A swarm of over 600 hipsters wedged their way into the Beachland Ballroom and tavern in order to witness the Cramps, the seminal rockabilly/punk icons animated in the 80s and still pumping out their signature driving three chord progressions into the new millennium. Attendees ran the gamut from 14 year old kids through first wave forty year old punks to hepcats in their 60s. The throng resembled a crew of George Romeros' extras in a bowling alley remake of Night of the Living dead - upswept hairdos - filling station work shirts - leopard prints - and enough tattoo ink to transcribe the Gideon Bible in the nightstand at Motel Hell. The evening started in the Tavern with Uncle Scratches Gospel Revival - resident band of the Ghoul show. The duo consists of Ant, guitarist extraordinaire of Satan's Satellites and the human metronome Brother Ed, proprietor of B-Ware Video. Their forte was redneck wannabe Baptist inbred rock and roll funneled through a megaphone coerced by a drum kit consisting of metal milk crates, industrial cardboard drums and a cymbal that was apparently used as target practice on a shotgun range. Their sinfully entertaining inspirational message was The devil is a punk ass bitch! A tasty mixture of humor, performance and good ol rock 'n roll, a perfect appetizer for the rest of the evening. The festivities then moved into the Ballroom where another duo - The Bassholes - took control of the big stage. Originally from Columbus, this pair has been working for over 15 years and provided a clean polished set. After getting over the initial disappointment that none of their tunes were actually about bass or any other fish for that matter, this reviewer found them to be accomplished journeymen well deserving their opening slot. Next were the headliners, The Cramps - Lux Interior and Poison Ivy being the two original members up front. As our buddy Floyd remarked, "That's all that matters." Lux was resplendent in black vinyl and black dyed straight ahead comb over - his two gold plated front teeth shining like a witches cat's eyes in the spotlight. By the second song, Garbage Man, Interior was spewing gallons sweat like a satanic Jerry Lee Lewis performing atop a funeral pyre. The sardine packed cigarette smoke infested crowd ate it up. Poison Ivy disdainfully sneered from behind her 1958 Gretsch 6120 hollow body guitar seemingly disgusted with Lux's sadistic microphone punishment. But, she kept the throbbing melodies and fret work she had learned by listening to old 45s in the hinterlands of Ohio decades earlier coming. The band's set lasted well over an hour and showed absolutely no wear or tear from the years. The Cramps are undead and well, spreading the gospel of straight ahead snare driven rock to old fans and a new generation of young cats clad in punk rock shirts of bands that may well have broken up before their wearers were born. Stay sick, turn blue - The Cramps are eager to show you the way. From Cool Cleveland contributor Michael Salinger salinger@ameritech.net

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