Robert Crumb, or “R Crumb” as he prefers to be known—possibly to avoid the awkward social interactions that come with a name like ‘Robert’—stands tall among the giants of modern cartooning, and it’s not just because he draws some comically elongated characters. Dan Nadel’s meticulously detailed biography hands you the necessary tools to navigate the labyrinth of Crumb’s eccentricities and legacy.
For a considerable stretch, Crumb was best recognized in the straight-laced world for his iconic illustration on the cover of the Big Brother and the Holding Company/Janis Joplin album, Cheap Thrills. This was, of course, overshadowed by the classic “Keep on Truckin'” figures, which proudly adorned everything from dorm room posters to truck mudflaps—because who doesn’t want existentially bizarre phrases paired with their daily commute? However, this was merely the tip of the iceberg: Crumb was the guiding star of the underground comic scene in the Sixties and Seventies, steering the ship of anarchy as the creator and cover artist of Zap Comix.
Crumb gifted us an LSD-spiked pantheon of absurdist and philosophically dubious characters, each rendered in his unmistakable hatching style. Think Mr. Natural, the Snoid, Angelfood McSpade, Fritz the Cat, and his most poignant creation, the lanky Crumb himself, complete with milk-bottle glasses and a treasure trove of neuroses that could fill an entire therapy session—if only he weren’t too busy mocking reality instead.
Crumb owes much of his style to his artistic forebears, such as Harvey Kurtzman, the madcap genius behind Mad Magazine, and Carl Barks, who drew ducks before they were cool—or “the good duck artist,” as young Crumb dubbed him. And no modern cartoonist can escape the gravitational pull of Crumb’s influence; as Art Spiegelman, the mastermind behind Maus, puts it, “Every cartoonist has to pass through Crumb.” Encountering Crumb is akin to experiencing an accelerated evolution sequence from 2001: A Space Odyssey: you just can’t call yourself an artist without facing that cosmic awakening.
Despite his iconic status as a counterculture figure, Crumb has always been more of a lone wolf than a social butterfly. His lifelong obsession with collecting vintage 78rpm records reveals a nostalgia bordering on the quaint, while his artistic lens peers back longingly at the 19th and early 20th centuries. His political views? A smattering of anti-corporate sentiment tightly wrapped around personal turmoil—his introspection often overshadowing his social critiques. Who needs a crystal ball to see the future when self-doubt is so vividly rendered?
Born in 1943 to a lower-middle-class family in Philadelphia, Crumb’s upbringing was like a tragicomedy, rife with family drama, insanity, addiction, and social awkwardness to boot. His older brother, who shared Crumb’s artistic pursuits, didn’t escape their chaotic past, dying by suicide in 1992 after wrestling with demons of his own. Somehow, however, Crumb emerged relatively unscathed, albeit a bizarre bundle of neuroses that fueled his penchant for dark humor on paper.
If you think Crumb is just a cuddly cartoonist, think again. His work features “problematic” characters like Angelfood McSpade, who is more than a little caricaturish, raising eyebrows and questions about race and sexuality in his often bewildering narratives. He cheekily claims he’s simply a mirror reflecting society’s quirks—convenient excuse or self-aware admission? You decide. One visual from Nadel shows Crumb being lectured by an angry woman, her words fuzzed to a blur while he thinks, “Not to be trusted.” It’s almost as if he’s subconsciously anticipating a #MeToo realization while still trying to perfect his “harmless artist” schtick.
In a world that eventually deemed his sexual escapades #problematic, Crumb still managed to find notable romantic success, though his first marriage was as rocky as a Philadelphia pothole. With his later partnerships, particularly with Aline Kominsky, perhaps he finally found some comic relief—albeit a very complicated one. And in classic Crumb fashion, when the counterculture turned its back on him, he tried to escape the 1960s, tragically missing that punk had already waved goodbye sometime before. When a punk fanzine insulted his work by dubbing it “tired,” he decided to metaphorically off his beloved character Mr. Natural. And who knew imaginary characters could be so fragile?
Crumb’s work eventually fetched serious cash, coinciding suspiciously with his own artistic production dwindling. Yet, true to his character, he remained blissfully unaware of the money game; he turned down lucrative offers for toy licenses and album covers, sticking with what he believed in—which, ironically, meant a life of relatively little financial flexibility. His biographer notes that he ultimately ends up a “monk-like” figure, which is impressive, considering he wasn’t exactly living under any vows.
Now, in his ninth decade, Crumb resides in rural France, where it’s rumored he’s still creating art and avoiding the IRS. Nadel, who embarked on the arduous journey to offer him a candid portrayal, found Crumb bemused yet cooperative. “I’m not opposed to it,” Crumb shrugged, as if revealing the secrets of life was merely an afterthought. Perhaps understanding Robert Crumb is an artwork in itself—a colorful, chaotic masterpiece that refuses to fit neatly into any frame.
