Roberta Cruger

From Rock She Wrote, an excerpt from “Flashbacks to Boy Howdy’s Pre-pubescence:”

“Typist who likes rock ’n’ roll.” The classified ad screamed my name. I’d just been kicked out of Catholic school. Lovebeads and moccasins didn’t match the uniform. So in ripped bellbottom jeans, long ironed hair, and a fringed suede vest, I sat in the Traffic Jam Café attempting to pass for a cool college coed, sipping cider and reading The Fifth Estate, Detroit’s leftist underground paper. I picked it up poking around a head shop on campus where I bought clove cigarettes. It was the late ‘60s. I was not so sweet 16.

It was a dream job, nearly. The next week, I was working for Barry Kramer’s management/publicity/booking agency. The first day, I drove a band to a baby Woodstock festival at the tip of Michigan’s thumb, heading to heaven on the ride up. Kramer, a charismatic entrepreneur, had recently launched Creem, the rock rag of the city’s alternative press. It was the city’s version of the Boston Phoenix, New York’s Crawdaddy, and of course, Rolling Stone, with an intense Motor City edge—and my goal.

Hanging with local rock royalty, I skipped homework in order to stuff press kits for an up-and-coming Meatloaf, finish typing a contract for an aspiring Bob Seger, and arrange transportation for an unknown Alice Cooper’s crew. I was a willing slave working to get ahead—and get into the Grande Ballroom to see Iggy and the Stooges for free.

Detroit wasn’t big on peace and love, exactly. That was nearby Ann Arbor’s domain, home of John Sinclair’s Rainbow Coalition Party. Detroit carried a mean demeanor, more of a “Not So Easy Rider.” Rough enough to intimidate, but not harm. If San Franciscans draped themselves in Indian prints and painted flowers, Detroiter’s wore combat boots with crushed velvet. Exuding a literary biker vibe, Creem lived up to this reputation.

Its soul seared. Its heart had a hard on. Its tongue planted in cheek.