Ladies and Gentlemen, I Present to you the Face of Pure Evil

Take a good look at the man pictured to the left.  Don't let his flaxen locks distract you.  Instead, focus your attention on the beady dots of coal he calls his eyes.  But don't let your gaze linger too long, because verily I tell you that this is the face of all that is evil.  The name that this harbinger of the apocalypse goes by is (I kid you not) Mutt Lange, and it has come to my attention that he intends to destroy music as we know it.

The first sign that this man is not to be trusted is his name.  Mutt?  Really?  With a name like that you'd expect he'd be the dimwitted bouncer in a roadhouse saloon or a cartoon spokesman for bacon flavored dog treats (if the Beggin' Strips people steal my idea I'm suing them for everything they have).  The worst part of it is that he was born with a perfectly wonderful first name, Robert.  Anyone who decides that Mutt would be a better show business name than Robert should never be allowed near a recording studio.  And yet, somehow this disgusting wretch of a man has become one of the most successful record producers in all of popular music.

But Mutt didn't start destroying music right out of the gates.  No, early on in his career he produced some sporadically palatable albums by bands like the Cars and AC/DC (including their landmark album Back in Black).  The importance of the Cars' music speaks for itself.  As for AC/DC, somebody had to write rock and roll songs about balls.  And nobody has done it better than Angus Young and company.

But sometime in the early eighties something happened to Mutt.  Perhaps somebody ran over a beloved pet, or maybe a demon laid eggs in his brain.  Whatever it was, it dashed any hopes that Mutt might actually bring some good into the world.  From that point forward, Mutt's "talents" were put to use recording some of the worst abominations in music.

To give you just a taste of the damage that this man has done to the world of music, here is an incomplete list of some of his most ignoble accomplishments:

Mutt has produced an album by Foreigner, two albums by Bryan Adams, one by Nickelback (one of this blog's favorites), one by Michael Bolton, and no less than four albums by everyone's favorite seven-armed, transvestite, cocaine monster lovingly referred to as Def Leppard.  But Mutt isn't content to simply ruin rock and pop, he also has to pick on country as well.  He produced four albums by Shania Twain, who incidentally was his wife up until 2008 (if there's a more textbook definition of a match made in hell then I'm not aware of it).  Come on Mutt, hasn't country suffered enough?  Garth Brooks already dug its grave, did you really have to piss on it too?

And these are just the albums he's produced.  He's also had his filthy hands involved in the production of individual songs by such hemmorrhage-inducing artists as Huey Lewis and the News, Celine Dion, the Backstreet Boys, Billy Ray Cyrus, Britney Spears and the Jonas Brothers.  The mediocrity makes my head spin.

His most recent assault on good taste is a song he helped produce on the new Lady Gaga record called "You and I" (there's an umlaut in there, but God help me I can't bring myself to type it).  The song plods along like a morbidly obese man on his way to the buffet line.  It's also a bizarre ode to the state of Nebraska, which ought to be your first warning sign.  I don't count myself among Ms. Germanotta's legions of adoring fans, but even I have to say that Lady Gaga could do much better than Mutt.

Ok, I'm sorry...I've been holding this back throughout writing this, but I just can't do it anymore.  I was trying to avoid doing any awful dog puns on the name "Mutt," but I have to open the floodgates.  Beware, I'm letting all of them out at once...YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Mutt, it's an understatement to say that you've been a bad dog.  Each new album you make is like a new "accident" left on the rug, and it's time someone start rubbing your nose in it.  You're in the doghouse Mutt, and I'd prefer it if you'd stay in there forever.  Or better yet, maybe it's time we give you the Old Yeller treatment and take you out behind the shed and put you out of your misery.  You've been rubbing your ass on the carpet of popular music for too long Mutt.  It's readily apparent that old dogs produce shitty albums, so it's time we sent you packing with your tail between your legs.

Whew...that felt good.