obtuse self-flagellation

Just wanted to say I listened to an album from the early 90s I played on, for the first time in well over a decade, and I could not believe how embarrassingly poor it was. It's probably the same old subjectivity, like why you shouldn't read your friends' novels, or at least, imagine you can judge their value, but wow, this was a truly awful record. I went online and looked at some reviews of it. I could not believe how utterly bland the reviews were i.e. for some reason critics of the early-mid 90s could not appreciate how vile this particular album was/is. But I was more amazed that I, or we the band, had deemed it suitable for release. WTAF were we thinking? You can't suppress things anymore, if you hide them then someone else who cares but has no stake, will make them available. I'm not even naming what I'm talking about because I don't want to give it special status. But oh boy. What a stinker. Admittedly, I laughed a lot when I heard it, so I suppose the grossness of it is a happy thing, in a manner of speaking.

some things apparently improve with age

I had grim memories of how bad this record sleeve I drew for the band Sukpatch twenty odd years ago was, but coming across it on eBay it was not as bad as I recalled it. The circumstances were probably the main problem - I was staying with a band member in, um, where was it? Cincinnati? It was after a Cannanes show and he asked me if I'd draw the cover of their new record for them. Of course I was honoured and Denise Drysdalishly I never say no to anything. But it was late, I was tired, and he and his girlfriend were smoking reputedly killer pot which I wanted some of. Or perhaps, of which wanted some I. I did this instead. It's weird that I, who have had a million opportunities to smoke pot and declined, because it makes me weird, paranoid, tense and unhappy, would somehow remember that particular time for that particular issue. Anyway. This record cover has no meaning or purpose, except to put a record in, it's not particularly attractive, but it's enough of a curate's egg for me to now feel some affection for it. OK, as you were.

(Later: I note with wistful rue that I had actually already blogged about this, four years ago. I take solace from the fact that, although I had forgotten telling the story before, I told pretty much the same story, which means it must be either true or reaffirmed with constant retelling.)