One of the lost arts from the LP era of yore is campy album cover art. Today’s CDs just don’t cut it, and don’t have quite the same impact. What I love about vintage record sleeves is their unexpected wit and in-your-face graphics. Very often the image on the album cover was more important than the music on the vinyl, at least when I was a kid buying records at the local Korvette’s!

Today, it seems to me, people are more likely to pick up a CD at Starbucks or the supermarket simply because it’s being marketed to them as something “cool” and “trendy.” One rarely snatches up a new album because the photo on the CD cover either turns one on, or shocks one into curiosity. We’ve lost that connection between the artist promoting a performing artist and the customer. Nowadays, most of us jettison the jewel case anyway in order to house the CD in a more accessible sleeve.

We’re living in an age of programming, not discovery. We respond to what is au courant, not comin’ at ya. Perhaps that is why I am so nostalgic for the hilarious record albums of days gone by. You never knew what you were getting, but you were assured of at least a fun ride. Now with iTunes and various internet music-listening sites, the thrill of wacky cover art is vanishing even more.

When I was a teenager, I used to love deciphering the artwork and photography used to adorn my favorite records. I remember being mesmerized by the cutting-edge artwork on albums by Alice Cooper, the Moody Blues, Jefferson Airplane, the Doors, David Bowie, as well as the sexy gender-bending images on those by the New York Dolls, above.

Sticky Fingers, the Rolling Stones album, was a particular thrill. I used to zip and unzip that bulging fly on the cover until the damn thing popped off. Took me years to find another one. I would run from used record store to various thrift shops asking the person in charge if they had “Sticky Fingers.” One time, in a godforsaken town in upstate New York, I ran into an old LP store during a blizzard, and having run out of breath, demanded of the proprietor in a gasping voice, “Do you have Sticky Fingers?!!!” He whipped around at his desk and shrugged his shoulders, revealing to me that in fact he had no fingers at all. He was a victim of Thalidomide and had flippers instead of hands. I froze in horror, not in reaction to his affliction, but to my stupidity. I have no idea if he thought I was pulling his leg or not. But he must have known which album I was referring to. It is one of the most famous album covers of all time. Recently I posted a copy of it on Facebook and stated that the model for the bulging jeans was none other than Joe Dallesandro. Immediately a friend posted a comment that it wasn’t Joe, but someone named Corey Tippin. I begged to differ, but was eager for some clarity. Then Joe Dallesandro himself chimed in and said it was definitely his crotch being shown. In such matters, I tend to side with “Little Joe.”

When I went away to prep school at 16, I plastered the walls with my favorite record sleeves. I had one of Ruth Etting, the 20s torch singer; a Rudy Vallee one featuring a flapper version of “Betty Co-Ed”; several by George Chakiris, of West Side Story fame, who was my idea of to-die-for back then; also Claudine Longet’s Love is Blue; and one of Russell Oberlin, the famous countertenor.

Later I added to that collection by finding a rare album of Michael Aspinall, (above), the male soprano! No wall is complete without a tribute to Tab Hunter, America’s Singing Heartthrob. I had several of his early albums which raised more than a few eyebrows at the school.

My brother, who collected rock albums with a zeal usually reserved for aficionados of fine wines, often showed me the brilliant artwork of esoteric (to me) artists such as Captain Beefheart, or Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention (above).

But I was always more drawn to the pin-ups, the hunks, the movie studs. Fabian, Vince Edwards, Chad Everett, and Tony Perkins. Soulful eyes, crooning voices, dreadful songs.

This obsession with singing matinee idols and soap stars did not end with the 60s. In the 70s, Tiger Beat led the way inducing millions of girls (and as many boys) to buy vinyl mementos of their favorite juvenile celebs, most of whom had barely passed through puberty yet. Tino, Menudo (with or without Ricky), Tommy Puett, and that blond who played the gay guy in Dynasty. Who knew Al Corley could sing?

Occasionally, the graphic album covers inspired fantasies of pure lust. I studied John Schneider’s picture for hours, the one of him leaning over a pool table. I’d devoured him with my eyes on Dukes of Hazzard, but here he was, in my hands, just inches from me.

Later, as my tastes evolved and I grew more interested in theatre history and gay memorabilia, I started to collect albums merely because of their wacky covers or their racy subject matter. Whether or not I liked the music was immaterial and totally beside the point. I collected them as artifacts, touchstones of a burgeoning liberated sensibility.

Some of these albums are nearly impossible today to find. They’ve never been released on CD. And a quick glance at iTunes, Pandora or Grooveshark, has not led to any instant downloads. My archive is a window into these early days of gay liberation. I cherish these old camp classics because of their stamps of individuality.

Many of these historic albums were short-runs, one-offs, or self-recorded and sold at concerts or in the theatre. They never achieved wide distribution.

When eBay debuted, I began to buy up old LPs that were masterpieces of homoerotic kitsch, including this priceless flipside to a Bay City Rollers album. Does anyone else remember them?

It surprised me how often album designers featured male nudity in their cover art. I particularly like the Rugby Songs Volume Two album. Makes you wonder what was on Volume One! Forty years or more before Dieux du Stade started to market their beefcake calendars and DVDs of French jocks, rugby players were already flashing their buff physiques for a wide-eyed audience.

Ofttimes the nudity seemed completely gratuitous, as in Someone is Standing Outside, the Bill Medley LP, above. Michael Sembello’s album, which contained the hit “Maniac” from Flashdance, featured two disco bunnies, 80s gay stereotypes, on the cover, for reasons that still baffle me. Is that a jockstrap or a diaper that blond model is wearing?

Then there are the great transgendered divas of yore, the drag queens and female impersonators: Charles Pierce, Charles Ludlam, and the quipster par excellence, Quentin Crisp (whose light use of makeup and his long hair may not qualify him as a drag queen, but who certainly knew how to camp it up). One of my favorites is Ty Bennett, below, Queen For A Day! And how! I know nothing about T. C. Jones and his/her act, but the album art is a hoot! I have also amassed a collection of queer cast albums, including the Off-Broadway hit musical Boy Meets Boy ; and the comedy routines of Out of the Closet.

One mustn’t overlook the irrepressible Rae Bourbon, whose album covers got him into a lot of hot water, and caused me to take a lot of cold showers. His lurid life story deserves to be made into a TV movie of the week! Or at least a post on my blog. Stay tuned!

When all else failed, one could get carried away by the cutie on the cover, such as Rex Smith or Peter Frampton, and such provocative titles as “I’m In You.” That title always made me laugh. I’m sure there’s a parody of it somewhere called “Are You In Yet?” I also like cheesy movie tie-in albums, including Tough Enough with Dennis Quaid’s awesome abs! And punk icons, such as John Sex and his pre-Viagra Dippity-Do hair-do. Or divos such as Paul Lekakis and his boy toy bonanza, Boom Boom Room.

Not all these albums are testaments to good taste, or even good will. A few strike a homophobic chord. It’s hard sometimes to tell whether we’re meant to be in on the joke, or the butt of it.

Browsing the internet, I find that I am not the only one who treasures these viral vinyls. I’ve even found a few I don’t own and am desperate for. If anyone wants to trade a ManOWar, below, for a Man2Man by Parrish, let me know.

Recently a very dear straight friend of mine wrote and sent me a PDF of “The Worst Album Covers of All Time.” I cherish those hilarious images too. But what I’m sharing here is something harder to put one’s finger on, a cross between the tacky and the sublime: camp classics that ultimately are so good they’re “baaaad”.