Heccubus.Blog

It’s difficult for me to accurately recount the immense influence that Erick “Lux Interior” Purkhiser, vocalist for the Cramps, has had on my life. At the age of 14, I was given a copy of the Epitaph Records compilation Punk-O-Rama III. The twelfth track on that otherwise bland compilation changed my life. The Cramps’ manic, surf-rock-on-speed “Haulass Hyena” was like nothing I’d ever heard before. It was insane, put simply. Vocals were permeated by the helium-pitched laughter of what I can only imagine was the most ridiculous, Ed “Big Daddy” Roth-inspired cartoon hyena of all time. The guitars were like Dick Dale or the Ventures jamming with the Ramones. The drums were a primitive, stomping mess. There was no bass. I had no idea what to make of it, but I loved it all the same. Within a matter of weeks, I had stumbled upon their IRS Records compilation Bad Music For Bad People. The album’s vibrant yellow cover, complete with its iconic, grinning ghoul with sky-high hair and a tattered jacket (collar up, of course) was, again, unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was so garish, obnoxious and just flat-out campy that I instantly knew I would love this band, regardless of the fact that I’d yet to hear a single song of theirs, save for “Haulass.”
I got the CD home, popped it in, and was amazed at what I was hearing. The music was simple, primitive, and full of all sorts of sexual allusions and horror movie imagery that, at the age of 12, I didn’t quite understand. But as of the exact second that “Garbage Man” came to its grinding, screeching halt, I was a Cramps fan for life. I began to spot little nods in their direction throughout pop culture too (for example: seeing a character wearing a T-shirt with that horrible smiling nightmare plastered across it in “Wayne’s World”), and it dawned on me: “This band is kind of a big deal.”
I discovered psychobilly sometime around 2003, and was thrilled to learn that my beloved Cramps had basically helped create the genre (keep in mind, my formative Cramps years were well before the advent of web 2.0; I couldn’t just go online and learn everything I wanted to know about them yet). The term was borrowed from a Johnny Cash song, and used on gig posters for the Cramps as a sort of carnie-esque shout to passers-by. It worked, apparently, as the fusion of rockabilly and punk rock would eventually be dubbed, simply, psychobilly. This discovery brought me even further into the Cramps’ fold, as I found myself scouring every medium possible trying to track down any release that I could by them. I went from being a fan to being flat-out obsessed. Posters lined my walls, CDs and records piled on my shelves… Hell, I even named my cat after Interior: Lux Inferior (because no one could ever be as great as the man himself). I began dressing like them, became enraptured with rockabilly, surf rock and campy old B-grade horror movies. Watching videos of Lux onstage made me finally come out of my shell. It’s no exaggeration when I say that the Cramps changed my life. Years have passed, and my tastes have changed, but my obsession with them never subsided. Last year I acquired a copy of the band biography “The Cramps: A Short History Of Rock N Roll Psychosis” by Dick Porter, and reading it was like reading into the hidden past of a good friend. I learned things about them, their place in American rock history, and Lux and Poison Ivy’s long-running, and deep connection. I’ve never read a book about a band before that completely changed the way I thought about them. Porter’s short biography made me love them even more, and had me fully convinced that a documentary about their long career is something that simply has to be made.
But I’m rambling. Yesterday, while at work, I received a phone call. A friend had spotted a black cat dead at the side of the road who bore a striking resemblance to my Lux Inferior. She called me stating that she had a strange feeling after seeing it, and wanted me to call her back. Since I was at work, this wasn’t really an option, but a few hours later I received a text message. It held four words that I had hoped I’d never have to read:

Lux Interior is dead.

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I’ve been upset over the deaths of heroes before. Joey Ramone, Johnny Cash, Joe Strummer… Theirs, and plenty of others’ deaths have affected me deeply, causing me to break down in tears in a few instances. Interior’s passing, though, has me even lost for a proper reaction. I don’t know how to feel. I always joked that the secret to eternal life is buried somewhere in Lux Interior’s DNA. Even at 62, he barely looked any different than he did 20 years prior. He and Ivy, despite a reckless lifestyle and onstage antics that illustrated a complete abandon for his personal wellbeing, were the picture of health and the very definition of what it means to age gracefully. Christ, Bryan Gregory, their original rhythm guitarist looked worse than either of them did in their 50s when he died at 46. It’s somewhat earth-shattering to realize that someone who you can’t help but think will never die just….left.
I never got a chance to see the Cramps live, and that is something that I will always deeply regret. It was a lifelong dream of mine to meet Lux Interior. I always wanted to tell him how much his music meant to me, and about the influence that he’s had on my life. I learned from Interior, which is more than I can say about most of my other favourite musicians. He was a trailblazer, a maverick, and a brilliant performer, and I had nothing but the utmost respect for him. When he disliked the handling of his band’s back catalogue, he bought it back and re-released it all himself. He never caved in to criticism, never backed down from his own vision of what the Cramps were, and how they were supposed to sound.

Lux: Your vision and your influence is nearly incomparable. You will always be missed, but never forgotten. I’m still waiting for my chance to meet you, it’s just a shame that that’s now so far away.

Ivy: My deepest condolences, and sincerest respects to you and yours. This sucks for me, and the legions of Cramps fans the world over, but I can’t even begin to imagine how horrible this must be for you.

If you’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing the Cramps, by all means check out my recommendations below:

• Gravest Hits (1979)
• Songs the Lord Taught Us (1980)
• Psychedelic Jungle (1981)
• Bad Music for Bad People (1984)
• Big Beat From Badsville (1997)