These Classic Album Covers Punch So Hard

Kendrick Lamar, Tom Tom Club, The Roots and more

Making a list of my top 10 album covers is basically an exercise in futility—a chaotic, emotionally fraught and ultimately meaningless task that I took very seriously for no good reason. It’s the kind of question that sounds innocent enough—until you’re knee-deep in work, half-lucid from deadlines and suddenly forced to rank visual perfection like some kind of art god.

So let’s be clear: this is not a definitive list. It is a snapshot of my brain on a random day, fried from too many projects and just caffeinated enough to pretend I had clarity. These covers spoke to me at that moment. Tomorrow? I might throw half of them out. But today, I stand by them—conflicted, overanalyzing and oddly proud.

So here they are in no particular order.

Beastie Boys 

Licensed to Ill (1986)

Designed by Steve Byram and illustrated by World B. Omes, this cover has always stuck with me—a private jet crashing into a mountain, inspired by Rick Rubin’s Hammer of the Gods obsession and Led Zeppelin’s over-the-top rock star lifestyle. But it’s not just for shock value. To me, it’s part satire of ego-fueled excess and part dark tribute to the musicians who actually did go down in plane crashes. It’s hilarious in a morbid way, with little details like the tail number spelling out “Eat Me” backward and a faux Harley-Davidson logo that just screams Beastie Boys. Eminem even flipped it for Kamikaze, which tells you how iconic this thing really is. Some covers just keep punching.

Rihanna 

Anti (2016)

Designed by artist Roy Nachum, it’s haunting, weirdly regal and straight-up defiant. A photo of baby Rihanna with a gold crown covering her eyes—because of course she’s royalty, but she’s not playing your game. The whole thing is layered with braille poetry about vision, identity and perception. Which I didn’t even notice at first because I was too busy staring at the red smears like it was a crime scene-turned-art piece. It’s not pretty. It’s intentionally not pretty. Like the music, it’s unpolished and bold as hell—basically saying, “This is who I am now. Deal with it.” Honestly, it made most pop album covers feel like mood boards from a shampoo ad.

Radiohead 

OK Computer (1997)

This cover looks like what happens when your brain tries to process modern life and crashes halfway through. It’s glitchy, cold and a little too accurate. Designed by Stanley Donwood and Thom Yorke (under the alias “The White Chocolate Farm”), the cover suggests a digital fever dream—half blueprint, half corporate meltdown. The album’s all about how machines dehumanize people. The artwork leans into that hard: layers of scribbled text, sterile blues and whites and a sense of movement that feels more like spiraling. It’s the visual equivalent of trying to stay calm while your inbox fills up.

Pusha T 

Daytona (2018)

Daytona hit me like a punch and the cover? Man, it’s risky, raw and real in a way that most artists wouldn’t dare. Kanye chose a 2006 photo of Whitney Houston’s bathroom, littered with drug paraphernalia. And yeah, it’s as uncomfortable as it sounds. But that’s exactly why it works. It strips away the gloss and hits you with the ugly truth—addiction, fame, chaos—all laid bare. Using that image wasn’t just bold, it was a statement. It challenged the usual polished fantasy hip-hop so often leans on. The backlash was loud, but honestly, that kind of reaction means it struck a nerve. I believe that’s what great album art should do—confront, provoke and set the tone before you hear a single bar.

The Roots 

Things Fall Apart (1999)

Cheat code unlocked. Each cover is a piece of bleak, chaotic art that looks like it crawled out of a nightmare—and I mean that as a compliment. They pulled work from visual artist Romare Bearden, whose collage style perfectly matches the album’s fractured, cynical take on Black America, violence, poverty and survival. These covers don’t sugarcoat a thing. You’ve got distorted faces, ghostly silhouettes and scenes that feel like both a protest and funeral. It’s gallery wall meets the apocalypse. It almost feels like The Roots are daring you to try and look away like, “You want digestible? Too bad.” Each one becomes a mirror, cracked and confrontational. And together, they make you realize this album’s not just music—it’s a damn reckoning.

Nirvana 

In Utero (1993)

I know most people would go with Nevermind. The naked baby chasing capitalism underwater is iconic and all, but I had to be that guy and pick In Utero. Not just to be different (OK, a little), but because this cover feels like the music. It’s raw, jarring and slightly uncomfortable in the best way. You’ve got that anatomical angel figure—half medical textbook, half thrift store nightmare—standing in front of a wallpaper of ambiguous decay. It’s both sacred and grotesque, which is basically Nirvana in visual form. The cover doesn’t beg for your attention like Nevermind. It just stares at you like, “You sure you’re ready for this?”

Tom Tom Club 

Tom Tom Club (1981)

This cover looks like someone gave a crayon box to a genius on mushrooms, and I mean that as a compliment. Designed by James Rizzi, it’s a wild, colorful explosion of cartoon chaos that somehow makes perfect sense once you hear the music. Funky, playful and a little absurd, it fits the sound perfectly. You’ve got tropical vibes, dancing figures, talking heads (wink) and this sense that the whole thing might break into a conga line at any moment. It doesn’t try to be cool—it is cool, because it’s weird, fun and totally unbothered by convention. Honestly, it looks like joy scribbled itself across the page.

Tool 

Ænima (1996)

Ænima was the first time I ever saw a lenticular cover on an album, and it blew my warped little mind. I remember flipping the CD back and forth, watching the image shift like dark magic. The cover felt less like an album and more like a cursed object. The trippy, morphing visuals were designed by guitarist Adam Jones and artist Cam de Leon, and they matched Tool’s vibe: cerebral, unsettling and a little smug. The cover walks that line between sacred geometry and acid trip doodle. Which, honestly, is the only correct aesthetic for music this dense and angry. It didn’t feel like a product—it felt like a portal. And yeah, after that, jewel cases just seemed kind of … basic.

Kendrick Lamar 

Not Like Us (2024)

Yeah, picking Kendrick’s Not Like Us cover is the most played-out take of the season, but when the diss is this surgical, you kind of have to bow to it. The cover? A Google Maps-style aerial shot of Drake’s Toronto mansion—aka “The Embassy”—but with a twist. Red markers dot the roof like it’s a sex offender registry heatmap. It’s not subtle. It’s not poetic. It’s pure, calculated character assassination. Kendrick didn’t just go at Drake on bars—he took it to the map, making the house itself a symbol of everything he’s calling out. It’s easily the most savage, public takedown we’ve ever seen, wrapped in deadpan digital clarity. This isn’t album art, it’s a mugshot.

The Notorious B.I.G. 

Ready to Die (1994)

This is one of those covers that says everything with almost nothing. A stark white background, a baby with an afro and that title sitting heavy like a warning label. It’s clean, iconic and low-key devastating. The baby represents Biggie’s origin—innocence and potential—set against a title that basically predicts the ending before the first track even plays. It’s bold without flexing, and somehow more haunting because of how stripped down it is. You look at it and instantly get the tension: life and death, birth and fate, Brooklyn and the world. It’s not trying to be poetic—it is poetry.