Please kill me

A handy guide to the worst local records of the '90s

Nothing like arriving at work on a Monday morning to find an e-mail inbox full of questionable advice from even more questionable sources, such as one scrappy reader who wanted me to rip out my own tongue and hang myself with it. Thanks for the kind words, buddy, but I think you'd probably be better served praying for something bad to happen to my hands. Of course, if the spirit moved me, I'm sure I could still muster the strength to write with my nose, but that's beside the point.

After reading all of the irrational, emotional screeds denouncing the list the Dallas Observer ran detailing the worst records of the '90s ("Take these records, please," January 6), a dim light bulb appeared above our heads: How about we run another list, except this time, train our sights a little closer to home? More than likely, we're just inviting more abuse from some of you, and another dreary morning of bad e-mails with worse spelling, but, hey, we're suckers for it. Besides, we like to stick by the mantra one letter writer passed onto us, regarding our snide remarks: "I'm not negative, I just embrace the fucking truth." Amen, brutha.

With that in mind, here are a handful of the worst records of the past decade that were released locally, or at least by musicians who hail from this area. It's by no means comprehensive, but then again, it's much harder to remember the bad ones. Start your

Pantera is better at running strip clubs than writing songs. Which isn't saying much.
Joe Giron
Pantera is better at running strip clubs than writing songs. Which isn't saying much.

Woman as Salvation
Rhythmic Records, 1992

To make it easy, I merely picked one of Oates & Oates' discs at random, though obviously, any of them could have fit the bill. As always, the dynamic duo lets the ladies see their ample soft side -- hence the kiss-ass title -- and proceeds to completely folk things up, but in a, you know, non-threatening sort of way. It's quite possibly the whitest record Dallas has ever produced, making James Taylor sound like Ice Cube in comparison. No telling how many sorority houses at SMU have this in permanent rotation, or how many of the girls in those houses have got it on to "I'm Not Ready" or one of the other 10 songs Jack and Cary stole from Jackson Browne. You do the math, because I don't have the energy.

Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell
Meat Loaf
MCA Records, 1993

The only good that came out of this album was seeing the late Chris Farley mocking Thomas Jefferson High School's own Marvin "Meat Loaf" Aday on Saturday Night Live. Really. Unless, that is, you have a thing for overweight men in frilly pirate shirts pounding every song into submission like some half-assed Pavarotti knock-off. Unfortunately, Meat Loaf used his entire ass on too much of this limp sequel to the soggy, sappy original. The result is quarter-hour versions of wannabe show tunes such as "I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)" -- Christ, even the title's long -- a song that gets annoying before the Loaf even begins to pinch one. Meat's (Mr. Loaf's?) only saving grace is his newfound, or at least resurrected, acting career. Sure, the most memorable moments of that career are an unintentional joke (Patrick Swayze...Randy Travis...Meat Loaf...BLACK DOG!) and a sideshow deformity (his man-teets in Fight Club). But still, it's better than this, which isn't saying much. Or anything at all.

Picture Perfect Morning
Edie Brickell
Geffen Records, 1994

Perhaps The Toadies took things a little too far when they directed their song "I Hope You Die" at Mrs. Paul Simon back in the day. Then again, after one listen to the ironically titled Picture Perfect Morning, you would at least hope that something bad would happen to her vocal chords, or maybe that she just wouldn't find the key to the recording studio anymore. She seemed to have gotten the hint after this misguided outing, though her recent resurgence with the New Bohemians does not bode well for, well, anyone. Maybe a few shows will get it out of her system again.

Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories
Geffen Records, 1995

"Stay" far away as possible from this quickie follow-up to Loeb's inexplicably popular turn on the Reality Bites soundtrack. This is only one of the reasons why Ethan Hawke should be on the receiving end of a good old-fashioned ass-whupping by some very large, very angry men. (We won't even mention his book.) You might try to excuse this lackluster effort because it was rushed into stores in an effort to capitalize on "Stay," but you would fail. For further proof, listen to everything Loeb's released since, paper-thin chick-pop sweeping up the second stage at Lilith Fair. To put it another way, if your biggest achievement in the past five years has been dating Dweezil Zappa, then you haven't really accomplished anything. Well, at least it wasn't Ahmet.

The Nixons
MCA Records, 1995

Stone Temple Pilots did it first, but The Nixons did it worse. If I wanted to hear Pearl Jam -- and I don't, actually -- I would just skip the middle man, instead of having to wade through Zac Maloy and company's tin-eared interpretations. Foma is khaki-rock at its worst, so thin you could stack 100 copies of the disc on top of each other and it would be less than half an inch thick. Oh, they're popular around here, so that makes them good, right? Sorry, Tennessee -- that offer expired a while back (cf. Hellafied Funk Crew and Pimpadelic). Just turn on KDGE-FM, wait 20 minutes or so for "Sister" to come on, and tell me I'm wrong. Nothing's better than guitar rock only mothers could love.

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