Some Treasures Should Stay Buried

Strange as it sounds, my sisters consider me to be something of a music expert (Yes Sarah, go see Sam Phillips and Yael Naim; No Katie, I've never heard of Mushu Wave or whoever it was), and while I admit I've never classified myself as such, I do feel that I've finally harvested one particular luscious cherry from the musical orchard - I have discovered the WORST ALBUM EVER CONCEIVED! Much like today's young Disney stars, matinee idols of yesteryear (and their less photogenic co-stars) were expected or at least encouraged to release sickly-sweet albums about love and hardship. Thus, we get particularly bad-but-in-a-fun-way chestnuts from the likes of Hailey Mills, Brigitte Bardot, and even dowdy old Stanley Holloway (Yew knaw, guvnuh! Eliza Dooli'le's pop!). But this one tops them all. Obviously schooled in the Rex Harrison Vocal Training Academy, Dirk Bogarde doesn't even attempt to sing the songs, instead intoning the words oh-so-veddy-Britishly, without any reference to the timing of the tune playing behind his voice. You know it's bad when Elvis Costello has this to say about your album - "Ever needed to get rid of unwanted guests in the early hours? Just reach for Dirk Bogarde’s Lyrics for Lovers, on which the actor inhales audibly on his cigarette before reciting Ira Gershwin’s ‘A Foggy Day’ amid a swathe of violins..." After you've choked down a bit of this tripe, please wash away its filthy taste with a lot of Andrew Bird.



Yeah, I wanted to do harm to myself as well. But don't worry, my dear, it does get better. In 70 years or so.