Doolittle, Pixies
Doolittle by the Pixies stands 

as one of the most influential 
rock records since its release in 
1989. It moves through poppy 
instrumentals 
with 
perfect 

bass lines that contrast its dark 
subject 
matter 
referencing 

biblical violence, surrealism and 
death.

These things melt into one 

cohesive album that conjure up an 
unsettling feeling, and Doolittle’s 
iconic album cover gives those 
feelings a face. Frontman Francis 
Black gave the album’s lyrics to 
photographer Simon Larbalestier 
and 
artist 
Vaughan 
Oliver, 

allowing them to make images 
directly related to the songs. 
They produced multiple images: 
everything from a stark black 
and white photograph of a crab 
and broken boot to represent the 
mentioned crustaceans on “Wave 
of Mutilation” to a chipped, 
broken bell that queues the 
“ringing bell” in “I Bleed.”

After 
much 
pondering, 

Black chose the uncanny and 
memorable image of the monkey 
with a halo on its head under a 
layer of odd geometric shapes. 
The image recalls the song 
“Monkey Gone To Heaven,” as 
Black’s harsh voice gives purpose 
to the three numbers branded 

on the cover: 
five, six and 
seven. 
Black 

sings, “If man 
is five / Then 
the Devil is 
six / And if 
the Devil is 
six 
/ 
Then 

God is seven,” 
with a gut-
wrenching 
shriek 
emphasized 
on “God” that 
lingers in your 
eardrums.

In 
a 

Consequence 
of Sound review, they mention 
a quote by Black explaining that 
“Mr. Grieves” is about Death 
in mythology. A line in the 
songs references Dr. Doolittle 
embodying 
Death 
because 

they are both people who pass 
through 
multiple 
planes 
of 

existence. Black says, “The ‘man 
in the middle’ is Dr. Doolittle, 
because if you could speak to 
the animals you would be the 
great link between mankind 
and the animal world,” making 
the monkey a symbol of the 
otherworldly.

The cover has a distinct feeling 

of distortion with its grey and red 

colors. They match the rustic 
tone of Black’s voice throughout 
the record, especially in songs 
like “Dead,” when his voice seeps 
into a indistinguishable abyss 
of sound as he sings, “You’re 
suffocating you need a good 
shed / I’m tired of living, shebe, 
so gimme / Dead.” The record’s 
constant references to death and 
things beyond paired with the 
creepy cover pushes listeners 
into a curious middle ground 
of light and darkness melting 
together in entropy. 

— Selena Aguilera, 
Daily Arts Writer

Roundtable: on the importance of album cover art 

Yeezus, Kanye West
Yeezus: The anti-cover. What 

better feature for our series 
about cover art than an album 
with no cover at all? For his sixth 
studio album, established hip-
hop innovator Kanye West took 
a step toward the avant-garde, 
bringing the design of its cover 
with him. The Yeezus “cover” is 
best discussed in terms of a CD 
and case, as the digital version 
is simply an image of the two: 
With no design aside from a small 
square of red sealant tape, the 
physical Yeezus disc is completely 
exposed through its clear, plastic 

packaging. 
It’s 
minimalist, 
it’s raw and 
instead 
of 

augmenting 
an 
album’s 

innate 
qualities 
of 
mass-

production 
and 
digitization 
with life and 
creativity 
as 
album 

art 
typically 

aims to do, it 
completely 

embraces the album’s CD-ness.

Ironically, 
these 
characteristics 

(or lack thereof) brilliantly mimic 
the tone of the album. Sonically, 
Yeezus differs drastically from 
Ye’s 
traditionally 
warm 
and 

polished sound, instead offering 
a chaotic array of unfiltered, 
digital mush. Its tracks are cold, 
abrasive 
and 
overwhelmingly 

artificial — attributes that a plain, 
metallically reflective compact 
disc perfectly embodies. For 
example, “On Sight” is both parts 
a jarring imitation of Afrika 
Bambaataa’s condensed electro 
beats of the ’80s and a brilliant 

example of the power of gospel 
sampling, either section starkly 
contrasted without traditional 
regard for blend or balance; “I’m 
In It” boasts a gigantic, angry 
beat that could be classified as 
some corelary of rap metal with 
ear-piercing screeches to match. 
It’s only appropriate that the 
album’s cover breaks the mold as 
well.

In 2013, Ye ranted about Yeezus 

and its cover: “With this album 
we ain’t drop no single to radio. 
We ain’t got no NBA campaign, 
nothing like that. Shit, we ain’t 
even got no cover. We just made 
some real music.” Disgruntled 
with the state of the music 
industry in 2013, viewing pop 
radio as uninspired, Ye indicated 
that an additional motivation for 
a coverless album was to recenter 
focus strictly on the album’s 
content. This was an especially 
strong decision given that Yeezus 
is difficult to digest upon first 
listen; any additional art would 
have made the record’s dark 
experimentation overwhelming 
and unpalatable. Instead, Yeezy 
let the CD speak for itself. 

— Mike Watkins, 
Daily Arts Writer

MUSIC

Music writers of Daily Arts understand the importance that lies within an attractive binding and how an album’s cover can offer 
a glimpse of the story its music contains. Thus, in no particular order, we have compiled a list of our favorite works of album art.

4AD

Revolver, The Beatles 
Prior to Revolver, Beatles 

album covers had been fairly 
straightforward photos of the 
four members, and although 
Rubber Soul did feature a 
marijuana-fueled 
distortion 

of their faces, Revolver was 
still a major departure. The 
cover 
consists 
of 
drawings 

of the Fab Four rather than 
photographs, 
intermingled 

with a psychedelic collage in 
black and white, which was a 
subversive artistic decision in 
an era where intense color was 
de rigueur. This was the cover 
art of a band who had begun to 
take their work more seriously, 
certain now that this was not 
just pop music — it was art.

Paul had immersed himself 

in the London avant-garde 
scene, 
devouring 
anything 

hip 
and 
interesting, 
from 

Stockhausen to cocaine. This 

included tape loop collages 
— a sonic innovation that 
would find its way onto the 
ultra-experimental 
closer 

“Tomorrow 
Never 
Knows” 

(and in a much more extreme 
form on John’s “Revolution 9” 
a few years later). On the cover 
Paul is looking outward, much 
like how he spent the Revolver 
era 
searching 
for 
external 

inspiration, synthesizing the 
innovations of his time with 
The 
Beatles’ 
pre-existing 

musical sensibilities (visually 
reflected in how the old images 
of The Beatles are melded with 
the nouveau illustration of 
Klaus Voormann).

John, 
conversely, 
had 

become 
reclusive 
— 
eating 

acid, watching TV and idling in 
Ringo’s garden. His withdrawn 
and 
contrary 
worldview 

emerged in songs like “I’m Only 
Sleeping” and “And Your Bird 

Can 
Sing,” 

and is also 
reflected 
in 
the 

subversive 
black 
and 

white cover 
art. 
When 

most 
were 

moving 
towards 
technicolor 
psychedelia, 
The Beatles 
eschewed 
color 
altogether. 
Lennon’s 
gaze on the 

cover is shifty-eyed and his face 
is partially obscured, looking 
with near-condescension at the 
older images of the mop-top 
Beatles, an era he was soon to 
reject.

George is the only Beatle to be 

looking directly at the viewer, 
coming into his own creatively 
on the record from his original 
pieces 
(in 
particular, 
the 

Indian-influenced “Love You 
To”) to his scorching guitar 
parts on songs like “She Said 
She Said” and “And Your Bird 
Can Sing.” The quiet Beatle 
began to find his voice on 
Revolver, and his intense gaze 
on the cover suggests that he 
intends to be heard.

Finally, 
Ringo 
is 
gazing 

upwards, 
a 
receptive 
pose 

befitting the Beatle whose role 
was to support the others on 
their creative journey — his 
drum-playing never missing 
a beat — despite the fact that 
he himself never instigated 
any of this development, from 
his 
brain-crushing 
thumps 

on “Tomorrow Never Knows” 
to 
his 
intense 
technical 

performance on “She Said She 
Said.”

The cover of Revolver is 

emblematic not just because 
it is visually engaging, but 
because it captures the spirit 
and sound of the album. It is the 
audacious epitome of a moment 
when The Beatles made their 
biggest leap from pop icons to 
art musicians.

— Jonah Mendelson, 

Daily Arts Writer

Seek Magic, Memory Tapes
I first came across Seek Magic 

during Mar. of my senior year of 
high school. I was a Future Islands 
fanatic — some things never 
change — and my obsession with 
the band set me down a winding 
path that ultimately led to ’70s and 
’80s inspired synth-pop revival 
and doused-out chill wave in 
equal measure. I was knee-deep 
in the youth lagoon, if you will, 
encountering 
Twin 
Shadow, 

Chromatics, 
Wild 
Nothing, 

Washed Out, Craft Spells and 
Neon Indian for the first time.

Somehow, 
maybe 
through 

Spotify’s 
“Related 
Artists” 

feature or a 2009 “Best Of” list, 
I stumbled upon Memory Tapes 
and Seek Magic caught my eye. 
The album’s cover art could be 
mistaken for a sun or water-
damaged photograph from afar, 
but it’s actually a painting, though 
it’s difficult to tell what of.

I’ve tried many times over 

the past three years to find 
information on the cover’s artist, 
but never succeeded. Memory 
Tapes has a Bandcamp page, but 
Seek Magic is glaringly absent, 
and the album’s Wikipedia page 
is about as helpful. Left to my own 
devices, I have always imagined 
that the artist’s goal was to 
challenge the border between the 
above and the below, the sea and 
the sky.

What seem to be clouds line the 

top of the image, while the lower 
two thirds consist of reflective 
strips, like inconsistent little pools 
of oil whose iridescence causes 

their reflections to be unfaithful 
replications 
of 
reality. 
The 

centerpiece of the cover is plain 
to see but difficult to describe. 
Intuition tells me that it’s an 
island — a distant one, certainly — 
either peeking out from the water 
or hanging in midair. Whatever 
the case may be, the sum total of 
the landscape’s features seems to 
represent a magical half-reality, 
suitable given the album’s dreamy 
feel.

“Swimming Field,” the album’s 

first cut, begins with the sound 
that insects make in the night at 
warmer latitudes. The familiar 
drone of bugs is punctuated by 
a dog’s bark even further in the 
background — you might miss it if 
you’re not listening on headphones. 
The effect is immediate nostalgia 
at its purest and most intense, and 
a feeling of space, like walking 
down 
an 

empty street 
somewhere 
in coastal Fla.. 
There’s 
no 

sidewalk, but 
no cars either, 
so you amble 
along the side 
of the road, 
appreciating 
more 
than 

usual 
both 

the 
light 

provided 
by 

street lamps 
and the space 
in 
between 

them.

While the 

album art alone might not merit 
the recognition I’ve given it, the 
interplay between the visual and 
aural within this album especially 
has always stuck with me. Lyrics 
are subdued throughout, and the 
general mood is one of longing. For 
me, this has always meant longing 
for the past, for simplicity and the 
space to not feel so bad about being 
lazy. This idea of the past as being 
perfectly simple isn’t an accurate 
one though, thoroughly colored by 
rosy retrospection. Seek Magic’s 
fantastical landscape is analogous 
to the places that populate my 
memories. It exists as they exist, 
certainly there but not quite real, 
tantalizing and comforting in that 
I can never quite return to the 
place I recall, because I was never 
actually there.

— Sean Lang, 

Daily Arts Writer 

The Kick Inside, Kate Bush 
The UK release cover of 

The Kick Inside by ethereal 
songstress 
Kate 
Bush 
has 

always 
been 
one 
of 
my 

favorite examples of album 
art, from the moment I first 
saw it to every time it comes 
up on my phone to this day. 
A stark yellow background 
embellished with red details, 
the cover exudes the brilliant 
life of the record’s contents — 
the debut album for Bush and 
the first chance the world had 
to experience her genius. In 
the artwork, Bush appears to 
be exploding out of a watchful 
eye on a sail of fire, surrounded 
by swirling Chinoiserie fabric 
and a title written out in 
careful calligraphy. The bright 
contrast between the red and 
yellow of the cover shows the 
lively and beautifully alien 
aspects of Bush’s work in one 
glance, as each portion of the 
art works together in a strange 
yet innovative manner. If there 
was anything to describe The 
Kick Inside, that would be 
it: 
strange, 
yet 
innovative. 

Carrying her top single and 
most memorable song from the 
album, “Wuthering Heights,” 
the album was released to 
international acclaim, yet this 
haunting cover art did not go 
with it everywhere. The United 
States release of The Kick Inside 
instead bares just a photo 
of Bush comfortably sitting, 
wearing jeans and a red blouse, 
supposedly 
more 
appealing 

to an American audience who 
wasn’t 
so 

adapted 
to 

the intrigue 
of 
Bush’s 

artistic 
sensibilities. 
Nonetheless, 
the UK cover 
became the 
accepted 
version 
of 

the 
album, 

and 
its 

longevity 
has carried 
Bush’s 
wonderful 
weirdness 
into 
the 

hands of many since its release. 
This is a record you can truly 
judge by its cover, because the 
art is a perfect replication of 
what lays within — a lasting 
and memorable show of a 
young Bush’s prodigal talent 
and “it” factor which echoes 
into the present.

— Clara Scott, 

Daily Arts Writer 

Melodrama, Lorde
When I think of the summer 

of 2017, I think of driving and 
I think of Lorde’s Melodrama. 
My first time listening to the 
album in full was during my 
daily commute from home to 
campus, where I was taking 
classes for the summer. The 
most vivid memory I have of 
that experience is hearing 
“Homemade Dynamite” float 
through my car speakers like 
some sort of chilling dream: 
“We’ll end up painted on the 
road / Red and chrome / All 
the broken glass sparkling.”

Most 
of 

the 
albums 

I listen to 
are 
black 

and red, not 
just in color 
scheme, 
but also in 
tone. 
More 

often 
than 

not, 
artists 

will 
fixate 

on a single 
emotion, 
weaving 
it 

in and out of 
every single 
track 
until 

it positively 

blots 
out 
everything 
else, 

which 
doesn’t 
leave 
much 

room for nuance. Take My 
Chemical 
Romance’s 
Three 

Cheers 
for 
Sweet 
Revenge; 

although the pace changes 
slightly from song to song, 
anyone who isn’t particularly 
into the genre might not be 
able to pick apart the tiny 
differences that separate the 
individual tracks. My favorite 
part about Melodrama is how 
complete it is: There’s a song 
for every single emotion on 
the spectrum. Underlying it 
all is a somber, brilliant blue 

that Lorde somehow manages 
to balance just right. There’s 
the slow, heartbreaking build 
of “Liability” that renders 
it Melodrama’s ultimate sad 
song, 
contrasted 
with 
the 

dramatized, deceptively bright 
“Green Light” and the heart-
racing, free-falling beat that 
drives “Perfect Places.” The 
vivid brights of Melodrama’s 
album art are the sights to 
the sound, the precise visual 
manifestation of how much 
of herself Lorde puts into her 
work.

On 
Melodrama, 
Lorde 

condenses 
the 
essence 
of 

teenage relationships in all 
of their turbulent glory, from 
the before to the during to the 
after, and does it all without 
abandon. She leaves us with a 
final parting gift: an image of 
her at her most striking, when 
she’s 
unflinchingly 
staring 

right at the viewer. 

— Sam Lu, 

Daily Arts Writer

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5 — Thursday, April 12, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

