No one is quite sure when the lightbulb went off that inspired maverick impresario and freewheeling businessman Barry Kramer to start his own rock magazine. It wasn’t as if this slight, sharp-witted and sharper-tongued 26-year-old former pre-med student, with his expensive sculpted haircuts and fast motorcycles, had much time on his hands.

Just as I was approaching some semblance of slumber, there was a dull thud, a louder crash and suddenly the wall between my room and the next was lying in pieces on the floor. Needless to say, I was awake. Shit, I knew this was going to happen, I muttered to the intruder. “Yeah, but did you know it would be the Prince of Peace?” inquired Robert Plant gleefully.