Robert Crumb, or “R. Crumb”—the artistic moniker of one of modern cartooning’s towering enigmas—is as much celebrated for his uncanny ability to illustrate all things unhinged as he is for his… well, unhinged self. Dan Nadel’s meticulously crafted biography serves as both a map of Crumb’s life and an expedition into the surreal landscape of his mind.
For ages, Crumb was the guy parents didn’t want their kids to know about, best known for his psychedelic cover of Big Brother and the Holding Company’s album Cheap Thrills. Thanks to this iconic artwork, college dorm rooms overflowed with his twisted figures and their haphazard mantra, “Keep on Truckin’.” However, this was merely the icing on the cake: Crumb was the driving force behind underground comics in the Sixties and Seventies, spearheading Zap Comix like some sort of wacky, rebel cartoon messiah.
Crumb concocted a pantheon of characters so absurdly distinct—blessed by his signature hatching style—that one could drown in their chaotic depths. Meet Mr. Natural, the Snoid, Angelfood McSpade, Fritz the Cat, and, of course, his most troubling creation: the lanky specter of R. Crumb himself, who’s seemingly drowning in a cocktail of neuroses and anxieties. Think of it as existentialism with a side of LSD, garnished with a sprig of absurdity.
He drew inspiration from the rebels of the comic world, like Harvey Kurtzman of Mad Magazine fame and Donald Duck’s elusive “good duck artist,” Carl Barks. Yet, just as everyone learned from their art teachers, every cartoonist since has been forced to hurl themselves through the fiery hoops of Crumb’s legacy. As Art Spiegelman famously declared, “Every cartoonist must pass through Crumb,” as if encountering him was some sort of comedic rite of passage. Think of it as artistic evolution: Crumb is the cosmic blender from which your voice emerges, albeit after you’ve spent five years confused as to why everything tastes like existential dread.
Ah, Crumb! An icon of Sixties counterculture—if only it were that simple. Beneath the surface of his wacky illustrations lies a man more obsessed with vinyl than psychedelic parties. His penchant for collecting 78 RPM records is almost charming, if it weren’t for the fact that he often echoes Victorian fears wrapped in anticorporate rhetoric. His true masterpiece, however, is his relentless self-examination, a laborious endeavor that spills out onto the pages like a therapy session gone haywire.
Born in 1943 to a family that could have qualified for a soap opera—complete with crazed relatives and a brooding sibling who left this world in despair—Robert Crumb’s journey is littered with dysfunction. Raise a glass to the many neuroses that fuel his creativity. If you thought his work reflected societal issues, wait till you see the autobiography! Fan-favorite characters stroll through his subconscious like they’re at a disco for the socially awkward.
Still, no discussion of Crumb would be complete without saying he’s a walking, talking paradox. Sure, Angelfood McSpade is a hyper-erotic caricature dyed in shades of racism, and yes, jokes about rape in his early comics occasionally land like poorly thrown clay pots. But Crumb vehemently insists: he didn’t conjure these stereotypes; he merely mirrors a world that holds them close like a snuggly security blanket. The defense rests.
So many women seemed to tolerate Crumb’s peculiarities, which raises critical questions about the nature of consent in the counterculture era. The man who’s been both adored and vilified enjoyed a fair amount of romantic success despite being the poster child for “slightly questionable behavior.” His first marriage? A hot mess. But post-divorce, he formed a somewhat stable partnership with Aline Kominsky, raising eyebrows and some eyebrows more than others. Yet, just as the punk scene came to life, he found himself nostalgic for a time he could neither fully escape nor recreate, culminating in his alter ego’s untimely demise at the hands of mockery.
Ah, and let us turn our gaze towards the golden age of Curb Your Enthusiasm-style miserliness. Despite finding his works flooding the market with serious cash—just as he stopped being industrious—Crumb remained suspicious of profits, treating them like stray cats: occasionally generous but mostly avoidant. He rejected lucrative offers like a person dodging a bad blind date, turning down $20,000 for Mr. Natural plush toys and $10,000 for an album cover from the Rolling Stones. I mean, can you blame him? The last thing he probably wanted was to turn his art into a tacky merchandising scheme.
Today, Crumb resides in rural France, presumably writing in a garden filled with surreal imagery and improbably strong women with long legs. When Dan Nadel finally coaxed him into a portrait—after a pilgrimage across planes, trains, and automobiles—Crumb merely shrugged and muttered, “I’m not opposed to it.” And just like that, the world continues to grapple with a man who’s somehow simultaneously witless and wise, evergreen and decaying, much like a fine wine left too long in the sun.
