One can't help but wonder what exactly was going through Erick Lee Purkhiser's noggin that decisive eureka moment when he came up with the rather odd stage name of "Lux Interior". One of the most uninhibited and maniacal singers ever to grace a stage in the history of rock'n'roll, the soon-to-be frontman of the legendary Cramps, the very embodiment of kinky danger, and Purkhiser somehow decides that this corny marketing phrase from an old car advertisement is the pseudonym with which to rocket his flamboyant alter ego into cult stardom.
The original phrase "luxe interior" was a reference to tuck-and-roll upholstery, but Purkhiser's Interior always conjured up a far more unwholesome image to me: a plush, fur-lined portal worming deep into the very core of an inner loup-garou. While I can't be certain that's what Lux Interior had in mind when he adopted his nom de scène, the man who made a name for himself howling "I Was a Teenage Werewolf" must have known all too well that he was hairy on the inside.
I first witnessed the Cramps at New York's CBGB's in the 70s, in their earliest configuration: Lux on vocals, partner/wife Poison Ivy Rorschach on guitar, Bryan Gregory on a polka-dotted Flying V, and original drummer Miriam Linna. The Cramps reified the band of my dreams: they were irreverent aficionados of rock'n'roll's primitive past, depraved and campy updaters of the raw blues progression.
With his dark, gaunt good looks, frontman Lux was a bit of a boyish charmer with a slightly goofy demeanour; alongside his fellow Cramps, he seemed a horror-comic character come to life. His hammy and awkward moves radiated an aura of unpredictable and salacious menace.
In the early 90s, more than a decade after that first encounter, I enjoyed the privilege of a brief stint as the Cramps' drummer. I recorded one album with the band, Look Ma, No Head! and during my tenure I was almost daily in the company of Lux and Ivy, which made for a most unusual time well spent.
Every day, after our typical six-hour non-stop rehearsal, we would decamp to Lux and Ivy's living room, where the man of the house would deliver lectures in an almost paternal manner. It was like belonging to a weird family – in the Manson sense of family. Professor Interior would hold forth with considerable authority on various subjects, not just music but 3D photography (he owned several stereoscopic cameras), art and UFOs.
Lux was convinced not only of the existence of alien races, but also of their influence in kick-starting civilisation and actively intermingling with humankind. He once showed me a photo taken of a landscape on Mars vaguely resembling a human face – the very same photo which would periodically crop up on the cover of US tabloids. Lux declared this grainy photo as irrefutable evidence of advanced Martian intelligence; a tense moment transpired between us when I misinterpreted his fervent assertions as a clever joke.
I quickly learned that despite appearances both Lux and Ivy took themselves and their music very, very seriously and held rockabilly, garage, the blues and the other forms of music that they emulated in the utmost regard. From their point of view, it was art of the most sublime order, no matter how trashy its reputation.
There are those who would disparage the Cramps as plagiarists; to be sure they borrowed freely and wore their influences on their sleeves, but they regurgitated their source material back into a unique vision. Their songs, image and lifestyle would prove to inspire, delight and galvanise countless artists, from Alex Chilton to Jon Spencer Blues Explosion to the White Stripes to the Horrors.
Lux Interior, like the artists that inspired him, was a true American eccentric who lived his life solely as he saw fit, demanding integrity and commitment of his self and others to the music he loved to a degree devoid of compromise.
