The Cramps

Surf punk pariahs ooze into the Valley

You got good taste: The Cramps stay sick.
You got good taste: The Cramps stay sick.

Like the black-blooded, flesh-rotted, brain-slurping demons of the kitschy B-movies they adore, you simply can't stop the Cramps. Nor should you want to. Thirty years into their deliciously decadent career, latex-clad howler Lux Interior and six-string-slinging supervixen Poison Ivy Rorschach (and whatever rhythm section they're employing this week) are just as trashy, creepy, deviant and fun as ever. Witnessing a Cramps show is like stumbling upon a secret pagan shindig in the woods behind the trailer park, where sketchy carnival freaks, dope-addled Elvis impersonators, slimy swamp creatures, swingin' Russ Meyer sexpots and maybe-malevolent Martians gyrate wildly to stompin' horrorbilly garage-rock in front of a blazing bonfire. Now that's a party!

 
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