Doesn't seem like there's been a good liner note thread here for a while. What are your favorites that are unintentionally funny, or face-palmingly bizarre? I ran across this the other day, and have to share (with slight edits): Hoyt Axton Sings Bessie Smith. "Hoyt Axton earns his daily bread by singing out his bellyful of blues, hollars, ribaldries, and yallar tooth laughin' songs. Leg up on a straight chair, sleeves rolled above the biceps, boots on, shirt bustin' open, ad libbing, turned on. He sings like an oak, which is to say rooted down dirt and decades deep, but with laughin', lookin' up branches. He's the trombone of singers: He makes Vic Damone look like a piccolo. Beside the gutsy bone of Axton, Paul Robeson sounds like pennywhistle kid stuff. When Axton sings, he's so deep in his songs, his biceps are swoll up so big, his neck tendons so taut, his head bobbin so hard you swear his fillins're gonna bounce off the footlights. If you want a fact, Axton should have been born on a rail gang, instead of where he was, which is unimportant. He should have been in jail, lots. He should have starved more, laughed less, and been free never. But instead of all those should-have-beens, Hoyt looks like a wrinkle-free brown-haired kid Spencer Tracy. Well now this boy-man of a singer, young enough to call 1931 history, has presumed upon the reputation of one Bessie Smith, to sing here bitter, bitchy, and biting blues. So who's Bessie Smith? She is dead now almost three decades, but when she trod this earth she did it as few women, dead or now, ever did. She was a black lady with a gold tooth some say, and four well-kept stage gowns. She made 78 rpm records when you had no mikes and had to shout into the big daisy horn and a needle cut wiggles in wax and that was it. You had to shout-sing then because they never heard of an amplifier then, and Lord how Bessie could shout-sing those blues. Bessie was a big woman, because you can't be named Bessie and be a dinky skinny girl. Ever heard of a scrawny Bessie? Course not. They passed some law. Anyway, Bessie started out singing right after Ma Rainey, and cut race records for the old Columbia label and those records sent great waves of misery out of phonographs all over the world. She was Empress of the Blues, and wrung songs dry. She had a raspy, growly, downright dirty-tones voice, and she died in '37 in a cracked up auto and they laid her to rest and her blues were over. Well not quite. Her livin' blues may've gone to heaven, but her records - thin sounding grit-thick scratchy black brittle breakable rounds of immortality - they stayed here. So did her blues. They weren't polite. They weren't for kids. They didn't get much play on the family wireless. Too real. But what they were were gin-sting, 'lectric-chair, beat-up-bed-spring, jail-house, black-n-blue, tin-can, gutter-poor, dusty-road, my-man's-gone-an-five-kids-ahollerin, rent's-due, all-alone, cold-steel, sobbin-sick, an insane blooz. There's no more Bessie and can't never be none again. But Bessie's art is here. Here's Hoyt. Singing her wretched songs, the cathartic blues that made her her people's voice and a poor man's angel dream. Here's Hoyt, leather-larynxed and sleepy eyed, greatly close to the spirit and art of Bessie. And if poor men can chase away the blues with an hour of song, Bessie did, Hoyt does. -S. C."