose points for seeming cheery, an emotion not previously witnessed on these Christian covers. They're damn glad Satan's real. The Prince of Lies keeps their tent revival profitable.

Hey, not so fast there, Old Nick!

Satan's not really paralyzed, he's just pinned underneath Liberace's grand piano...and, boy, will he ever be pissed when he gets those pedals off his horned head. David Ingles isn't a name I recognize, though I freely admit to never having heard of Benny Hinn or that impish Van Impe couple until much later in life, either. Something about this shot has a "Price Is Right/Sabado Gigante" feel. It's probably the immense, incongrous letter "M" looming in the background, aglow with Vegas marquee-style lighting. Who else thinks it stands for "MORON?"

Hell

And they say there are no snitches in the 'hood.

Another "on the fly" composite shot, this time with a tranquilized rodent (paralyzed?). You know it's drugged because its front leg is in an unnatural position. The same could probably said for its passenger. While Mr. Dogg (no relation to Snoop, though it's amusing how--in rap, as in porn--performers adopt stage names from earlier decades) was taking his Wild Ride, I was probably reading those Encyclopedia Brown mysteries. Knowing the rat's drugged came from one of those stories, wherein a character was determined to be holding a dead lobster. The intrepid young investigator decided it was dead because it was red, which meant it had already been boiled. A lesson for all you budding Swamp Doggs out there.

Sir Mix-a-Lot you're not.

If you do, indeed, like big butts--and you cannot lie--then let your other brother deny liking what comes out of them. It's probably safe to say that this musical stylist got his sobriquet from someplace more benign, like "Pooh Bear," owing to his weight (notice how only his face is visible). Then frame that fat head in a woman's upturned legs, and you've got an instant scat fetish. The parenthetical subhead was to let all his fans know he might also rap or play records, when he wasn't practicing coprophilia.

Eternal Damnation

Speaking of unnatural habits...

I think the symbol after "Stuff Party" is a numeral seven. It could be a nine, but isn't it horrific enough to worry that there might be Parties One through Six out there somewhere? I don't know whether Larz Kristerz refers to the entire band, or just to one of these unfortunately bewigged fellows. It might be the guy in the center, who appears to be the only one using his "natural" hair (making the ironic "in joke" that the others were attempting to mock him and his muttonchops). Of all these disturbing euronerds, I think the portly shlub in the upper left was the only performer who went on to any fortune or notoriety. He eventually cornered a drunken groupie, and after that fateful, three-minute gropefest, they gave birth to Gary Brolsma, of the "Numa Numa Dance" fame.

[PalePhoenix]

This is a virtual treasure trove of bad album covers. Sadly, you will only have my witty company for 20% of their stock.

No, there's no particular reason I'm presenting these side by side. Just a more economical layout (for those of you with decently sized screens, that is), and the originals were so small as to barely be legible. There is, however, a sort of coincidental JNSQ about these two men, isn't there? We normally think of rockstars--or anybody talented and recognizable enough to warrant putting their own face on an album, really--as handsome or, at least exceptional looking. These gentlemen certainly have the latter down pat. David Bowie was no looker, either, but while his hair and eyes enjoyed a variety of colors, they usually pointed in the same direction.

Cody wants to borrow a feeling. I can name several I'm presently experiencing that I could do without. Roger, on the other hand, has many facets. They all seem to take their fashion tips from Rick James.

Orion, ne "Ornell Macgilicuddy," was an Elvis impersonator until he stumbled across what would become his 'gimmick.' Learning from such betters as the Lone Ranger and the Riddler, he chose to don a mask in defense of bad music. Thus, he was reborn. Unfortunately, he elected to go with a Mardi Gras model that tilted his mien more toward "Zorro, the Gay Blade" than any other icon. He is now performing at the Traxx men's nightclub in Tulsa, in a review with go-go boys and a transvestite named Ivana DePants.

At quick glance, it might appear these ladies are wearing bridal gowns. Look closer, if you dare. The font and photographic style depicted suggest a late 1960s, early 70s motif, which probably made them folk singers in the so-mellow-they're-dead Carter-Cash mold. I'd like to imagine them singing early rock ballads and throwing wild hotel parties after shows. It certainly spices up any other off-stage antics that actually existed for them, like knitting or sausage-making. At the very least, my invented activities warrant the sobriquet 'frivolous.' Lest you think they were merely women of loose morals and too much dairy.

Pardon, again, the purely accidental, thematic similarity here. Before you look forward to these two performers recording their own version of "Hands Across America," I'd like to remind you that Harry and Terry LIVE went over a lot worse than Harry and Terry DEAD. It was a Mississippi boat tour and when the paddlewheel blew, Harry was last seen clinging to his partner as a floatation device when they finally sank. Folks lined the river banks to clap for that one. The name of the 'Handless Organist' is lost to history (and the records of the Association of Retarded Citizens). We think it was 'Wendy.' Wendy went on to marry Peter, the footless drummer, and through one of the pioneering instances of artificial insemination gave birth to quintuplets, all paraplegics. They are now all lifeguards along a certain stretch of the Mississippi River, serving as--need I actually say it?

[PalePhoenix]

While it may be said that Kirk got all the green chicks, that clearly left over a lot of magenta and yellow babes for the other fellows. Toasting their phallic ship with psychedelic snifters, Les Baxter & Friends symbolized all that was misunderstood about the new age our country was entering. Spacesuits, after all, were never meant to be that dowdy, or the spacegals so much like interstellar Playboy bunnies with funny Q-Bert antennae. Remember, this was a time when most people thought you really could go for a stroll on Venus without breathing 700º gasses, and clearly the cover artist was huffing methane.

Merrill Womach wants you to know he's happy, again. This time is totally unlike that afternoon in 1952 he glimpsed his secretary's bra-strap through her blouse. This time is more like, "Five Years Out of the Burn Unit at County General." His is probably the combination of sun damage and rosacea you'll only see on octogenarians, but the hairpiece and the lack of eyebrows suggest he might have leaned too close to the turkey, some Thanksgiving not too long ago. Still, it's hard to believe that a man of his...caliber...could be singing of happiness without confusing it for the sensation one gets from a Tucks pad, or a shot of penicillin.

Like our handicapped organist, Wendy, a disproportionate number of these albums are given over to the "Patently Unattractive Through No Fault of Their Own" crowd. In this group, we can also include Manfred, on the right, who seems to suffer from no other disability than to hold a microphone as if he's contacting the Enterprise. He still looks like what most people imagine when they conjure 'Lounge Lizard' in their minds. His whole cover, in fact, appears as if it was designed directly from a cocktail napkin, with no intervening attempts to clean it up for production. It's like he's written his number on a matchbook just for you, baby.

And it's a shame we can't pick out the set list on the Braillettes' sleeve. Just as they probably weren't picking out their own clothes, I believe their name is meant to imply that they were blind, as the lass in the center more traditionally resembles. Well, screw that if we can sing, they probably thought. If our hearts keep going, then there's no reason for our minds to follow, is there? Kudos to their manager for helping them choose outfits that snugly fit their "hearts." It meant the difference between selling ten albums, and twenty.

[PalePhoenix]

Happy 5th of July, everybody! Now that you're all gorged on franks, burgers, and over-ripe potato salad...before the E. coli kick in and lay waste to your intestines...I'd like to take a moment to stop and honor all the things that make our country, freedom of expression, and the duty of a artist to thumb his or her nose at their homeland great. Yes, I'm talking about the Most Treasonous Album Covers evar, in a little segment we're going to call...

UNPATRIOTICA
(it's like an XM forum name, only funny)

Two great tastes...

That may not taste so great together. NOFX and Neil Young, both cherished by their [usually respective] audiences, here their venal traitory is laid bare. NoFX comments on the last 8 years of a 12-year Bush presidency, while Young's "American Stars in Bars" relies more on the title to convey its degenerate message. Throw in a little upskirt, and a composite shot of some planetarium display, and you've got two backdoors in one!

Available at your local Sam Goody...on backorder.

The kids are no longer alright. They'll have their say, and their say will be the prototypical adolescent bleatings, this time accentuated by a Straight Edge jacket--as if anyone remembers what that is--and a buncha teens storming an unknown state building. It could be the Senate in Providence, for all we know. All we do know is it's a capitol-ish dome, and it's being rapidly encroached upon by some surly young men. Batten the hatches, matey!

On the other hand, this Sam Turton...whoever he was...has taken a more subtle approach with his blood-smeared peace sign and serological stripes. As with many of these covers, it's not the overt message that you're supposed to get, it's the Double Secret one. Y'kno, the one only the hip, underground-y folks get when they buy this album by whoever this is. In some people's estimation--even in this day and age, with the Iraq War--there's absolutely no problem equating patriotism with bloodshed. Or lost limbs, or grotesque scarring, or lack of educational funding, or...

An old kind of bullshit.

As in the section before, no real planning went into how these laid out together. Call it a happy accident when it works out, but a death by misadventure, as with the Challenger, when it does not. "Anti-Flag" wasn't some über-underground group that hated Black Flag, is all I know, and the latter were angry enough for several bands. Which kinda makes you wonder why they elected to besmirch the iconic Iwo Jima image. Spiky-haired punkers raising the flag of distress. That's not TOO adolescent either, is it? Damn it, I'm getting too old for this shit. Alas and alack. Can I still hate emo?

As for the second image, there was pretty much no reason to use this as a graphic...but they went ahead and did it anyway. A lot of these are like that, thumbing their nose at both authority and propriety. In that, you have to give them some credit. If a punk (?) band couldn't make at least half a dozen people dying horribly into a cover, then what hope is there for the lesser lights of musicality who had to rely on trippy illustrations or, gods forbid, their looks?

[PalePhoenix]

From Neil Young to Eat Your Young.

Remember when pumpkin smashing was a nice Halloween-related activity? Now it's the symbol for Liberty drowning in a sea of blood. Maybe, that's not what they intended. It must have some artistic significance I'm missing because I'm not with the "in" crowd. Funkadelic does us a favor by spelling such mysteries out. Lady Liberty dines on a passel of multi-culti infants, just in case we misunderstood the title of their album. As the above-linked slideshow implied, there's nothing more American than greed, but if that's the case, then what's specifically unpatriotic about it, hmm?

Post-9/11, meet Pre-9/11

Believe it or not, the album cover on the right was produced in June of 2001. The one on the left, after September. How flying a jumbo jet full of people into anything, anywhere, ever is an appropriate message for your audience is unknown to me. Perhaps this is what George Carlin (may he rest in peace) meant about the Seven Words. It is a "thing meant to upset or mortify." Nothing more, and a lot less.

According to the copy associated with the righthand image, this bandmember is hitting a guitar key (they're not footpedals anymore? heavens!) to initiate the blast that destroys what was, then, the most prominent icon of American capitalism. Let's not forget that's what they stood for, rather than--say--two gigantic male genitals pointed at the sky. Ah, so now I get it. Finally, this "Party Music" has made me understand that the WTC was nothing but the world's biggest cock fight. Thank you, Coup. And damn you both to terrorist hell, you jihadist, commie bitches!

[PalePhoenix]

George Orr from High Street writes:

It surprises me that you don't know the back story on the Beatles' "Butcher" album cover. Capitol Records, their U.S. distributor, used to delete songs from their U.K. albums on U.S. releases and hold back on releasing singles; when they had enough "holdoff" songs to put together an LP, they would do so, creating a separate catalog of U.S. and U.K. albums. Yesterday...And Today is one such Frankenstein job of a U.S. album.

For a while, this did not bother the group; but when they began to take themselves more seriously and think of their output as art, it chafed. Their choice of the cover art for Yesterday...And Today was, reputedly, intended as a not-very thinly veiled message to the record company suits. But I do agree with you, it's fugly.

[Galahad]

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[Xaotrix]

PLZ TO BE HAVNG MOAR ALBUM COVRS. This thread rocks.