A Bad Excuse to Do the Bump : Publishing: A bash celebrating <i> really </i> appalling rock ‘n’ roll records is the big hit among this year’s elaborate American Booksellers events.

NEW YORK —  The worst is clearly the best at this year’s American Booksellers convention, at least as far as parties are concerned.

Hands down, a bash at the Hard Rock Cafe for a book listing the worst rock ‘n’ roll records of all time wins the prize for this year’s most original--and obnoxious--party. After all, if Sebastian Cabot’s version of “Like a Rolling Stone” doesn’t get you dancing, what will?

We’re talking bad rock. Completely forgettable rock. Songs like “Proud Mary” by Leonard Nimoy, “Mr. Tambourine Man” by William Shatner and “Twist and Shout” by Mae West. All at maximum volume, played for more than 500 captive listeners.

“It’s the bad things that people remember most, and music places things in time for them,” says deejay Charles Michel, spinning one appalling disc after another during the Carol Publishing Group’s bacchanal Sunday night. “If you remember the worst music you ever heard, the really awful stuff, you’ve got it all, man.”

You’ve also got an intriguing party, which really counts in a week when more than 30,000 publishers, booksellers, authors and other members of the book biz have descended on the Big Apple for their annual bash. There are only a limited number of evening hours, and publishers showcasing new books traditionally compete for attention with elaborate do’s.

Last year in Las Vegas, for example, there were rival parties at the same hour honoring Donald Trump and the Dalai Lama. This year, the celebrity quotient has been toned down a bit, but the parties are no less lavish. The frenetic book convention, which is held in alternate years on the East and West coasts, began last Friday and ends today.

On Friday night, the Putnam Publishing Group honored many of its star writers, including Amy Tan, George Burns and Tom Clancy, with a huge buffet dinner at the posh Four Seasons restaurant. As television crews interviewed the high-priced writers, more than 2,000 people gobbled up duck and wild rice, filet mignon, curried beef, lamb and veal, shrimp, cheese, pate, sushi, smoked fish, caviar salads and 10 kinds of chocolate desserts.

Some of the parties are more discreet, allowing authors and guests to speak with, rather than shout at, each other. On Saturday, a small gathering at the East Side townhouse of Arthur Seelbinder and Kathleen Hammer nibbled Chinese food and welcomed luminaries such as John Sayles, Calvin Trillin, Roger Kahn, Michael Dorris, Louise Erdrich and rock critic Dave Marsh.

Large or small, most of the book parties are dominated by industry veterans and are serious to the point of being stuffy. Typically, there is chitchat about upcoming books and hand-wringing over trends in a business lately chilled by the recession.

Given the economic slowdown, there is a dearth of hard news at this year’s meetings. That’s why the party thrown by publisher Steven Schragis for “The Worst Rock and Roll Records of All Time” seems like a breath of fresh--or foul--air, depending on your perspective.

“This one tonight has a definite edge,” says literary agent Steven Siegel, wandering through the packed cafe. “Where else in the world would you hear songs like these?”

As they greet visitors in the restaurant, authors Jimmy Gutterman and Owen O’Donnell concede that their musical choices--each accompanied by an essay--are highly subjective and in some cases may provoke fistfights. “Hey, guys, I like ‘MacArthur Park,’ ” says one unhappy fan, putting down a plate of hamburgers and chicken fajitas to accost the authors.

By and large, however, the crowd seems to agree with the authors’ Hall of Shame. There is hearty applause when “My Ding-a-Ling” by Chuck Berry cops the prize for all-time worst song. Jim O’Connell, who came down from Maine for the book convention, picks up a glossy handout listing the musical program and nods his head as he reads the selections.

“Yup, this one stinks, and so does this one,” he says. “This one really stinks. Donovan is terrible, and they should have shot Cat Stevens long ago.”

At the back of the room, where the volume isn’t so loud, a woman from Bayonne, N.J., sits quietly, hands folded. She’s wearing a pink dress, pearls and sensible shoes. Ruth O’Donnell, the mother of one of the authors, says she’s having a perfectly wonderful time.

Do any of the songs sound familiar? Oh, yes, she says. Little Owen always used to play these records in his room. But she could never understand his taste in music.

“We always used to tell him, ‘Down, down! For God’s sake, turn it down!’ ” she recalls, tilting her head to hear the questions better. “But if this is what he wants to do, write a book, let him write a book. I’m his mother. It’s fine.”

Out on the dance floor, couples do the bump to “Eve of Destruction” by Barry McGuire. In a few minutes, they’ll sing along with “You Light up My Life,” by Debby Boone. Pandemonium breaks out when the deejay plays “In the Year 2525” by Zager and Evans.

“God, these are just awful,” says literary agent Sharon Cummings, swaying to the beat. “But the great thing is, I don’t have to read this book, because I can hear it. Maybe this is the start of something new. You know, the first book party for the MTV generation.”