A submission to the board of whoever makes those 'Worst Album Cover' lists

For your consideration:



It may seem innocent at first. I know it's no this or this. But please consider the following:

1. Look carefully at each Manhattan Transferrite's face and you will see that every single expression looks obscene. Three of them look like they are involved in varying stages of sexual intercourse, and one of them looks like he is thrilled at the prospect of dropping in to Bunnings for an hour after finishing up a profitable day's work at his used car sales business.

2. One of the men is gripping one of the women's breasts. She seems to be enjoying it, but I don't think she's sober enough to make her own decisions at this point, so it just seems wrong.

3. The fact that both men are holding the women back quite forcefully, perhaps restraining them from the 'Coming Out' of the album's title, hints at far more nefarious objectives than those an American jazz vocal group would normally be expected to have (to sing 'Chatanooga Choo-Choo' just once at the Super Bowl, for instance).

4. One of the women is wearing chain mail armour in hues of green and red and fawn. This is because she missed the tanning appointment the other three went to and now her blanched complexion is going in to battle with the rest of them and she'll be damned if she's not armed and ready to defend her pale looks in the sea of dazzling bronze.

5. I have to go back once more to their facial expressions because I simply can't get over them! By staring at this in horror for the last day or so I have learned that everyone—whether man or woman, pouter or smiler, tanned or pale, used car salesman or Maid Marion—can look sleazy if they put enough effort in.

Now, when I was in a band, we just loved doing crazy photo shoots. We would pore over the pictures afterwards and laugh at ourselves: 'Oh my god, we look dead!' we'd scream in shared delight. 'We look like The Shaggs!' we'd exclaim, pouring another round of cuba libres. 'We look like we're brilliantly inventive amateur porn stars!' we'd cry with glee. 'Oh my god, we look like Abba on the cover of Gracias Por la Musica!' which was usually the effect we were after, so then we'd be very pleased with ourselves and pack up for the day or else pass out, whichever came first.

But despite our love for hamming it up in front of the camera, I can't recall any of us—after observing, 'Oh my god, we look badly-dressed, over-blushed, drunk and engaged in coitus reservatus!'— ever suggesting: 'Indeed we do—let's turn it into our album cover!'

Oh, I forgot to turn the record around:















And enough said.