All hail Steve Shelley's Smells Like label, as they continue the Lee Hazlewood reissue series with 1969's The Cowboy and the Lady. Yep, looks as if the urban hipoise have finally accepted Hazlewood's strange but mostly rewarding body of work.

Unfortunately, with the re-release of The Cowboy and the Lady, the world is also re-introduced to the paralyzing vocal monstrosities of over-the-hill actress Ann-Margret. At the time of this album's original release, both her looks and her career were seriously on the wane. Not long afterward, she began hosting some cheesy Sonny and Cher-style TV variety show, and a year later would be slapped around by Jack Nicholson in Carnal Knowledge. This collaboration with Hazlewood is a desperate attempt to latch onto what shred of artistic dignity she had left. And speaking of bodies of work, how could a goofy-lookin' middle-aged cowpoke like Hazlewood resist the temptation of working in close proximity to Ann-Margret's deteriorating but still formidable bod? Let's hope the old man got laid, if nothing else.

The Cowboy and the Lady is a much more traditional country-pop album than the elaborately-styled orchestral country of Hazlewood's 1971 solo album, Cowboy in Sweden. Much of this AM-radio cowboy schmaltz pokes along like an old, arthritic horse, breaking into a half-inspired trot-cum-gallop every once in awhile. Hazlewood sounds tired, drunk and delirious throughout, and with his famed production wizardry, you'd assume he'd have the skill to make a hound dog sound like Patsy Cline. But all the sound engineering genius in the world can't make Ann-Margret sound human, believe me. Her wounded duck- calls are a far cry from the dulcet vocal accompaniment of Nina Lizell, Hazlewood's female partner-in-song on Cowboy in Sweden.

Even though Hazlewood can't save many of these songs, he at least salvages a laugh here and there. On the dead-as-roadkill opener, "Am I That Easy to Forget?" it's tough to deny the knee-slappin' surprise of Hazlewood's priceless closing remark: "Look at her standin' there with chili all over her dress/ If I knew better, I'd give her a puppy." But on songs like "Break My Mind," Ann-Margret really lets go with that merciless air-raid- siren-from-hell voice of hers. Take cover, people!

There's plenty more glass-breaking, skin-peeling vocal histrionics from Margaret, especially on "Sweet Thing." You begin to realize that her singing voice is too painfully bad to even qualify as kitsch-- it's more like neurological terrorism: the lethal vibrations made by her evil vocal cords penetrate your spinal column, shoot up the network of nerves through the brain stem, and rattle around in your skull before the shrapnel- like sonic waves scramble your brain into yesterday's breakfast.

You may have already sampled Luna's stellar cover of Tom Rush's "No Regrets"-- a good example of masterfully-crafted pure pop. Here, it's sung exclusively by Hazlewood with, strangely, no Ann-Margret to poison the air. And, of course, "No Regrets" is easily the best song on the album. But, hey, would you let Ann-Margret butcher the greatest track on your record? Hell, no.

The best of the bonus tracks could be "Chico," about an imprisoned killer who kisses his cold cell walls, imagining he's smooching his girlfriend's lips. He begins hearing female singing in his head, but as it turns out, it's-- no! Ann-Margret! "When are you comin' home?" she screeches. This infernal voice, not surprisingly, drives Chico insane.

A novelty album like this, if nothing else, should at least exude a conspicuous sense of uninhibited fun. Yet, somehow we get a wagonload of flat, mostly uninspired cowshit. And there's a real shortage of memorable Hazlewood lines, too. Here's a thought-– hey, Mr. Smells Like Anchovies and Pepperoni, why not re-release Hazlewood's 1968 album with go-go boots babe Nancy Sinatra, Nancy and Lee? It's a great album, and Nancy can actually sing on key.

There might be 2½ good songs on The Cowboy and the Lady, at best. It really pains me to give geniuses any less than a 6.0, but in this case, one underachieving genius divided by one cracked actress-turned-tuneless cowgirl crooner equals... 5.0.

-Michael Sandlin