I really can’t imagine why Mr. John Bult thought this was a good idea, but in any case, if you’d like to see more: the worst albums covers of all time. It’s really worth a look-see.
This is striking a slightly different tone but I like it:
And if you’re imagining this is just photo shop hoaxiness, let me assure you that at least one of these catastrophically ill-conceived album covers is the real deal. I can’t bring myself to sully my blog page showing you a photo — you’ll have to scroll down and see it yourself — but my older sister actually owned that exact Orleans album. The one with the naked hairy men singing “(I’m Still Havin’ Fun) You’re Still the One…” and hugging each other and pointing awkwardly at… stuff. Yessiree.
Interestingly, the band (we preferred to call them ‘groups’ back in the day) were apparently all brothers, which adds an extra zing of ickiness. But in case all you hipsters and “presentists” think we lived in caves and didn’t own razors, listen up: WE THOUGHT IT WAS TOTALLY AND BEWILDERINGLY REPULSIVE BACK THEN, TOO, so come on, give our 13 year-old selves a break! We had to go to the record store in person to buy that crap. We also had to listen to AM top 40 hits at the beach while we “laid out,” slathered in baby oil and iodine, oops, I think that might have been the 50s. I don’t remember iodine. I do remember obsessing about my tan (an obsession for which I pay daily, see “Skin Chronicles” here) and I remember listening to a lot of really catchy, shitty music (Afternoon Delight, anyone? Make It With You? Cherokee Nation?). Plus ca change, no?
My parents encouraged all of this, by the way. My mom had a very benign approach to adolescent daughters (She was busy basking under a sun lamp in our den.) She let my sister leave the house every single morning of 8th grade dressed in an identical “on-trend” getup – I think she washed it out in the sink each night – purple nylon body suit with lace collar and cuffs, white polyester crocheted vest, turquoise crushed velveteen bell bottoms, silver chain link belt, two-tone beige and navy platform shoes, and the super-cool John Lennon glasses. I would forfeit a limb, or at least a couple toes, to find an extant photo of my sister in her “uniform.” Let’s just say that you people who think the 70s were this awesomely creative, folky-druggy- Joni Mitchell-Blue-Albumy fun fest: Wrong! (But I do have some bridges to sell you..) That artsy Laurel Canyon vibe didn’t exactly rub off on the kids at Nashoba Country Day School in Concord, Mass. We were just a bunch of suburban dorks with our Granny dresses and mood rings and Danskin leotards and winged hair-dos. For real. And we had Brillo pad hair, too. The Farrah Fawcett shampoo ads were a total scam. No flat irons. No smoothing serums. No diffusing ionic etcetra hair dryers. Microfibers hadn’t been invented either, so we were always snagging our finger nails on our polyester pant suits. And no shapewear. Think about it. I could go on, obviously, but I don’t want to encourage anyone. Cracked.com begs you to RESIST the fake nostalgia trip:
Looking around today, it seems like everything bad from the 1970s is coming back: unemployment, high gas prices, an embattled democratic president, and (the return of) ‘douchebags’ sporting mustaches.
I rest my case.
