My father, Barry Kramer, was CREEM’s founder and publisher. In January 1981 (just as CREEM was entering its 12th year of print), he died of a drug overdose. He left CREEM to me. I was 4 years old.

My mom tried to keep the magazine alive until I would be old enough to take the helm. But unfortunately, MTV, videogames, and all the other shiny shit in the ’80s rendered magazines less attractive. CREEM ultimately folded and was sold to the highest bidder.

I'll never forget when my mom asked me if it would be okay to sell CREEM. I said, “I guess so, if you have to. But I'm gonna get it back one day.”

The next 30 years were a series of disappointments, false starts, and brutal stomach punches. From 1989 on, CREEM was juggled among a cast of characters who seemed more concerned with cashing in on Boy Howdy’s Almost Famous cameo than bringing back America's Only Rock ’n’ Roll Magazine. There were many times when I could have (and, some might say, should have) walked away. But I refused to.