The Worst of Ira Lipson (It Ain’t Over)

Five years ago Ira Lipson rang me up with a grin in his voice.
“I’m finally doing it,” he said. “All my goofy songs in one place. No label, no critic — just me, Chazz, and Shannon in a bedroom studio pretending we’re famous.”

Translation: a full-on vanity album with a secret weapon, an eighty-second earworm called “I Just Wanna Date Kate Smith.” That track was the spark-plug, the reason the record existed. Everything else was the frame; “Kate Smith” was the painting.

I’d admired Ira long before we ever met. He was a few years older, the programming wizard who created KZEW-FM The Zoo in Dallas. His memos at the station were so legendary they got photocopied and passed among us production geeks in small-market studios like contraband scripture. I was still cutting endless promos and spots, hoping to work my way back to Dallas. When he asked me to handle the art, saying yes was easy.

The brief was gloriously vague: Make it look like the best worst album you’ve ever seen. Perfect.

A Poster-Girl Named Kate

Two nights in, I unearthed a 1940-something painting of Kate Smith — cheeks rosy, mouth mid-anthem, Technicolor optimism cranked to eleven. The instant I saw her I knew the cover had arrived fully formed: Kate up front, gritty title type stamped across the top — The Worst of Ira Lipson & The Volunteers (It Ain’t Over) — with a burned-edge track list taped behind her.

Ira howled when he saw the mock-up.
“Kate Smith? That’s terrible. I love it.”

A Bedroom Turned Studio

Recording took place in Chazz Coursey’s spare bedroom, long since stripped of its bed and converted into a tight, honest-to-goodness studio. Even the closet served as a vocal booth, foam on the walls and a single mic stand wedged between winter coats. The lineup was lean but lethal:

• Chazz Coursey — guitar, percussion, “Wurlitzer” (my affectionate nickname for his electronic keyboard), producer, mix wrangler
• David Shannon — keyboards and bass, keeper of inside jokes
• Ira Lipson — rhythm guitar, lead vocal, resident ringleader

Space was so tight you risked detuning a guitar by breathing. Some shots were posed: three friends shoulder-to-shoulder, instruments at parade rest. Others caught the chaos: Shannon bent over a bass run, Chazz stone-faced at the console, Ira mid-take with his mouth agape in full Lipson glory. I kept a 24 mm on the camera so the walls wouldn’t crop the energy.

DIY Singe for the Credits

I needed a scorched-edge backdrop for the liner notes. Stock photos looked like clip art, so I grabbed real parchment, held it over the kitchen sink, and flicked a lighter along the edges. The sheet flashed faster than I expected — poof — forcing me to smother it with a dish towel while my heart raced. The result? Perfect texture, authentic burn marks, and a kitchen that smelled like campfire.

Design by Anarchy

The final layout matched the session’s off-kilter mood: Kate belting her silent high C, song titles revealed behind the burned parchment, session photos scattered like Polaroids across a bright-purple disc. Nothing precious — everything intentional. The title font? Gritty and hand-worn, as if stamped with a rubber block and a wink.

Why It Never Felt Like Work

Most creative gigs arrive with egos and brand police. Here, everyone trusted the process. We aimed for quality, sure, but nobody chased perfection. We chased fun — and the fun made it good. That attitude seeped into every layer, from the singed paper to the mouth-agape promo shot.

Two weeks later the CDs landed, shrink-wrapped, purple labels gleaming, Kate still singing her heart out. Ira cracked open a carton and handed me a copy. Unsigned, but if he’d thought to add a Sharpie he’d have written:

“To Lawrence — thanks for making us worse in the best possible way.”

It sits on my shelf between Miles and Mingus, humming its own off-key authority and reminding me that sometimes a shared laugh is the surest path to a finished project.

Where in your life has fun been the secret ingredient to good?

— Lawrence

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