In the spring of 1976, The Cramps began to fester in a NYC apartment. Without fresh air or natural light, the group developed its uniquely mutant strain of rock'n'roll aided only by the sickly, blue rays of late night TV.
While the jackhammer rhythms of punk were proliferating in NYC, The Cramps dove into the deepest recesses of the rock'n'roll psyche for the most primal of all rhythmic impulses -- Rockabilly -- the sound of southern culture falling apart in a blaze of shudders and hiccups.
As late night sci-fi reruns coloured the room, The Cramps also picked and chose amongst the psychotic debris of previous rock eras -- instrumental rock, surf, psychedelia, and sixties punk.
And then they added the junkiest element of all -- themselves. Nick Knox, stoic drummer with the history of the big beat written in his left hand. Ivy Rorschach, voodoo guitarist with the rhythm method down as pat as her blonde beauty. Bryan Gregory, flipping cigs and fractured with Vincent Price and decent folks ask, "What hath God wrought?"
The Cramps don't pummel and you won't pogo. They ooze, you'll throb.