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”.

I’m on hiatus for a week, enjoying the beautiful weather and dreaming up some new posts. Y’all come back now soon.

Once upon a time — or as the French say, il était une fois — I spent a summer in Paris as the guest of a friend of my father’s. I had just finished up a stint as an intern at the Spoleto Festival in Italy and took advantage of an offer from Anne-Marie to crash on the sofa at her place. Her flat was near the Maison de la Radio and had a private garden, a rarity in Paris then. The on dit was that she had once been Dad’s girlfriend, but I think that was just idle gossip. This woman admired my father, but only as a friend. The apartment was well-situated in the posh 16th arrondissement near Passy. The Métro stop there would become famous later on in the movie Last Tango in Paris.

I used to go out often at night when I was there, take the Métro across the Seine, and back again, to party in all the hot spots of Paris. Perhaps the most sizzling spot in those days was Club Sept, founded by Fabrice Emaer. Not quite a gay bar, Club Sept attracted an exotic, diverse crowd of celebrities, beauties, rock stars, dance divas and some of the international Warhol Factory set. It was the heyday of the disco era, with a hint of the punk revolution waiting in the wings. We listened to Grace Jones, Donna Summer and Patrick Juvet.

My memory of those late, late nights is a bit hazy. And not entirely reliable. I was a heavy drinker then and often stumbled back to Anne-Marie’s in a drunken stupor, or worse a blackout. Very often I did not have enough money to pay for a cab and the Métro closed in the wee hours of the morning. It was not unusual for me to walk home, a distance of many, many miles. Sometimes if I got lucky, I’d hitch a ride. They say that God loves drunks and fools, and I was both in those days. I never had any problems on the streets of Paris. I was 20 and it was 1977.

Anne-Marie knew little of my nightly escapades. She worked in the airline business and was often away for several days. I confined my worst excesses to those times. One night I slipped out to Club Sept and tied one on. In between dancing ecstatically to Donna Summer’s latest hit and cruising the lounge, I hooked up with a handsome gadabout named Joel LeBon, a fixture of the Warhol fringe. My memory here is full of holes, but I seem to remember him introducing me to one of his friends, Tan Giudicelli, an Asian fashion designer who later made a name for himself in perfume. (Tan, seen below with Tyen, shot by Helmut Newton.)

I had stumbled into a stylish and très branché crowd of nouveaux incroyables and merveilleuses, the demi-gods and goddesses of the demi-monde. With them were Edwige, a stunning blonde beauty with a reputation for always being at the right place at the right time. No party was complete without her. And Paquita Paquin, a piquant meneuse de jeu with enough energy to light up all of Paris. (Edwige, left, below with LouLou de la Falaise; Paquita and ami, right.)

Sitting against the wall on a banquette, nearly lost amidst the Gauloises and Gitanes smoke, was a shy young man named Philippe Morillon. Smiling like the Cheshire Cat, he offered me a drink and a cigarette. I used to smoke in those days, sometimes as much as three packs a day. But it was just an affectation. I rarely inhaled. It was merely a way to meet people and to achieve instant camaraderie. The whiskeys and Coke helped a lot too. I can’t recall if Philippe and I danced together. I seem to remember him always sitting on that banquette, soaking up the atmosphere. Although he did cover the city’s backstreets with unique flair. (Philippe, below, with les poubelles.)

These were heady times.  I was in awe of all the famous people popping in and out. I recall that same night seeing Michael York there with some glamorous woman. Was it Catherine Deneuve? Or Anita Ekberg? And a singer named Thierry LeLuron, who was all the rage at the time. (Seen below in a wig with Randy Jones and Felipe Rose of the Village People.)

I mention all this because I had unwittingly stumbled upon a small cadre of hip trendsetters who would come to define the nightlife of Paris in the 70s and 80s. They were the Zazous of the moment. My only ticket in was my youth and my ego, and the energy to keep up with them. And perhaps my clumsy American naiveté, which some of them thought was cute.

Philippe and I soon became intimate friends. A talented photographer and artist (self-portrait, above), he had a large, rambling apartment on the Boulevard Sébastopol in an old Belle Epoque building with one of those typically Parisian staircases and a rickety old elevator. To me it was the essence of la vie de bohème, everything I had dreamed Paris would be. It was a far cry from the rather humdrum bourgeois ordinariness of Anne-Marie’s neighborhood near Passy.

I’d visit Philippe as often as possible to watch him paint, sketch or develop his startling photographs. I seem to recall that he had his own darkroom, but it might have just been the bathroom. He took a lot of photographs of me, only one of which I still have (the one at the top of this post). No matter what time of day or night it was, the flat was a hub of activity. Models, actresses, designers and fellow artists would come in and out. My head was constantly spinning from the excitement of it all, and the pulsating rhythm of a vibrant disco song which he played constantly, Simon Peter. I vainly began to envision myself as part of the Warhol crowd. I was 20 and it was 1977.

One night Anne-Marie overheard me talking to Philippe on the telephone and suggested that I invite him over for dinner. She was a great cook, so I didn’t hesitate. Philippe showed up and the scene soon resembled one of those interrogations a father might impose on the date who’d come to pick up his daughter for the prom. Anne-Marie grilled Philippe about all aspects of his life. I could tell instantly that she did not approve. Not because Philippe wasn’t attractive or charming, but because she sensed that he belonged to this other world of artists and bohemians. Perhaps she was just jealous since I had found a new mentor, one who didn’t mind if I smoked, drank to excess, or went out dancing until six in the morning.

A week or so later, Anne-Marie had to go visit friends in Dordogne. She said I could stay in the apartment alone as long as I promised not to have any visitors. I told her not to worry. But the minute she got in her car and drove off, I was on the phone to Philippe inviting him and his circle of friends over for a party. I wanted to show off the garden in back. A few hours later, as I was all alone, and busy preparing for the party, the door bell rang. I opened it and was startled to find Joe Dallesandro standing there. He was by himself. I had never met him before and had not invited him. It was like a visit from an angel or one of those deus ex machinas you read about in ancient mythology. He just appeared out of nowhere.

I showed him in and we proceeded to talk for an hour or so on our own. It turned out that Philippe had invited him. You have to remember that at this time Joe Dallesandro was at the height of his fame. He had starred in several of Andy Warhol’s most infamous films and had recently headlined Paul Morrissey’s two horror remakes: Dracula and Frankenstein. To me sitting next to him was more exciting than meeting the Beatles or Queen Elizabeth. He showed me his tattoo, “Little Joe”. He was the perfect gentleman, making complimentary remarks about the apartment. I was so taken aback by his sophisticated, gracious manner that I fumbled to make conversation. For once, I was tongue-tied. All I could think of to do was to open a bottle of Anne-Marie’s prized Champagne.

Soon Philippe and his gang arrived. I’m not sure if Edwige and Paquita were there, it’s all pretty much a blur. I had opened Anne-Marie’s tins of caviar too. Someone commandeered the kitchen and cooked up a meal. We took full advantage of the garden and dined al fresco. Afterward there were countless dishes, glasses, demitasse coffee cups, wine bottles, and silverware strewn across the apartment. There wasn’t time to clean up after the meal since we all climbed into a cab and headed off to Régine’s where we continued to live it up and to drink and dance. (Mick Jagger, en masque, below.)

Somehow we ended up at La Main Bleue, one of the racier discos of the era, which was out in the banlieues and catered to a trendy black crowd. Unfortunately, Philippe ended up not feeling well that night, so I took him back to his apartment, tucked him into bed and then shamelessly went back to the Bronx, a leather bar up the block from Club Sept.

I picked up some very sexy guy who had a motorcycle and we went back to Anne-Marie’s apartment. We stumbled through the debris of the earlier party, threw off our clothes, leaving half of them on the floor. I remember he placed his motorcycle helmet on one of the sculptures in the hall. Then we fell into bed in a Mistral of torrid sex. I was 20 and it was 1977.

Through the pounding in my head, a couple hours later, I heard the familiar click of a key in the front door. I jumped out of bed, trying not to wake my trick, and grabbed a towel to cover myself. I poked my head into the living room where an elderly Portuguese cleaning lady stood staring at the mess around her with her jaw just about hitting the floor. She turned to look at me and then screamed. She ran out the door, slamming it behind her. It was just like a scene out of a movie.

I had hell to pay when Anne-Marie returned from the country (a bit earlier than she had planned). And my late night excursions from then on were curtailed. I could have moved in with Philippe I guess. But I felt I owed Anne-Marie something for her hospitality. And I was worried what she might tell my father. I was still very much under my father’s thumb. I was 20 and it was 1977,

As for Philippe, we stayed friends. I never told him about the beau mec on the motorcycle. Although considering how small that clique was, I’m sure he heard about it soon enough. The following summer, I returned and he introduced me to Le Palace, which Fabrice had opened in March 1978 with a gala concert given by Grace Jones. Located in a lavish theatre, Le Palace was a rival to Studio 54, but even more glamorous and scandalous.

I went back to Le Palace on several more occasions and watched with awe, admiration and disbelief the parade of fabulous cockeyed creatures who roosted there. Eventually I returned home and to school. During my junior year at Yale, I was affecting the punk look, glimmers of which I had picked up at Le Palace. I wore a safety pin in my tie. I thought I was the next cover of Interview. (Billy Idol, below.)

In time, Philippe and I fell out of touch. I visited him the following summer, but some of the magic was missing. He’d been busy making a name for himself in the worlds of fashion, design and photography. I was just a college student on summer vacation. Plus I had begun to be interested in other things besides dancing and the glitterati. I was studying music and had aspirations of becoming an opera singer. It didn’t serve me well to be out every night smoking and drinking. Or so I told myself. But the truth is that the voice lessons were my way of keeping myself in check. I was already in the throes of severe alcoholism and suffered many debilitating attacks of despair during that period. I nearly drowned myself one night in the sea at Deauville. I never told anyone.

Later, after I got sober and returned to Paris with a new attitude, I made a point of looking up Philippe again. He had become an editor at Vogue and later an art director at Egoiste, one of the most famous magazines of the era. And he’d published a book, Ultra Lux, a collection of his paintings.

As luck would have it, I got an assignment in the mid-80s from Vanity Fair to interview Karl Lagerfeld, as part of my “Conspicuous Coffee Table” columns. I suggested that Philippe do the photographs. We reunited at Lagerfeld’s palatial home. The three of us proceeded to have one of the most hilarious and fun-filled interview sessions I’ve ever had. And the pictures that Philippe took of Lagerfeld and his “coffee table” (which was nothing more than a pile of expensive art books stacked on the floor) were magnificent. (Lagerfeld, below, shot earlier on the town by Philippe.)

I’ve kept up with Philippe off and on over the ensuing decades. But it is only recently thanks to Facebook that we’ve reconnected on any significant level. It was there that I learned of his latest release. Une dernière danse? 1970-1980 Journal d’une décennie, (The Last Dance? Journal of a Decade) — a retrospective of his photographs from the 70s and 80s, the apogee of Le Palace. It was just published in May. Karl Lagerfeld wrote the introduction. I’m not sure it is available yet in the United States, but it’s been garnering a lot of attention in France.

Gazing at these glittering images, the past comes back to life. The exotic and erotic. The maddening and the madcap. The poseurs and the provocateurs. It all rushes back, like flashes of lightning illuminating a dark night sky. It’s as if the party never ended. As if AIDS had never reared its ugly head, quelling our lusts and louche behavior. Many of the people featured in these pages are no longer with us. Fabrice died in 1983; Thierry Le Luron in 1986. Joel LeBon as well. Some have become mere footnotes in the pantheon of fame. Others have gone on to bigger success. Edwige and Paquita continue to shine. (Yves St Laurent, below.)

One thing is constant. The thrill of the party, the joy of seeing and being seen, of dressing up and showing off. Philippe Morillon has captured the essence of those wild, youthful years. And for me, personally, he’s reopened the door to a marvelous moveable feast, a true remembrance of things past. I was 20 and it was 1977.

(Note: All photos courtesy of and copyright by Philippe Morillon, unless otherwise indicated.)