Ah, Robert Crumb, or as he stylishly scribbles on the checks he probably won’t cash, “R Crumb.” He’s one of the titans of modern cartooning and quite the eccentric. Dan Nadel’s meticulously detailed biography offers an all-you-can-eat buffet of information about both his quirks and accomplishments.
For years, Crumb was largely recognized by the mainstream crowd for his quirky cover illustration of the Big Brother and the Holding Company/Janis Joplin album Cheap Thrills and for the oddly elongated stoned figures adorned with “Keep on Truckin’.” This was mere icing on the cake, though. He was the brilliant mind behind the underground comics movement in the Sixties and Seventies and the founder and cover artist of Zap Comix.
Crumb generously gave us a smorgasbord of LSD-infused absurdist characters, each punctuated by his unique hatching style — Mr. Natural, the Snoid, Angelfood McSpade, Fritz the Cat, and his magnum opus: the lanky, bespectacled R Crumb himself, oozing neuroses and bubbling with resentments and anxieties like a pot of overripe fruit.
He was a student of the greats like Harvey Kurtzman, the anarchic mastermind of Mad magazine, and Carl Barks, the anonymous Disney artist known as “the good duck artist.” But everyone learned from Crumb. As Nadel wittily points out, without Crumb, we might as well have no Art Spiegelman, no Chris Ware, and no Daniel Clowes — so basically, the entire cartooning ecosystem would be as barren as a college dorm on a Monday morning. Spiegelman aptly states, “Every cartoonist has to pass through Crumb. It’s like the accelerated evolution scene in *2001: A Space Odyssey*—you must encounter him to discover your own voice.”
Though Crumb became an emblem of the Sixties counterculture, he was as unique and as nostalgic as a record player stuck on “repeat.” His lifelong obsession with collecting old 78rpm shellac records and his cartooning style often pays homage to the bygone eras of the 19th and early 20th centuries. Despite his broadly anticorporate stance, it seems his lens was more often directed inward, scrutinizing the depths of his own psyche rather than the troubling world around him.
Born in 1943 in the bustling city of Philadelphia, Crumb emerged from a family drama worthy of an opera—his parents’ marriage was more operatic than a soap opera. Picture a family tree riddled with anger, violence, madness, and even incest! Sadly, his beloved older brother succumbed to mental illness and addiction, leaving Crumb to navigate this circus of neuroses that fueled his art. Lo and behold, he somehow escaped this thrilling mess, making it somewhat miraculous that he transformed his neuroses into a lucrative career.
Now, if you’re glancing at Crumb’s work and thinking, “#problematic,” you wouldn’t be wrong. Angelfood McSpade, for example, is a delightfully hyper-eroticized caricature that’s as racially sensitive as a sledgehammer. Early works included themes of rape played for laughs, just to keep things light. Crumb argues he doesn’t create stereotypes but merely reflects the grim reality around him—like a funhouse mirror, distorted yet arresting.
In his bid to self-indict, Crumb reports on his unrestrained lusts, prejudices, and all the delightful baggage that accompanies him, showing a man in perpetual conflict with his own culture. Picture him bowed over with shame while an angry woman’s criticism flows over him—blurred words of “chauvinist pig…white male privilege…pervert…” swirling above his head like an ominous cloud. His speech bubble reads: “I’ll be good, I promise!”, while his thought bubble betrays him with, “@*!!! BITCHES.”
Crumb’s sexual quirks are refreshingly bizarre—his biggest fixation seems to be women with impressively strong legs. He even liked to be given piggyback rides, not exactly waiting for an invitation. Apparently, “some men hug a little too long” while “Robert jumped right in.” Surprisingly, many women didn’t seem to mind his unconventional approaches, which is a whole different kind of commentary on the era.
Fast forward and rather than getting slapped with #metoo labels, Crumb somehow managed a harem of romantic conquests. He had a tumultuous first marriage and a son he apparently couldn’t quite prioritize, but later established a fulfilling (though not strictly monogamous) partnership with Aline Kominsky. Ironically, when the counterculture that once adored him faded, he found himself adrift, seeking solace in a new realism illustrated in works like Harvey Pekar’s American Splendor.
In a bizarre twist, after years of financial ups and downs and tax troubles, Crumb’s work eventually started attracting significant financial offers—just at the time he stopped creating. But alas, money was the last thing on his mind; he was “a child in matters of money.” He turned down $20,000 for Mr. Natural plush toys and even snubbed a Rolling Stones album cover gig because he couldn’t stand their music. Talk about having standards!
There’s an oddly monk-like integrity to this otherwise anti-monastic character. Nadel dives deep into the nerdy minutiae surrounding Crumb—a perfect blend for the seasoned fans and those inspired by the 1994 documentary, *Crumb*. You might encounter discussions about print runs, sales figures, and whether Crumb is wielding a “crow quill pen” or a “Koh-I-Noor number zero Rapidograph.” Spoiler alert: There’s far more to Crumb than just shallow comic strips.
Now living a quiet life in rural France, Crumb is emblematic of a life well-lived, if not a bit eccentric. When approached by Nadel for this frank biography, Crumb simply shrugged—something that took four months, multiple modes of transport, and quite a determination to extract. Perhaps the only thing more elusive than Crumb’s artistic output is his willingness to participate in this grand narrative of his colorful, messy life.
