Never mind the shoddy presentation of this album, kids–this geezer is singing his love ballads in a NEW ACCENT! Hold on to your zippers, it’s gonna be a long night!

–Joe Wallace

This film was apparently made in 1969 (snicker if you must) and features a decent soundtrack, but that cover! That title! We must remember that in 1969, people had much stranger ideas about what it meant to be “respectable” or “decent”. Apparently, who you chose to have sex with–with regard to not having the same kind of plumbing as you–was really, REALLY important back then. Another argument in favor of the notion, right or wrong, that before the Internet, people were just dumber.

What is this album cover trying to say, exactly? Are those canes supposed to represent something? Or maybe this album is about the risks you take looking for love with a caning fetish? Who knows, but damn. How’d you like to see THIS stern, Charles Bronson-esque face hovering over you in the dark?

Is there a genre of album covers called “Head In A Jar”? I’m still doing research on that. I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, here’s the best example. Remember that old movie, Donovan’s Brain? The disembodied brain that still lived, exerting psychic influence over people to do the brain’s evil bidding? This album cover could be titled, “Donovan’s Dumbass”.

How long did it take anybody to realize just how much this album cover really, really sucked? Was it a gradual awareness like dawn breaking across an autumn sky, or did these people wake up one morning, look at what they had unleashed upon the world, and just start screaming until the ambulances came?

There are no words. Wait, yes there are.  Just LOOK at this damn thing, which I might add sells on Amazon new for nearly $200 in some third-party shops (!!!).

The cover of this nightmare is hilarious enough, but the backstory of this album is even better. First, take a look at the bottom where the text proudly announcing the “original cast” appearing on this holiday atrocity.

Hey kids! This record features the voice of C-3PO, Anthony Daniels, plus R2D2–who as we all know did all his own voice work and stunts. (I think R2D2 is now a Hollywood producer doing three feature length bondage fetish porn movies a year starring soap opera star lookalikes and retired standup comedians. “Holiday IN The Stars” was the name of his very first production.)

And then there’s the presence of a young teenager named Jon, who started out his career as a janitor, as the legend goes, at a New York recording studio where the Holiday In The Stars album was being recorded. Somebody at the studio put in a good word for the 18-year old cleanup guy, he wound up singing lead on one of the songs featured on this Star Wars holiday record, and just a short time later–so the story goes–the kid was cutting a demo.

That demo led Jon Bon Jovi to his first record deal in 1983.

So you have George Effing Lucas to blame for both Jon Bon Jovi AND Jar Jar Binks. Really, they’re one in the same if you ask me.

(P.S. If the Bon Jovi story is just another urban legend, don’t correct me–I don’t want to know. I like having George Lucas to blame for all those god-awful singles in the 80s from Slippery When Wet and other intellectually stunted albums.)

by Joe Wallace

I stumbled on this image of the album cover for Leona Anderson’s Music To Suffer By on The Magic Whistle. WTF is going on in this picture? This one’s suitable for framing–at least in MY house where bad album art has a special place of love and reverence.

There’s nothing quite like the joys of an especially wretched piece of album art. The ones so wrong-headed you can’t even begin to describe them are my favorites. Music To Suffer By from Leona Anderson is definitely one of those. Can you hear the discussion between Anderson and the artist? “Well, miz Anderson, the guy with the violin is, you know, gonna KILL you here with that lighter as you’re trying to sing with cobwebs coming out of your mouth. GET IT?”

If YOU get it, please by all means, let ME know what this is trying to say. I think maybe I’m still drunk from a week last Thursday and that’s why I can’t wrap my head around it.

One of the biggest criticisms leveled at hip-hop is that a rather uncomfortable number of the artists involved seem to be all about freedom, equality and the right to be what you are…as long as you are male. Album covers like Top Dog’s don’t really do much to counter that argument, no?

But never mind all that, after all, Top Dog clearly doesn’t care about any of that and we’re wasting our breath trying to convince him that his attitudes are, well, crap. Let’s address the pressing issue of eye pollution here. Top Dog looks like he just stepped away from his segment on The View, talking about a new high colonic regimen and juice-only health plan. He really could be on tour with Joel Osteen here instead of, well, slam dunking “hoes”.

And one thing that is ALWAYS priceless about these kinds of projects is the list of “guest stars” on the album cover. Hey look! This album features a whole laundry list of people YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF! Isn’t that AWESOME that Icey Hott is on this record?

You’d never buy a record by Icey Hott all by itself–I mean, REALLY–who wants to hear songs about sports cream? But here these people all are, most likely hanging out in the studio agreeing with everything Top Dog says for like, 12 hours at a time JUST IN CASE they can throw their voices on one of these tracks.

I hate to draw comparisons here, but much of hip hop has become the new country music, in that there are about five themes endlessly recycled on all records, plus about seven standard costumes for all performers. I think hip hop and country really SHOULD team up the way gangsta rap and heavy metal did back in the 90s–wouldn’t THAT be a riot?

Can you see a Dirty South/Southern Fried music movement blending all the cliches of country and hip hop together to make one big empty musical statement about truck drivin’ playas who slam dunk hoes and love their dogs? I would pay to see that.

But I’m getting ranty. Suffice it to say Top Dog won’t be invited to speak at any NOW conventions any time soon. Top Dog, if you had at least put this album cover in, say, outer space, it wouldn’t be so cringe inducing. Then at least the viewer would be completely bewildered even as you were scratching your head at the whole disrespect to women thing. Confusion is sex.

This particular series was discovered at the COMPLETELY awesome site Glorify The Turd, which as far as website names go is one of the greatest in history. Normally we try to avoid sourcing images like this, but Glorify The Turd has some of the most truly obscure and brain-jerkingly horrific album covers that we couldn’t resist paying tribute to them here with these three starting with a quartet of truly misguided born-again metalers.

The fine print there at the bottom reads, “This album is dedicated to those who have not yet received the Lord Jesus Christ as their Savior. We’re Coming.” Oh dear. One thing this bunch of born-again Klangmeisters does have going for it is a bit of rare multi-culturalism.  But the hairdos and stage clothes have GOT to go. These lads have been shopping for their gear at Forever 21, as evidenced by the polka-dot dude here on the bottom right. Nice one, man–raid your little sister’s wardrobe AND tell me about Jesus.

Next, a move in the opposite direction. These gents aren’t into JESUS…they want to go a bit further SOUTH:

Um…res ipsa loquitor.

Your attention might not be directed to the bottom half of this album cover, but you’ll discover the REAL HORROR of it once you detect the bobbing head. OK, I’ll be the first to say it (maybe not). If our society is going to evolve past its racial tension problems, we have to progress to the point where we are either not afraid or or hurt by at all of the N-word or any other slur or nickname, or NOBODY GETS TO SAY THEM EVER. It’s one or the other, folks.