Patti Smith "Horses" [1975]

It's clear that at some point sucking became a creative option for New York "musicians," but even this extremely low hurdle should have made somebody think twice before letting a talentless poetry-slam hostess front her own band. Produced by experienced turd-polisher John Cale (of the gruesomely horrible Velvet Underground), Patti Smith's three-note singing range and her band of stoned amateurs make this album a good enough reason to have knocked over the punk-rock apple cart before it got any momentum. Endless vamps that resemble Elton John in a coma serve as filler between fucked garage-band demos and uncompromisingly atrocious stabs at 70's pop. Burning the acetate and smoking it would have been more entertaining than listening to this heap of tuneless garbage. I'd guess after hearing "Horses," this is when cover-art photographer Robert Mapplethorpe got the idea to shove tennis rackets up people's asses.