I'm in my boss' office. He's on the phone with his son. "You're going to band practice? Be home by eight..." (I'm thinking, if he is home by eight, he has no career in rock n' roll.) I ask my boss, "What kind of music does he play?" "Just 'klang, klang klang!!!' " he says, making wild motions with his arms that looked like a combination of a good guitar thrashing, and what appeared to be Keith Moon destroying a drum kit. (Hmmm, I think, maybe his son is cut out for it.) I walk out of his office and into a coworker. He says "the singer of the Cramps died" Within about a half second, I was dipped in shit.
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Lux Interior wasn't just the singer of the Cramps, nor was squeeze Ivy just the guitarist. Equal parts archeoligists and interpreters, they did our dirty work. Digging through dusty records in thrift stores and watching late night creep shows; distilling everything through a four piece filter and into young impressionable faces. And the death of Lux, most assuredly, means the end of the Cramps.
Huge loss. They were everything that the fat cats hate: Elvis, from the waist down. They reminded us that there was a part of rock n' roll that could, and should, discourage parental affinity. And they taught us. They taught us about about the true common vein in all savage rock n' roll, rockabilly or garage record. Not just the sound, or the song, but that certain thing; the old fart repellent. They taught us Ricky Nelson could be cool, Johnny Burnette could be really wild, Little Willie John could be creepy, and that "Surfin' Bird" was damn close to rock n' roll Dada.
Huge loss. They were everything that the fat cats hate: Elvis, from the waist down. They reminded us that there was a part of rock n' roll that could, and should, discourage parental affinity. And they taught us. They taught us about about the true common vein in all savage rock n' roll, rockabilly or garage record. Not just the sound, or the song, but that certain thing; the old fart repellent. They taught us Ricky Nelson could be cool, Johnny Burnette could be really wild, Little Willie John could be creepy, and that "Surfin' Bird" was damn close to rock n' roll Dada.
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They were B-culture geeks; trash historians cum sex machines. Creedence with balls. They were the "klang, klang, klang!" that my boss heard. They were the unsavory that we so savor. Long live the Cramps. Long live rock n' roll.
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