Oops, that summary makes me sound like one of Crawford's characters (NOT a self-compliment). But that's only fair, as his art functions best as a mirror in which we in the supposed "underground" (which term has lost most of its meaning since these cartoons first appeared) can laugh and wince at our own absurdity. His grotesque drawings and ripsaw wit make mincemeat of everything lame and pretentious about the musical/political "subcultures" that festered around the SF Bay and in fact most coastal cities. (By refraining from Goya comparisons, can I avoid sounding like Crawford's character Art Hefty? Hope so.) Many people objected to his attacking already marginalized groups, comparable to stomping a paraplegic, and largely sparing more deserving targets in mainstream society. But, I think he detected a certain precious, self-congratulatory arrogance on the part of these (largely) declasse, parent-supported hipster frauds. And his spindly, ink-clotted caricatures and lacerating prose gave these parasites a kicking they won't soon forget. And which they had previously been exempt from.Every movement needs antibodies to fight the rot and sanctimony that eventually turn all "avant gard" cabals into impotent, mutual-admiration societies. Crawford provides such healthful abuse, leavened with rip-cracking humor and a supple penline. Many of his targets are still around, still doing their clownish damage, so buy this book as soon as possible.And relax--it's not nearly as solemn as I've made it sound.
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