Bizarre Records

Somewhere in your parents' house lurks a pile of old records. They're probably in the cabinet next to the wet bar that's been dry since your mother hosted that Tupperware party in 1982. Maybe you chide the folks for owning them when you return for a visit, making knee-jerk gibes at the handlebar mustaches, leisure suits and ironed hair that their sleeves depict. Silly hipster, there are fates much worse than your dad's dog-eared copy of Whipped Cream and Other Delights. Browse through bizarrerecords.com and you'll see.

Created by Nick DiFonzo of Houston, Bizarre Records is an arsenal of twisted and downright embarrassing album covers. At its best, bizarrerecords.com is the embodiment of kitsch, a scrapbook of matching outfits, latent homosexuality and big hair.

According to DiFonzo, the idea for the site grew out of his disdain for LP collector dorks in thrift stores who thumbed past these jewels, only slowing down to make the occasional perfunctory quip. DiFonzo snapped up the albums, scanned them and arranged them on a primitive, GeoCities-like website. Later this year, New Holland Publishers plans to adapt the site into a book, "Worst Album Covers Ever."

The albums are listed in alphabetical order, with an additional greatest hits-style listing on the main page. Time permitting, visitors should dive into the unabridged, alphabetical listing. Some of the albums have such added goodies as sample audio clips and a "Where Are They Now?" feature, which allows a reader to witness a record's aging process at its worst (and best). It's not a bad idea to skip over the latter feature, as it can spoil the fun; somehow you assumed these artists were frozen in a moistened-lens, wide-collar dimension, only to find out that they grew older with you, and are probably standing behind you in line at Target.

The majority of the artists on Bizarre Records lack notoriety, but you'll recognize a few familiar faces. Perennial weirdo Tammy Faye Bakker faces off nose-to-nose with a lion in Run Towards the Roar, Rodney Dangerfield graces the cover of his seminal album Rappin' Rodney and former heavyweight champion Muhammad Ali meets his match in Ali and His Gang vs. Mr. Tooth Decay. One of the most striking covers is the :20 Minute Workout, which features a writhing vixen on all fours. DiFonzo's commentary alleges this is a young Jane Leaves, who plays Daphne on "Frasier".

It's easy to feel guilty for laughing at a few of the records. Take Gary Dee Bradford Sings for You and You and You. Released when Bradford was a young boy, the album cover looks like his school portrait gone wrong, with his drooping eyelid and a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth. Click on the "Where Are They Now?" feature and you'll learn the story of a boy born with no arms (the cover hides this fact) who turned to music and Jesus for strength. Cue the guilt. When your conscience kicks in and you realize you've been laughing it up at this armless boy's expense, the album takes a nosedive on the kitsch scale and becomes a grim reality. That an armless boy could have the gumption to make an album is more than anything most of us ever achieve.

To its detriment, Bizarre Records indulges in a certain amount of glib, obvious commentary regarding its content. Like an anxious date who ruins a joke by over-explaining the punchline, the captions are superfluous and annoying. For instance, John Bult's album Julie's Sixteenth Birthday is so clearly hilarious that we don't need the accompanying caption: "Why do I see Julie's father outside, about to bust in with a shotgun?..."

Like the Corn Palace in Mitchell, S.D., Bizarre Records is worthy of a one-time visit, perhaps while waiting for the pizza delivery man to show up. Unless you're a music archivist working in the bowels of a university library during summer break, subsequent visits aren't necessary. Nevertheless, it will sear many indelible images onto your visual cortex. You'll take sinister pleasure in mocking the outmoded styles of past generations, despite the leather wristbands, Uggs and faux hawks currently plaguing our country, not to mention several characters on "The OC." But if you're wise, you'll concede that it's OK when the music of your upbringing slowly recedes into the dark past. And by the time the ball drops on 2010, Smells Like Children will be ripe to replace Joyce on lists of dated art from forgotten albums. Lighting aside, the only real difference between them is the direction of their cocked heads — Marilyn to the right, Joyce to the left.

— Andrew Harmon (harmoninla@hotmail.com).