The Cramps
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…