DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ADJUST YOUR STEREO
In Paul Morrissey's 3-D version of Frankenstein there's a §teminal scene in which the doctor, after screwing a corpse while fondling its entrails, turns to his assistant, Otto, and offers some sage wisdom that goes something like: 'In order to know life, one must first fuck death'.' The Cramps'' greatest artistic achievement is in applying a similar philosophical approach to rock 'n' roll's roots.
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DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ADJUST YOUR STEREO
THE CRAMPS Psychedelic Jangle (IRS.)
by Jim Farber In Paul Morrissey's 3-D version of Frankenstein there's a §teminal scene in which the doctor, after screwing a corpse while fondling its entrails, turns to his assistant, Otto, and offers some sage wisdom that goes something like: 'In order to know life, one must first fuck death'.' The Cramps'' greatest artistic achievement is in applying a similar philosophical approach to rock 'n' roll's roots. By attacking rockabilly, surfrock, psychedelia and more with their warped, wholly unique voodoo antics, the band have literally raped the rotting corpse of rock 'n' roll past. But the important thing is, they've done it all With love in their hearts—defecating on history with an inquisitive glee and malice towards none.
This second slab of greenfuzz finds the band still barking up the right tree. It's somewhat heavier on 60's rather than 50's influences, and they lean towards Chinese water torture beats, which is all the better as far as I'm conberned. I particularly love when the drums sound like they were tracked at 23 rpm and the guitars seem encased in concrete shoes. The band may have lost their important physical member, Bryan Gregory (if you remember, he's the one who looks like weasels ripped his flesh). But new guitarist Congo Powers (who's almost cute!) clomps along with old stalwart Poison Ivy just fine. Like last time, the post-articulate guitars seem like they were recorded' on a Korvette's tape machine from 20 feet away and the drums sound like one of Romero's zombies tapping the top of your speakers. I find the material even 'catchier' this time out (in the same way I sometimes find Lydia Lunch's vocals 'pretty').
'The Crusher' is a great dance drone, even if it does sound a bit like dirtied-up Warren Zevon. (I swear to .! g-d, when I first heard it, I though it was from Zevon's dead and buried Kim Fowley-produced first album). Lyric-wise, the standout line of the whole album is: 'Don't eat stuff off. the sidewalk/No matter how good it looks.'
As) solid as the Cramps' yucks may be, they are not a band of simple jokesters. They may be more of a snickering flip through a horror film fanzine than an actual guided tour of The Last House On The Left, but they're no novelty act. Their attitude is too realistically charming and their music too credibly repulsive to end up Ss just a diversionary curio (like the B-52's). Perhaps the most direct proof of the band's ultimate relatability is 'Primitive,' which goes beyond the titters and becomes a perversely inspiring proclamation of purpose and self-confidence. 'I'm proud of my ljfe,' Lux Interior sings, and along with the other lyrics here, he presents the Cramps as an enviable, privileged form of existence. Chances are if you play this record enough, after your saliva turns blue and your nails fall out, you'll begin to agree with him.
