Although under most circumstances, I am one of the least punk people to ever back away in alarm from a mosh pit, I really love The Cramps. I got to know their music through my brother, who was (and is) a huge fan, so much so that he once hung around for hours in a rainsoaked Newcastle car park to talk to them after a gig, and subsequently kept a plastic coffee cup as a souvenir for years afterwards, just because Ivy had drunk from it.
They were the first band I ever saw live (Cambridge Corn Exchange, October 1990), and I saw them again on several occasions. There's just something about their songs, packed as they are with twanging riffs, catchy choruses and double entendres, that gets my booty shaking like nothing else. It's a big old grungy mess of style, sexiness, silliness and sheer rock 'n' roll attitude, and there's really nothing else quite like it.
Lux was a strange and skinny man in high heels and horror make-up, who spent 37 years with the same glamorous guitar-playing woman, and I imagine she will miss him very much. In a much smaller way, so will I.
Goodbye Lux. Surely there's still a lot of rhythm in your rockin' bones.