Robert Crumb, or “R Crumb” as he whimsically scrawls, stands as a monumental figure in modern cartooning, oddly enough for someone who seems to revel in cultivating his own eccentricities. Dan Nadel’s meticulously crafted biography is like a treasure map, leading us through the bizarre landscape of Crumb’s life and work.
For a significant chunk of his career, Crumb was merely known in mainstream circles for his iconic cover illustration of the Big Brother and the Holding Company/Janis Joplin album Cheap Thrills. You might have spotted his elongated stoners and “Keep on Truckin’” slogan plastered on every other dorm-room wall and truck mudflap. But that’s hardly the whole story; he was the visionary behind underground comics during the Sixties and Seventies, guiding light of the infamous Zap Comix.
The man created a psychedelic pantheon of outlandish characters that ooze with lust, absurdity, and a generous helping of philosophical muck. Thanks to his distinctive hatching, we got to meet Mr. Natural, the Snoid, Fritz the Cat, and of course, R Crumb himself, a lanky, bespectacled creature overflowing with grievances and neuroses. Can you say “poster child for your therapy sessions”?
Crumb’s inspirations were like a who’s who of comic royalty—Harvey Kurtzman, the anarchic genius behind Mad magazine, and the secretive Carl Barks, aka “the good duck artist.” And Nadel makes it crystal clear: without Crumb, the likes of Art Spiegelman, Chris Ware, and Daniel Clowes may never have stumbled upon their artistic callings. As Spiegelman puts it: “Every cartoonist has to pass through Crumb.” It’s like a rite of passage, only instead of a baptism, you get an existential crisis.
Despite being an emblem of the Sixties counterculture, Crumb often gazed longingly into the past. When he wasn’t busy being a counterculture icon, he was hoarding old 78rpm records, like a raccoon with a vinyl addiction. His comics pull you into the gritty nuance of 19th and early 20th-century life, all while being a mirror reflecting his own psychological puzzle. His political musings lean anticorporate but are always overshadowed by a relentless self-examination.
Born in 1943, Crumb emerged from a Philadelphia family straight out of an operatic tragedy filled with anger, addiction, and, *surprise*, incest. Oh, the dysfunction! Yet, amidst this melodrama, Crumb found his calling—like a phoenix rising from a dumpster fire. His beloved brother, who was his comic partner in crime, tragically succumbed to mental health struggles and addiction, a haunting shadow over Crumb’s work. It’s no wonder he emerges as a veritable case study in neuroses, fueling his artistic concoction.
Let’s not mince words: Crumb is what today’s youth would call #problematic. His character Angelfood McSpade is a gloriously overdone “darky” caricature, and his early comics often used rape as a punchline. Ah, comedy—so risky! In his defense, Crumb insists he doesn’t create these stereotypes; he merely holds up a grotesque mirror to society. Now that’s a reflection most of us should consider turning away from.
As Crumb’s fame surged, so did his questionable encounters with women. Somehow dodging the wrath of #MeToo, he achieved a level of sexual success few could imagine. His first marriage unraveling was almost as predictable as his fetishes for women with strong legs—those “basketball-shaped” derrières that seemed to speak to him. Aline Kominsky, his second wife, endured a mostly happy but decidedly unexclusive partnership. Because who needs monogamy when you’ve got neuroses to spare?
In the mid-Seventies, the tides changed. Crumb found himself creatively blocked, wrestling with a counterculture that had turned its back on him. After an existential panic triggered by punk culture branding him as a “washed-up cartoonist,” he retaliated by killing off Mr. Natural. Talk about dramatic irony! Now, reflecting on his life in rural France, Crumb comes off as an old sage with a peculiar sense of integrity, turning down lucrative offers like they were stale bread. $20,000 for crafty plush toys? No thanks—he’d rather be the Picasso of bad decisions.
In this engrossing account by Dan Nadel, readers get a fascinating photo album that feels part biography, part carnival sideshow. With all the haphazard details of print runs and rights disputes, you’ll find out everything you ever didn’t need about Crumb, the tortured genius still creating waves decades later. Following Nadel’s trek to interview Crumb, you may find that the quirks and wisdom offered are as delightfully odd as the man himself—one shrugging acknowledgment at a time.
