Four of the Worst Metal Album Covers Ever Inflicted Upon Mankind
This article has been approved by my girlfriend.
Amazingly, this isn’t one of them.
An album art is not just a pretty picture—it is indeed a pretty picture of course, but it’s not just that. What is it, then? Well, it’s many things at once, as most of the best things are. For starters, it’s a genre indicator. Whatever genre it be, there’s a particular art style and subject matter that comes with it. Consider the vastness and scale of death metal albums, the epic landscapes menaced by fire-breathing dragons of power metal albums, and the confusing, incomprehensible attempts at allegory displayed on progressive metal albums. (Hint: If you have to explain it, you’ve failed.)
Pictured: Layers and layers of meaning, or a prism.
What else does an album art signify? It tells us the subject matter or atmosphere the music might have. For instance, a power metal album that has darker themes and lower-tuned guitars might have an album art with more earthy tones, more shadows, and it might depict dreary or morbid subject matter. Rainbows and unicorns on the cover might tell someone who enjoys more “brutal” music to stay away—and it’s his loss, let’s be honest.
Yes, this band’s name is Unicorn, and yes, it is awesome.
Finally, an album art also promises us something that it cannot possibly know: quality. That is, an expertly drawn, inked and colored artwork will suggest to us that the music on the CD will be expertly written and performed; while a poorly conceived, loathsome scribbling of colors and lines ground across a piteous piece of parchment, torn carelessly from the sheaf and stapled directly through the plastic of a jewel-case tells us that the music will be as incompetent as the artist’s rendering, and also that the creators of that particular album may not be mentally sound.
Of course, that’s foolishness, as is demonstrated by the following album art covers, most of which are risible, all the more so because the bands themselves are actually good. At least I assume so. I haven’t heard most of them and I refuse to do any more research.
That’s quite an introduction for a measly four albums, I know, but it’s what I wrote and I’m sticking with it. Never let it be said that I am not a principled man.
I. I Don’t Know What I’m Talking About
Fates Warning - No Exit
Boring is worse than terrible.
A flaw in my intention to do this article occurs to me as I begin to write this particular entry, a flaw that is not entirely unlike the logical flaw that allowed this album art to be commissioned, drawn, presented and approved by a bevy of individuals, AKA, mass hysteria; only in my case the issue is that I don’t know anything about any of these bands. What? Just because I listen to metal means I must listen to the classics? In the words of that black guy from the movie the Rock with Nicholas Cage and Sean Connery, “I don’t listen to weak-ass shit,” or maybe he said he doesn’t like instead of listen to, but the ultimate meaning remains the same, if not the rhythm of the dialogue, and in the end we are of a mind. Really, he even goes out the same way I wanna go: On an hundred pounds of flaming jet-fuel, screaming through the air at mach-2.
Despite my ignorance on the bands themselves, I’m going to persist in this article in large part because I’ve already invested a lot of emotional energy into it. That said—
Look at the album art. Ha! An Earth as-seen-from-space texture below, crimson sky texture above, and for some reason a metal office-building’s emergency exit door in front, ugly walls closing us in. It may be ugly, but at least we can all agree that it’s confusing. It looks like a photo-bash mock-up that the artist threw together just to give the band a concept, but they were on a deadline and, anyway, it was cheaper just to buy the concept art. Congratulations, guys, you get what you pay for. In this case, an entry on the list.
I wish I could say more, but that would be putting more effort into it than the artist did, and my time is valuable.
Oh! Wait. There is one more thing I’d like to say: “Fates Warning” should be “Fate’s Warning,” because the warning belongs to or comes from fate—unless fate is being used as an adjective, but if that’s the case, someone please explain to me in the comments below what a “fate-like warning” is, thanks.
II. The 90s TV Show Special Personification
Stormwind - Straight from Your Heart
A part of me respects this.
Announcer: Welcome to Stormwind!
Sadly, not this one.
Announcer (continues): This is the show where we tackle the struggles of personal moral dilemmas in every day life, because we believe that each victory we achieve will strengthen our ethical consistency, and make us steadfast in our beliefs! Not to mention adhering to the soul-healing ethos of metal!
Intro music plays a watered-down, generic parody of heavy metal, probably performed by someone who has actual skill, whose soul slinks further toward death every time he gives his rendition.
Mr. Wolf: Hey, I’m Thomas Wolf, lead guitarist and all-around cool guy, and I’m gonna teach everyone about pursuing your passion without compromise!
With exaggerated gestures, Thomas plays three notes on his guitar, all of them wrong.
Mr. Wolf: Forgot to tune my guitar before coming on. Anyway, they said to me, “Thomas, you can’t just make the cover art by yourself.”
But that never stopped Mouth from the Goonies.
Mr. Wolf (Continuing): After individually hand-delivering a one-finger salute to all my detractors, I proceeded to prove them all exactly right, but we kept it because we don’t believe in compromise, or budgets.
Forgetting that his guitar isn’t tuned, he proceeds to run down a screeching, dissonant lick. Even Thomas Wolf himself cringes as his fingers fly, but once he’s committed he can’t bring himself to stop. A synchronized dance occurs in which everyone in the studio simultaneously slaps their hands over their ears and rocks about in agony, teeth gnashing. Mercifully, the assault comes to an end before anyone perishes from the experience.
Mr. Wolf: My producer, Lindsay, has asked me to stop playing for now. Oh, indefinitely? She’s saying indefinitely. Anyway, follow your passion, dudes and dudettes! This album has made more lists than Metallica’s entire discography. O.K., my producer Lindsay is saying I have to turn this over to the audience for some questions. Anyone got something to ask?
Starts to play, but glances at blonde, short-haired Lindsay with her headset on, delineating her pixie-cut into front and back spikes; she’s standing near the cameraman, shaking her head vigorously and holding a razor-blade to the throat of a small voodoo doll that bares a striking resemblance to Thomas himself. He withdraws his fingers from his guitar as an audience member steps up to a mic placed at the bottom of one of the aisles.
Guest: Uh, yeah, my name is, can you hear me? O.K. My name is Steve, and I was just wondering why your album art looks like a piece of crap 90s infotainment video game cover. I mean, using a picture of yourself photo-shopped into some two-tone MS paint drawing is the hokiest, most asinine thing I’ve ever seen. My question is to ask if you’re legitimately retarded or—
Mr. Wolf: What did you just say to me you little—
Glances at his producer, now holding the small effigy aloft, razor-blade menacing close to its balls.
Mr. Wolf (subdued): I did the best I could with what I had, alright? Next question.
Steve: But I—
Mr. Wolf (emphatically): Next guest.
There’s a ruckus as security grabs Steve under the arms and hauls him back up the aisle. After a momentary scuffle,Steve is pressed violently and loudly into his seat. The audience member next to him is about to get up and leave in horror, but the security guard meets his eye and the audience member decides not to risk moving.
Mr. Wolf: Any other questions?
A frail old lady makes her way slowly to the mic. She’s at least an hundred years old, and her bones are creaking with every insubstantial step that draws her, inch by inch, toward the bottom row. The clock ticks patiently away as she gradually eases forward. Creak, creak go her bones. Clatter, clatter goes her skeleton. Surely, the onlookers think, she will perish of old age before she
Oh, wait, no, she’s made it.
Ancient Woman: Hello there, young man.
Mr. Wolf, with reverence of her considerable age and veneration: Yes, ma’am, and what’s your name?
Miss Eons: My name is Bertha Galliant. I have a question.
Mr. Wolf (softly so as to avoid too much air vibration shaking the brittle woman asunder): Of course.
Bertha “the Ancient One” Galliant: Forgive me, my eyes aren’t too good these days. Can you tell me where the album art is? All I see is this wretched puke-chuck of a failure and I know that can’t possibly be—
Mr. Wolf: Alright, alright! I don’t have to take this! Lindsay! Lindsay, wrap it up, I’m done. I said, I’m done!
Lindsay shrugs, gives the nod to the cameraman who pans over to the studio lights, and the credits begin.
Announcer: And that’s another great show! Remember, never compromise on your vision. We done here? We’re done? Great. Someone get this piece of crap album art out of my face, I’m sick of it staring at me.
O! Great skeleton pillars! Please end my grotesque existence!
I.
There are different approaches to explaining the various qualities of art. If it’s very bad you can attribute the quality to the skill of the artist. If it’s just strange then you can reasonably suppose that the band was going for some metaphor or analogy, and maybe it just didn’t land, or didn’t land for you.
For a piece like this, which shows enough skill that we must assume the artist is competent, but enough enigmatic nonsense that we must assume that the artist is impaired, there is only one approach, one that has withstood the test of time: Hurling questions into the ether until someone more intelligent and more motivated than we are comes along and answers. Sadly, these questions are oftentimes not answered until long after the questioner has given up the ghost, but we must nevertheless make the inquiries, for it is a sacred duty for which we will be rewarded in this life or the next, whether history remembers us as inquisitive minds or mere baton-passers. Never mind the possibility of not being remembered whatsoever.
Moreover, there will always be that one historian who gives us way too much credit, almost at the expense of the people who actually did the work, E.G., “The real heroes are the ones who made the problem known, for without them there would have been no question to be answered in the first place. How noble and” blah blah blah. What a nerd! I mean, but he’s on our side, so let’s show some respect, shall we?
Honorary Abode of the Respected
So in the spirit of respect and inquisition (Boy! has that word become loaded!) allow us to take a moment to gaze again at the enigmatic album art, to study and form for ourselves the most intelligent and penetrating questions we can muster.
Let’s start with the most obvious questions: What? Huh? What even is this supposed to be? Who? How is—?
Now we shall delve deeper, and withdraw inquiries that elicit even greater insight simply by the asking. First we should see the picture again. Here it is:
Don’t stare too long. It may stare back.
II.
The title. The Fourth Judgment. Where have the other three gone? Moving on.
I see foremost a charred man, just left of center, kneeling and with his arms spread wide as if beseeching a deity, but there is no deity, and even the religious elements are only vague. Two rectangular pillars having sharp edges, each with a single skeleton worked into its shaft, present no indication of which religion it is to which they are affiliated. Ah, but they have silver bowls sitting atop them. With flames burning within! No? Not bringing to mind anything? Me either. Oh, and the man has what may be a flame flaring from his chest, but the perspective makes it difficult to be completely certain.
Why is this man charred? Perhaps the flame that is perhaps coming from his chest? Why is that happening? Why the pillars? Are they made of ice? Why the chrome bowls and fire? Is he worshiping or is he in his death throws as he scalds to death? Or is he himself a statue?
III.
My apologies to those who don’t own a 65’’ screen for this next bit, but it is as much the artist’s fault as it is mine. There are what appears at first glance to be matrix-style code in the shape of a grid, but then it seems to be matrix code creating cell bars, and then it seems, wait, perhaps it’s just grimy, moldy iron bars that have a green hue—but if that were the case, why the intense, colored (speaking of charged words) luminescence? The reflection on the floor shows that the bars are a brilliant green, practically glowing the color. Bio-luminescence, perhaps? BUT WHY!??! Moreover, there appears to be a figure behind the bars, and owing to the artist’s tangent, an artistic failure if there ever were one, it is extremely difficult to discern what exactly is there, if anything. Here, let’s get a better look.
Ah, I see it now. It’s a distinct waste of time.
Oh, I see it now. I think. It seems to be a humanoid shape, though among these Legend of Dragoon for the Playstation 1 quality graphics, an arm blocking the torso, the plume of flame blocking the head area, and the low resolution, it’s impressive that I managed to see anything at all. It appears that what would be the knee is black, as though this were a mannequin.
Why a mannequin? Why the cell bars? Why the awful tangents and various parts of the image covering up other parts of the image? Why green bars? Why are they luminescent? Beats me!
IV.
Now we finally come to possibly the greatest enigma of all, aside from the simple question of “How are this many things wrong with the image?”
Look at that floor! Behold the expert, gleaming reflection. Why on earth does it look so good compared to the rest of the image? That’s late-Playstation 2 levels there, God of War. We’re talking subsurface scattering and dynamic ambient occlusion, here! Seldom have I witnessed such attention to detail on something as seemingly trivial as a floor. Is it—wait, is it ice? Whoa! And the pillars seem to be made of ice as well! Oh, wow.
That tells me nothing!
But maybe we have learned something here. The artist might have spent all of his time on the floor, he had little remaining time to complete his masterpiece, and just ripped some 3D models from some video games and threw this piece of garbage together.
Now that we’ve done our query, we can truly say that this image blows on ice.
Artist not available for comment. Or anything else.
I. Prelude
Before I begin, I will announce straightaway that I am reluctant to speak on this image. I feel that any remiss attempt to apply words to it, for any attempt shall be remiss, would only detract from the intensity, the forcefulness of its self. This artist, it cannot be denied, possessed a plan, a vision for this piece. To not be bound by perspective, traditional form or any common understanding of visages would allow him to present to the world something far nobler, far more impacting than that which a typical artist might be capable of rendering, shackled as he is by the ordinances of the intelligentsia. This artist would go beyond.
And by golly did he deliver!
II. Automatic Fire Approach
So as to sully this career-defining piece as little as possible, I will attempt to only express what I see in the most accurate, objective terms I can muster.
Let us begin.
We have, starting in the back, an anorexic warlock wolf-rabbit performing interpretive dance; a bug-dragon monster with an indeterminate number of legs who appears to be in the process of being blasted by an overly zealous video-game collision detection system, bearing an expression that pleads clearly for the quietus of death; and finally a Conan the Barbarian style axe-man with an expression that is equal parts pain and pleasure, who dons a Lovecraftian horror in place of a usual loincloth, which may explain the expression. I just noticed that the knife is hidden partly behind the green monster’s foot. The tangent strikes again, spoiling clarity.
Other than the warlock, no one looks like they want to be there, trapped in a world where perspective is only an occasional occurrence and proportions are spoken of as fable and fairytale, as wishes that strong men have learned to shrug off, as they did with the dreams of their boyhood, the fanciful adolescent aspirations rooted in the wonderment of ignorance.
Perhaps that’s a fair distance to go for a drawing insult, but look at the faces of the men and beasts in that picture above and tell me a second time.
Didn’t think so.
