MOLECULAR HORSIEMIEAT BABYFOOD: THE WORST HEAVY METAL LPs OF ALL TIME

MOLECULAR HORSIEMIEAT BABYFOOD: THE WORST HEAVY METAL LPs OF ALL TIME

FEATURES

Rick Johnson

How many “best of” lists have you seen so far this year? At least 3,691, right? In recent months we’ve been treated to every living critic’s idea of what's hot in their field, ranging from the Top Ten books, films and records to the most-favored corn chips, plastic rain hats and manner or duration of painful death. All this and cult soft drinks!

Choosing the worst of anything is a whole different story. Only slime will disagree with you, and nobody else really gives a damn. The whole process is as E-Z as the one I use on the trashy buildup situation here since I wised up and got myself a dependable, free garbage disposal. Wind, I call it.

The trouble is, records are too heavy to blow away under normal conditions, and heavy metal records bear the most deadweight of all. Like boomerangs and succubi, they just keep coming back. So I decided to just go ahead and emulate my own personal hero, J.L. Kraft, and look these cheeses right in the eyehole. If you think it wasn’t a pretty sight, you should imagine the sound!

Don’t bother to imagine, though. Save it for something good, like sex fantasies or workman’s compensation. I’ll do the hard stuff and you, the migrant ear, can just tag along and pick up the cobs the thresher misses.

THUNDERPUSSY Documents Of Captivity (MRT Records)

“We were dogs among bitches,” begin the unforgettable liner notes, but they’re only half right. A sort of bear whiz Blue Oyster Cult, Thunderpussy basically ran around with their grease guns halfcocked. This ’73 production, which sounds like it was recorded in a bush, is divided into six different sections of “documents.” You get Documents Of Enigmas, Validation, Inquiry, Security, Extrinsic Value and—of course—the much beloved Document Of Latent Summation. Why they chose this novel approach is anybody’s guess, even Max Von Sydow’s. It might have had something to do with their leader’s onetime residence in Macomb, IL. That’s usually enough. I’m informed there’s not enough space here to reprint their entire lyric sheet, so you’ll have to settle for my favorite verse (from Document Of Validation): “Crops of young genius replicate past/ End the sensations while helping the mass/ Hate for the haters, the good in your head/ Fear of his mother’s brass iron bed.” At least as touching as Michael Landon’s recollections of his childhood bedwetting problem, don’t you think?

GENYA RAVAN Urban Desire (20th Century)

You may recall Genya from her old hit, “Much Better In The Morning,” a sort of l-crack-the-whip-you-make-the-trip ode to A.M. fucking. Then again, you may recall that the first commercial product made of nylon was the toothbrush bristle, in 1937. Ravin’ Ravan dropped her horn section and let the metal-show in this ’78 LP that celebrated the Metal-physical (“Jerry’s Pigeons Are Above Us All”), the metallame-o (“Aye Colorado”) and pure filth (“The Knight Ain’t Long Enough”). These days? Mainly, she sits around looking up “fellatrice” in the dictionary.

LOCOMOTIV GT

(ABC)

Hyped in ’74 as the first metal act to emerge from behind the Iron Curtain, these dupes and their families should’ve been executed and probably were. Despite having neat names like Joe Laux and Gabor Presser, they could never pass even the simplest bone density test. Their music was truly the European allseason tread of heavy metal, if decidedly light on the heavy side. “She’s Just 14” skips in like the ultimate crossover between blues, metal and yah, babushka until guest blowfish Jack Bruce secretes a trademark harp solo. It’s not something you want to listen to. You want to enclose your bathtub with it. The rest of the tunes are hysterical phonetic concoctions like “Jenny’s Got A New Thing” and “Hey, Get The Feelin’.” Hey, here come the border guards!.

GABRIEL BONDAGE Another Trip To Earth (Dharma)

This kooky Chicago band was what some folks call eclectic and others call throwing shit at the ceiling. They ranged from progressive ooze to metallic smooze, all done up in lyrics that I just now ran into on the enclosed sheet. Seems like way back when, I reviewed their other LP favorably without opening it on the grounds they were local talent. Sticking with that successful policy, I’d never opened this one either until today, and what do I find but my own name listed in the Special Thanks column. To think, all those years I was waiting for somebody, anybody, to put my name on their sleeve and here it was all along now that I don’t give a shit. As a reader service, I gave “Birth Of The Unconquered Sun” a spin to make sure they belong in this article. Does that mean I get time off for good behavior?

I DON’T CARE Ask Anyone (Buddah)

This seven-man outfit’s name was as advanced a concept as food “for” thought. Although they included a flugelhorn player—always a bad sign— they had the words “no bullshit” printed right on their back cover, so they must’ve been pretty brilliant. Best song was “Call It What,” so at least they’re consistent! Actually, this isn’t even close to heavy metal and I Don’t Care!

MOTLEY CRUE Too Fast For Love (Elektra)

You didn’t think we were just gonna insult harmless, old nonexistent musicians, did you? Why do that when we have contemporary nonexistent musicians like the Crue? While Shout At The Devil is still kinda growing on me (see Fungus, Mold Spores), even the most diehard Crue fan would have to admit this record’s an occasion to break out the Anusol. Vince’s voice was about four notches below the bench grinder in this ’82 catalog of blunder, and the idea of songwriting was still viewed by the guys as something the caterer should take care of. “When she’s hot/Well, damn she’s hot/Electric Love/Like Sandra Dee.” How lovely—I can’t decide whether it’s the daring AABC rhyme “scheme” I like most, or if it’s the dented power chords splatting out of the speakers like wet saddle blankets. No wait, it’s the picture of the boys on the back of the lyric sheet I most admire. This was long before they had their image as a pest garden down pat, back when Nikki was still skinny and Vinnie’s physique was in its pre-garment bag state. Roll over, Herman Munster!

HOUNDS

Unleashed

(Columbia)

These glazed hams were slightly known for their ’78 theme song, “Drugland Weekend,” which featured the immortal couplet, “Hey city boy/Your city looks like someone took a dump.” The music is just so much smokestackchasing, however, as typified by the leukoid blackout curtains of “Janine Tangerine.” “You’re just a flower without a game,” it goes. Just think, all this and the G.E. electric plastic bag opener! Wotta century!

KISS

Creatures Of The Night

(Casablanca)

The group’s last makeup effort provided further evidence that Neil Bogart did not die a natural death. Not even an organic one. While Kiss seem to have somewhat recovered the spark these days, Creatures was to their career what 20/20's epic Dilemma Of Impotence special was to the Thursday night ratings. Talk about machine washable—tracks like “I Love It Loud” and “Rock And Roll Hell” are so stereotypical, you can guess the entire song after two notes. So there’s plenty of time for important stuff like wondering what exactly Celanese Fortrel is.

DAVID BOWIE

The Man Who Sold The World

(Mercury)

Nobody thinks of Bowie as a heavy metal singer, possibly because of this supremely awful early ’70s...recording (almost said effort). Some people actually like this record (see Pigs, Mud) in the manner of “friendly” artillery. Artillery’s the word alright, as in bomb, dud, bust, flop, fizzle, failure and washout. This listener has rarely made it past the lead cut, “Width Of A Circle,” where famed producer of sludge Tony Visconti (the guy who killed John Hiatt) picks up a pluggedin bass guitar like it’s a tote torch kit and welds the dynamics into one big, sloppy essence-of-crowbar pudheap. Not that he didn’t have full approval of the artiste. “Don’t set me free, I’m as heavy as can be,” sings Davey in “All The Madmen.” “Just my librium and me/ And my EST makes three.” You remember EST... that’s where they call you an asshole all day then won’t let you go to the bathroom. See the connection?

AMERICAN TEARS Powerhouse (Columbia)

American Tears were the most bloated heap of pretentious keyboard drivel since Atilla, the metal band Billy Joel was in before the dawning of his now-popular fist filler. From the Metropolis still on the sleeve to the pitiful dirigible bleats of “Promise To Be Free,” they were the kind of self-absorbed wackers who would plead insanity for jaywalking. Fan club? Tearjerkers, of course.

DEEP PURPLE Shades Of Deep Purple (Tetragrammaton)

Seeing as how the Purps are “around” again this year, can anybody remember their first album, from October of 1968? Didn’t think so. Their choice of material resembled a composite trunk-murder victim: the Beatles’ “Help” is brutally hacked to pieces, Joe South’s great “Hush”—which they had a hit single with at the time—is tortured until it begs to be over and, while mutilating “Hey Joe” they also claim to have written it for their own Ganga Music publishing comp. Oh well, what can you expect from a group with a bass player named Nicky Simper?

SPIRIT Son Of Spirit (Mercury)

Talk about kicking a dead horse. Randy California’s not going to be satisfied until Spirit’s reputation is down to molecular horsemeat babyfood. S.O.S. was at least five times worse than Randy’s famous Kapt. Kopter disaster, which in turn was five times worse than uncontrolled inbreeding among skating rink attendants. Last year, Spirit reformed again, bringing to mind the lovely words of this 75 recording’s closing track, “Family:” “I’ll always come back to the family-ily-ily-ily-ily-ily/ Oh, I love you family-ily-ily-ily-ily-ily.” I wish Jay Ferguson would just shoot the jerk and reform Jo Jo Gunne.

DUDEK, FINNIGAN, KRUEGER BAND (Columbia)

When I first saw this ’80 release with DFK printed in big silver letters on the front, I wondered what it could mean. Dopes, frauds and kleptos? Yep. Dildoes, fuckups and kitten-lickers? Uh-huh. Dumb, frumpy and kitschy? Oh yeah. I mean, you know there’s something wrong when you see three guys in the enclosed glossy and five guys on the back cover. Boss Les Dudek can play some pretty mean guitar, but how can you respect a musician who’s been photographed in the company of Cher more than once? One listen to "That’s Wrong" will show you I’m right when I say these characters have "bowling" written all over their faces.

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BLACK PEARL LIVE!

(Prophesy)

Thought I’d save my own choice for worst heavy metal LP in the history of pilot error until last. Black Pearl are somewhat legendary for their maximum security dumbness and are considered by some metal osteopaths as great shit, mannnnnn! Main way B.B. Fielding is the creator of what he liked to call "Freak Soul" music, which to this day ranks right up there with inventions like the vanity wastebasket. Hey—it’s durable! B.B.’s 11-minute massacre of James Brown’s "Cold Sweat" is so greasy, Fielding's head lice needed rubber boots. His seven-minute humiliation of the Curtis Mayfield classic "People Get Ready" is so vicious it should be surrounded by yellow crime scene ribbons. As befitting its worst-ever status. Live! features the supreme double whammy of honest liner notes. "These tapes were cut in the back of a funky U-Haul truck that sat outside the Filmore West for two nights in 1968," writes executive producer Don Altfield, as if there was a producer of any sort within four states of the gig. The final words belong to Mr. B.B. himself. "I’m not talkin’ hippy talk/l'm not talkin’ freak talk/l’m talkin’ 'bout life/The way it is/The w^y it was/The way it always will be.” Yeah, buddy, it’s like the rest of your rap—meaningless!