Meet Robert Crumb: The Oddball King of Cartooning
Robert Crumb, or as he prefers, “R Crumb” (because why not add an air of mystery?), stands tall in the cartooning world like a bizarre statue in a twisted art exhibit. Dan Nadel’s meticulously crafted biography serves up everything you might want to know about this singular individual—his genius and eccentricity—on a silver platter garnished with a side of sarcasm.
For years, Crumb was the go-to name for anyone seeking to impress their friends with obscure trivia about counterculture. His artwork graced the iconic cover of the Janis Joplin album Cheap Thrills, which might be the only reason some people know he exists. Then there’s the memorable, elongated figures of “Keep on Truckin’” fame, plastered on everything from dorm room walls to the mudflaps of 18-wheelers. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg; Crumb was actually a guiding star of underground comics during the Sixties and Seventies, and the mastermind behind the infamous Zap Comix.
Crumb unleashed a whole universe of LSD-induced characters: lustful, absurdist, and philosophically scabrous creations, all rendered with his unmistakable hatching style. You have Mr. Natural, the Snoid, Angelfood McSpade, and let’s not forget Fritz the Cat. But his most remarkable—and troubling—creation may just be R Crumb himself: a gangly figure in oversized glasses, brimming with the kind of anxieties that make you question your life choices.
This enigmatic artist learned his craft from the likes of Harvey Kurtzman and Carl Barks, who drew Donald Duck strips behind the anonymity of a pseudonym. But as Nadel suggests, if you take away Crumb, you might as well take away all the heavyweights that followed, like Art Spiegelman and Chris Ware. Spiegelman himself notes, “Every cartoonist has to pass through Crumb,” akin to going through a rite of passage—you don’t just stroll in; you endure it.
Though Crumb often claimed the Sixties counterculture, he couldn’t help but look backwards, like someone eternally mesmerized by old 78rpm records. His work harkens back to the Victorian era, leaving a trail of anticorporate sentiments while he obsessively dissected his own psyche. Avoiding self-scrutiny is the name of the game; we all know that, after all.
Born in 1943, Crumb emerged from the chaos of a dysfunctional family in Philadelphia. His childhood was a thrilling mix of marital disputes and familial madness, and the mental toll it took on him is almost poetic—in a darkly humorous way. He navigated through emotional mazes, unlike his brother, who was soft-spoken but ultimately fell prey to the demons they both tried to escape. That Crumb made it out into the realm of creativity is nothing short of miraculous, though it surely fueled his neuroses that became the coal in the furnace of his cartooning career.
Let’s address the elephant in the room: Crumb is a tad #problematic. Characters like Angelfood McSpade are hyper-sexualized caricatures that tread the murky waters of race and gender politics. Naked people enjoying inappropriate behavior proliferate in his comics—“Jail Bait of the Month” anyone? The defense he offers? “Hey, I just reflect society, I didn’t invent it.” Ah, the classic “socks and sandals” defense—we see you, Crumb.
Interestingly, Crumb’s self-indictments spill over in his panels, revealing his lusts and biases while simultaneously critiquing society. In one gem, he portrays himself cringing under an avalanche of feminist critique, eyes downcast, promising to “be good,” while the inner monologue is a colorful mix of expletives. Subtle? No. Authentic? Absolutely.
His sexual escapades are whimsically absurd, to say the least. One of his big laments involves an attraction to women with strong legs, because who wouldn’t want a lumberjack for a lover? As for behavior, he wasn’t above jumping on someone’s back to get a piggyback ride—whether or not they wanted to participate. Ah, the innocence of being a quirky male artist who just “loved” his own style.
Luck was somehow on his side as Crumb sidestepped the #MeToo allegations, managing to escape jail time and enjoy a colorful romantic life—all while neglecting a child or two along the way. But hey, who could resist a complicated narrative that includes Aline Kominsky? Their partnership may have been unconventional, but it was charming in an oddly dysfunctional way.
In the late Seventies, the landscape shifted, and Crumb faced a mini-crisis. He found himself in a new, realistic mode after the Sixties–the wilderness years when his beloved counterculture grew dim. He tried to reinvent himself, grabbing onto the punk ethos, but was differently wounded when a fanzine mocked him as an “over-drawn cartoon has-been.” Just to show them, he killed off Mr. Natural, announcing, “Nobody likes me anymore… I’m washed up.” A true Hollywood moment, if we’ve ever seen one.
Fast forward to today, where Crumb’s work is selling for big bucks just as he’s winding down his creative escapades. “But money?” he scoffs, “I’m just a child when it comes to that!” Despite being close to penniless at times, the man has turned down substantial offers, choosing instead to live modestly—if you count a rural life in France as modest. Wouldn’t we all want to play hard to get with our financial success?
Nadel’s book leaves no crumb unturned, or rather, it carefully places all scattered bits of Crumb together for observers to dissect. The serious comic historian plunges into details that most casual readers might find riveting or tedious—like his choice of ink pens. Expect to find a delightful mix of nerdiness and life-affirming insights. By the end of this comprehensive memoir, we can truly appreciate the misfit wonder that is Robert Crumb.
Now, as a widower in his ninth decade, Crumb inhabits a peaceful corner of France. When Nadel finally coaxed him for the interview, it was a journey that took several months and involved a small expedition of sorts. Crumb’s only response? “I’m not opposed to it.” Truly, the master of enigmatic responses remains an enigma.
