Right in the Nuts

As I continue to trudge through the musical gold and platinum mines of 1971-1980, I can’t help but wonder: did people actually listen to this stuff? The sheer volume of mediocre music churned out during this time could only be explained by three quintessentially American tendencies:

1. Questionable taste (let’s call it “poor discernment” to be polite).
2. A suspiciously robust ability to spend money we don’t have.
3. An insatiable hunger for entertainment, no matter how mind-numbing.

Oh, how I’d love to chronicle the cavalcade of vapid albums I’ve endured, but I’ll spare you the bloodbath. Suffice it to say, Barry Manilow and Barbra Streisand somehow sold millions of records—an achievement that continues to haunt me. Now, I’m neither a gay man nor a Martha’s Vineyard wine-sipping trophy wife (the primary demographics I imagine keeping their careers afloat), so maybe I’m just missing something. I’ll grudgingly admit their music is consistent—consistently puzzling as to how anyone consistently likes it.

Then there’s the testosterone-infused carnival of what I’ve dubbed Rone-Rock: rock tailor-made for pre-teen and teen boys who need a musical outlet for their hormonal surges. Think Foghat, Ted Nugent, and Kiss—each a sonic assault on my aging eardrums. For the intellectually ambitious, we had bands like Emerson, Lake & Palmer and Jethro Tull, who somehow turned experimental noise into highly profitable ventures. How? It’s a mystery. Their fans must’ve been deep thinkers—because you’d need to dig deep to find joy in that racket.

But I digress. I’m not here to wage war on Barry, Barbra, or the cults of Rone-Rock and prog-rock philosophers. They can keep their wretched releases and niche audiences. Today, I want to shine a light on acts that once soared high, proving they had the chops to produce brilliance, only to crash and burn in spectacular fashion by the decade’s end.

These are the artists who, for reasons known only to them (and perhaps their accountants), decided to unleash musical disasters so toxic that only their most braindead cult followers could stomach them. Albums so bad you have to wonder if the final tapes were played back in the studio with a straight face. Did they pat themselves on the back? Were they delusional enough to think, “Yes, this is worth every penny of our fans’ hard-earned cash”?

Whatever the case, these collapses were epic, and the wreckage is worth examining. Let’s dive into the cringe-worthy tailspin of bands who traded brilliance for bafflingly bad decisions. You’ve been warned.

Aerosmith came out of the gates swinging in 1973 with their self-titled debut, and it seemed like this rock ‘n’ roll train was gonna keep on rollin’. But oh, how I wish someone had Draw(n) the Line in 1977 to save us all from the band derailing spectacularly and kicking us Right in the Nuts—I mean, Night in the Ruts—in 1979. Spoiler alert: neither is pleasant.

You’d think it couldn’t get worse, but Aerosmith took that as a personal challenge. After guitarist Joe Perry wisely exited stage left, the band left fans stranded between A Rock and a Hard Place in 1982, which might as well have been renamed Between Mediocrity and Musical Bankruptcy.

By the time 1985 rolled around, it was as if the band had gone full magician, pulling Done With Mirrors out of their hat—and by “hat,” I mean the artistic abyss. At that point, their ability to lighten the wallets of their devoted cult members—er, fans—was the only trick they seemed interested in mastering. And yet, somehow, we kept buying tickets for this rock ‘n’ roll rollercoaster. Who’s the real fool here? Probably us. But hey, at least it’s a loud, screeching kind of fun.

Most music fans in the early ’70s had all but counted Bob Dylan out—down for the count, KO’d, a musical has-been. But somehow, ol’ Bob managed to peel himself off the mat, shake off the dust, and deliver Blood on the Tracks in 1975, a comeback so spectacular it felt like he’d channeled heartbreak into art and found his groove again. The following year, he kept the magic alive—albeit dimmer—with Desire, spreading a little less heat but still enough to keep the flame going.

And then, well, things got weird. Like a bad batch of Fentanyl, Dylan went full Street Legal in 1978, leaving fans dazed, confused, and possibly questioning their life choices. Not to be outdone by himself, Bob hit rock bottom—or maybe found the rock of ages—when he begged Jesus for guidance in 1979, taking us all for a ride on his Slow Train Coming. Bless you, Mark Knopfler, for stepping in to smooth out the edges of Dylan’s “Jew for Jesus” era with your magical guitar work, because sanctimony sure sounds better with a Dire Straits polish.

The train may have slowed, but it didn’t stop there. Dylan stayed on the Jesus express for a while, but his ticket to big sales didn’t return until he decided to ditch the Savior altogether and go full Infidel in 1983. Who knew abandoning divine inspiration could be so profitable? If nothing else, Dylan proved he’s the ultimate shape-shifter.

As a final word of caution, I strongly advise against taking the “Shot of Love-1981” under any circumstances—even if it comes with the promise of a Walmart gift card or a free burger and fries. This concoction is dangerously potent, and once you’re exposed, the chances of being “Saved-1980” are slim. And let’s face it, if “Saved-1980” is the supposed remedy, would you even want to continue? Speaking from personal experience, I fell for the hype. The music press assured me Dylan was a trusted source, and I gave in to the pressure. To this day, I’m haunted by the aftermath of that decision. Please, for the love of Jesus, don’t make the same mistake!

MORE TO COME