Private commission to shoot Bob Dylan at home. 1968
‘The first time I photographed Dylan was at the Woody Guthrie Memorial Concert at Carnegie Hall in New York City in 1967. It was his first public appearance since his motorcycle accident a year earlier. He was playing with The Band, unknown at that time. I was just starting my photographic career and wanted to see the show as well as take some pictures that I could sell.
So I called up Dylan's office, identified myself as a photographer for an underground newspaper, and asked for two press tickets. I brought my cameras to the concert but there were signs posted stating "No Photographs Allowed," and the ushers insisted that I check my cameras. I checked half my cameras, but kept the other half - everything that would fit into my pockets and my date's bag.
After a couple of songs Arlene Cunningham, who worked for Dylan's manager, Albert Grossman, spotted me taking photographs. Soon she and Albert, whom I did not know at the time, and a guard were all waving to me from the side of the hall telling me to stop taking photographs. I pretended not to see their increasingly frantic waving. The guard came toward me. I knew what was going to happen next. They always go for your film.
So I rewound the film I had shot and gave it to my lady friend, with instructions not to give it up under any circumstances. I quickly put another roll of film into the camera. I didn't want to create a scene and disrupt the concert, so we followed the guard out into the posh, carpeted, chandeliered lobby where Albert, Arlene, and a few other people quickly surrounded us. Albert demanded the film, and I adamantly refused, acting as if it were gold. "There's no way I'm gonna give you this film." Arlene had seen me switch and was trying to tell him, but he was too engrossed in the mock battle I was staging. I held the camera in front of me, presenting it to him without being obvious about it, knowing he would grab it. Finally he did and ripped the film out, exposing it and making it even blanker, I guess. After that we left, with the film safely hidden away. It never bothered me that I missed the rest of the concert. Only the film mattered. That was the first time I saw Bob Dylan and the last time I saw my lady friend.
Despite that first strange encounter with Albert, my life brought me to Dylan again. My first record-album assignment was Music From Big Pink, which had a painting by Dylan on the cover. I knew that everyone would read the credits to see his name and would then read my name next to his. That was when I realized that I was going to be well known. I was surprised. Curiously, because our names are anagrams of each other - DYLAN/LANDY - many people thought I didn't exist, that he was me under an alias!
Shortly afterward Al Aronowitz, a writer and friend of Dylan's, asked me to photograph Bob for the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. I rented a little VW bug and drove up from the city to Bob's house in Woodstock. This was during the height of his fame, when he had been seen publicly only once in a couple of years, and many people thought he had died in a motorcycle accident. Although Bob was comfortable with me, he was nervous in front of the camera, and his uneasiness made it difficult for me. He asked me to come back with the pictures when they were ready, which I did the following week. He liked the photos, and we started to hang out a bit. He suggested that I take photographs of him with Sara and the children. I don't think he had ever asked anyone else to do that. It seemed natural to me, and I was thrilled to photograph them because I thought they were a beautiful family.
The value of the photos never entered my mind. I was immersed in the wonderful energy they had and felt joyous to document it. For many years afterward I resisted selling them, even though I was often in dire financial straits when I lived in Europe. He was very happy, in love with his lovely and gracious wife, Sara, and with his family. He was hiding from the world, savoring the magical experience of having young children. That's why I didn't publish the pictures for many years. He cherished his privacy and didn't want any media attention on his family.
I was very impressed with Bob. He was a very special person. He intuitively understood what was going on in a situation. There was a feeling you got when you were with him that was exciting. I believe it was the flow of creative energy surrounding him that sort of spilled over onto you.
The Moondance album cover commission from Warners. 1969
I was living in Woodstock, and was contacted by Warners in California to photograph Van Morrison for the cover of his album. There was no record label rep at the shoot. I drove over to Van’s house and he had a very large pimple in the middle of his forehead, right above where the photo ends. So I was forced to shoot it this closely and the label forced to use this kind of portrait because of the pimple. But I had been framing my portraits this closely since I started shooting - I often liked the way such a close-up looked, but these photos were always rejected as "cutting of his/her head". So in this case, I won.
Official photographer at the Woodstock Festival. 1969
Woodstock is a very special place; the feeling in the air is wonderful. It has a history of spirituality going back to the Native Americans. The Tibetan Buddhists have established a center there because they feel it is on one of the main energy meridians in North America.
The legendary concert ran from 15th -18th August, 1969, at Max Yasgur’s Farm in rural Bethel, actually 43 miles southwest of Woodstock. The opening artist, Richie Havens, leaves the stage (for the third or fourth time) after spontaneously creating his seminal song, Freedom. He tells of looking out and recognizing that that was what was in front of him. Around 500,000 people spent a rainy weekend watching the biggest names in music without any real frictions. Joe Cocker opened the Sunday at 2pm, followed immediately by a storm that disrupted the event for several hours.
The Woodstock Generation rediscovered many ancient spiritual truths and gave the contemporary world an alternative vision for living - to be loving, gentle, and open all the time. Drugs were a window to that vision, but there was a price to pay. When drugs are used to reach the highs, one is less capable of dealing graciously with the lows and responds negatively to situations that could be handled better. Reactions such as anger, depression, physical depletion and dependency are common. The ultimate goal is to be able to experience and enjoy life: the freedom and the ecstasy of being in a loving state of mind, and the strength to experience the difficulties without being upset, uptight, or anxious.
Janis Joplin 1968
Bill Graham's Fillmore East was located around the corner from the offices of The Rat, the underground newspaper that I was photographing for. I remember my first concert. Anyone would. It was a new world of fabulous sound, music- filled air, friends everywhere sharing joints, and an incredibly synchronized Joshua Light Show. I was very inspired. It changed my life. I had to take pictures. The Fillmore East opened in NYC on March 8, 1968. Big Brother and the Holding Company, with Janis Joplin, was the headline act. They had just signed with CBS Records. It was a memorable evening.
Bill Graham and John Morris knew I was working for the underground press. I was able to take pictures from wherever I chose, for as long as I wished, without being worried that an aggressive guard would come along and rip the cameras out of my hands, as began to happen in later years. There was no paranoia, and few restrictions. Today photographers are usually restricted to shooting the first three songs of a concert and are confined to the photographer's pit, directly in front of the stage - which is often not the best place to get a beautiful photograph.
Janis Joplin was one of the few performers I got to know personally while I was photographing in New York City. I got an assignment from New York magazine, to go with Janis and Big Brother to Detroit, where they had a gig at the Grande Ballroom. There we were hosted by John Sinclair and MC-5, the reigning Detroit psychedelic band. Rock bands like Big Brother were part of an underground community that stretched across the nation. We hung out at MC-5's downtown communal apartment, which was big and rambling, with people smoking dope in every room.
I found Janis to be loving, considerate, and lonely. She seemed to experience pain even when she was having pleasure. That she couldn't get as high in real life as she did from her performances saddened and depressed her. Drugs got out of hand. They made the highs higher and the lows lower - too low. Her answer was to do more. She was so wrong.
