Danny Sugerman - the night I met him, at an L.A. party in ’72, the first thing he told me was “My father works for the Mafia, and I’m a heroin addict.”

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Third spud from the sun: Cameron Crowe then and now

Mr. C. Crowe was not one of rock-crit’s TOP TWENTY-FIVE figures.

By the time Cameron showed up, Rolling Stone was little more than a highwater marker for self-effacing, slave-drudge careerism: the most conspicuous place, nationally, to have your copy butchered, your ideas reshaped to fit the moment’s market-driven party line.

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