Tilt the sleeve toward the light and the black gives up its secret: a pentagram, glossy and embossed, surfacing from a matte field only when the cover is held at roughly a forty-five-degree angle to the light. Hold it flat and it vanishes. Barry Levine built one of metal's most argued-over images around a symbol that refuses to sit still, a five-pointed star that appears and disappears at the viewer's whim.

The rest of the front gives almost nothing away. Just the Mötley Crüe logo above and the title below, both in red, floating over darkness. No band, no faces, no scene. The pentagram is the whole event, and it was chosen on purpose, a piece of theater that would soon be dragged onto national television and out of children's bedrooms by furious parents.

What the eye catches first is only the beginning. This symbol had a past before it reached the sleeve, a fight over the album's very name, and an afterlife in which it was quietly stripped away and swapped for four scowling faces.