I remember tales of Serious Photographers who wouldn’t be caught dead shooting a wedding. I guess it can be considered base or mercenary. I’ve heard stories of photogs doing weddings on the weekends for money but keeping it Very Secret from their contemporaries.

Then there are some photographers I admire who do weddings for fun or profit. They are not so pretentious and see the world as filled with opportunity for great photos. That seems reasonable to me

I recently discovered that concert photography also suffers from a similar lack of respect. Some of my friends and neighbors consider the photography of pop musicians unartful, silly, boring, or even (gasp) too easy. I’ve been told directly by Serious Photographers that concert photography lacks merit and impact!

I don’t care. I love it.

I’ve recently joined the pool of photographers shooting concerts for the Los Angeles life and culture blog LAist.com. You may recall one of my photos being picked as Photo of the Day over there a while back. My first assignment for them was last month to take pictures of a couple great bands: The Dears and Great Northern. The feature was published on LAist.com over this past weekend, and I’m thrilled. The writer of this piece, Jeremy, is very talented and a nice person as well.

I see concert photography as a unique and unparalleled look at human expression, I see sides of humans that can be captured no other way. I think like any photography, it can be easy to do, but hard to do well. I believe it’s valid, worthwhile, and above all exciting. I’m looking forward to doing more concert work for LAist.com in the months ahead.

Great Northern, The Dears @ Echoplex 5/23/09 – LAist.

On 25 Apr 09, 8.04AM PDT Raven[ZydrateAddict] said:

Hey there, I’m an aspiring entertainment photographer, and i noticed that your concert pictures are incredible! I was wondering if you have any tips or tricks for someone like me!?

Hey there Raven,

Thanks for the kind words and for the message!

Well, I have three tips for you.

First: Watch the performer’s eyes and try to get them open and fierce. You can watch how they sing a chorus and you’ll see when they open their eyes. A lot of times they will sing the chorus the same way the second time so you can be ready.

Second: Pay attention to the microphone. The best shots are of the face and the microphone is not blocking it. A lot of times you can get the singer right after an intense part they will back away for just a second. That’s always a good time to get them. I often have a problem with my camera’s auto-focus focusing on the microphone, leaving the face out of focus slightly. So, that’s another reason to try to get away from that piece of equipment.

Third: Watch the background for distracting things. Look for angles that minimize those distractions. You can also use a wide aperture to make sure the background is blurred.

Good luck to you! I can’t wait to see your shots.

-Mick O

One day after six weeks, I pinged Harry Fleenor about my Rollei. Not ready, it needed another week to simmer. A week later, I refrained from checking again. I knew it would be ready when it was ready. A week after that I got the message: Come and get it. My excitement was split between getting the camera back, and for my mission to get a portrait of Harry Fleenor himself.

When I walked into his shop, there was a geezer there getting an opinion on some camera I couldn’t identify. He was lowballing Mr. Fleenor on the repair quote, to which Mr. Fleenor replied that he would cut no deals on repairs. The geezer was put out, and hemmed and hawed. Just great, I thought. Way to put my subject in a bad mood before I even got to him.

Eventually, it was my turn and I plunked down my pink copy of the work order. “You must be: Orlosky!” That’s me. He put the camera down, and I put the cash down, and then I immediately whipped out a roll of Tri-X and started to load the Rolleiflex. Nervously. Mr. Fleenor started writing up the final receipt. I was fumbling. “You ever shoot with a Rollei before?” he asks me. Yikes. “You going to take a picture?” I’d like to. “What speed film is that?” I was under attack! I whip out my meter. “What’s the exposure?” I’m pretty sure I didn’t even see the reading at that point. “You’re probably down to one-thirtieth. You better hold real still.” I was going to be lucky to even focus the thing. But, he posed skeptically. I focused. I flipped the lug open with an expert’s nonchalance to free the shutter. I drew in a breath and held it. I got the shot.

As we wrapped up the paperwork, he seemed genuinely pleased that I was so eager to shoot with his handiwork. I was glad.

Sitting there on the cool grass of a polo field, my ears ringing and my feet throbbing, I was waiting for The Cure to wrap up the third and final day of the Coachella music festival. My exhaustion spoke eloquently to me about a job well done, about having photographed thirty-three bands in three days, and how that was quite enough for anyone. Just sit, my fatigue said. Rest up, shoot The Cure and go back to the house and swim. And, I was fine with that.

Except, I didn’t want it to end. As grumpy as I’d been at times, and as much as I struggled in spots over the weekend, I had a moment of purity. I let in the good vibes of fifty thousand music fans flowing through the air over my head, got up off the ground with a gleam in my eye, and I strode through the night towards the distant Mojave tent to take pictures of those sexy kids in The Kills.

Another strange year at Coachella. I photographed it for Yahoo! Music and the lovely and talented Lyndsey Parker – rock writer par excellence. I spent quality time chatting up strangers this time: Fernando traveled from Mexico City to cover the event, only his publication got him a photo wristband, but failed to request an actual ticket, which he had to buy. The security contingent came from a nearby military base. One staffer confided to me that they were “voluntold” to be there until two A.M. and had PT at five the next day. I met fans in the front for Paul McCartney who inexplicably got there at eight-thirty in the morning. I met a girl whose most amazing festival highlight was Peter Bjorn and John, a band with only memorable song in their repertoire. She wanted to know how “deep” she could get in our musical conversation. Clearly she was on a higher plane.

As much as I saw and heard this weekend — Karen Oh as Christmas decoration, My Bloody Valentine’s tsunami of distortion, crazy denizens from all species — I know I missed so much more. Coachella adds more visual stimulation every year. Even on my way out for the final time, I was seeing all sorts of artsy things I didn’t even know was there. The spectacle can be oppressive in its immensity. You capture what you can, and remember a fraction of the rest. I could go and not shoot a single band and still get lost in the photographic opportunities in that magical place. (article continues beneath photo)

But, musical artists were there and it was my job to get them with their eyes open, without microphones obscuring their face, and standing in or near dramatic lighting. I did that to varying degrees of success. Of the thirty-three hundred images I captured over three days, these here are my favorite photos.

This was also a year of operational SNAFU and hindrances. Certain performers restricted photographers from their sets, an annoying practice getting more common over the years, though I was surprised it had spread to include random nobodies at three in the afternoon in side tents. Before the festival I got notes from talented photographers telling me how difficult it was to get credentials this year. Apparently the publicity agency MSO held back most of their photographer and press wristbands to hand them out to the army of seventeen-year-old girls in minidresses, oversized sunglasses, and flipflops that were wearing the credentials and clogging the photo pit. Wielding Nikon Coolpix point-and-shoots or Blackberries, these pros spent half the time calling their friends to give them tips on how to sneak in as well. In previous years on the first day of the festival, the photo pit would be clogged with VIP and backstage wristbands as well as credentialed photographers and press. This would inevitably lead to complaints, and the next day security would start checking for photo wristbands specifically and keeping the VIPs backstage where they belong. This year, the rich and wish-they-were-famous were onto the game because they all had press and photo bands. Maybe it was intentional on the part of MSO to ensure a lot of coverage on teen girls Myspace pages.

Even getting in was an adventure. On the first day, I was personally escorted past the throngs to the front gates no less than three times only to be told that press actually couldn’t enter at that particular point, but not to worry, they would personally escort me to another entry to repeat the scenario. I should have been wearing my minidress and big sunglasses.

Still, it’s all in good fun. You can’t have an event like this without long lists of WTF moments. I never saw anything too terrible. The biggest problem is that after coming to this festival for so many years, I finally faced a real hardship. I lost a lens cap here for the first time ever. I’ll be checking the lost & found photos that Coachella will put up in the next few days. Maybe I’ll get lucky, yet again.

When I saw the invite for a film only Flickr meetup near me in Runyon Canyon set for last Saturday, I was psyched. I figured my Rolleiflex would be back and itching for some action. It didn’t turn out that way, as Mr. Harry Fleenor has let me know six weeks was not enough to repair my “well-loved” camera. So I went with the Mamiya 645e and the cool Ricoh 35 ZF I got from Bill. The 645 takes me about thirty seconds to focus, and the ZF takes zero seconds: ZF stands for “zone focus.” I loaded the Mamiya with some color film, and some TMax black and white in the ZF so I’d have something to develop fast. The ZF took on the role of documentary snapper.

What a day! I met some really friendly shooters and had a lot of fun. There were approximately seventeen times more dogs on the trails than usual. For what reason, I don’t know: maybe dogs of L.A. were out hunting Easter wabbits. Snapped some pics of dogs, but probably not in focus.

Halfway through the roll, I was snapping a self-portrait and the rest of the group hilariously pointed out that the back of the camera was flopping open. Oops! Bright sunlight bathed the film in the blinding glory of God, and obliterated a swath of film. I sealed ‘er up again and wound on, hoping not all was lost.

Developed the film that night, and saw good news. Only about four frames were lost to the Holiest of the Holies. I scanned the roll, the whole thing hoping for something vaguely interesting near the edges of the crater. And, there was! Barely visible on the negative but pretty clear in the scan was a friendly face. A great pug in focus and with a beaming expression shone through the damaged film.

I rescanned with sprocket holes, which look scanned out of focus but really are just mixed in with the light. See the text in the margins is in focus. The sprocket echos are likely from the layer of film that was on top of this frame and took the brunt of the blast of light. It’s my favorite image from the meet by far — at least until I get the color negatives back from the Icon one of these weeks.

[blipfm 7071416]

Robert Capa died a good death. For the world’s greatest war photographer, to go out by stepping on a Vietamese landmine, Contax in hand has to be wholly satisfactory. “If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough,” were the famous words attributed to him. One can’t imagine he would be that disappointed.

Blood and Champagne; The Life and Times of Robert Capa by Alex Kershaw

I got this book out of the library because of that quote alone. In brief, I figured Capa was an ultimate badass. And, my own photography needs a whole lot more badass in it. And, of course a book report would be easy money for a blog post, right?

I used to write album reviews for a living, and I was terrible at it. Objectivity kills rock writing, and my heroes all figured that out. I did too, but a little too late. Guys like Robert Christgau or Dave DiMartino inject themselves into their writing in such a way that you are simply forced to care. They’re there in the middle of the music scene, and so you are too. If you’re gonna write about a book, it’s probably even more important to provide that immediate context. So, for me to write about this book, I’d need to talk about how, say, when I was out shooting, I’d recall a moment from Capa’s life and had it inspire me. Good plan.

Except, photography was so incidental to Capa’s life and times, that it’s rarely — and for justifiable reasons — mentioned in the book. The guy hung out (and feuded) with Hemingway, banged (and dumped) Ingrid Bergman, and started (and embezzzled from) Magnum! He faked his name and got into photography to pay the bills. He didn’t develop his own film. Apparently he never spent one braincell on what he was doing photographically, it just allowed him to travel and gamble and party all night.

Any parallels between that and my day-to-day would be some motivational Tony Robbins bullshit.

So, I’ll recap my favorite anecdote from the book, in my own words:

It’s World War Two and Capa needs to get from point A to point B but can’t get there because the roads are too dangerous. Hemingway is nuts, losing his mind, and starts some sort of mercenary operation on his own and commandeers a Jeep to traverse the particularly dangerous bit of map, so Capa tags along behind in another Jeep. Inevitably, Hemingway comes under fire and gets pinned down. He shouts for Capa to turn around and go back. Capa, frozen in fear, or something just stays under his cover. Hemingway, like I said, is nuts and convinced Capa is sitting there hoping that Hemingway gets popped so Capa can get the ultimate shot. That was the end of their friendship.

So that’s the book: An astounding compendium of similarly outlandish stories about this guy, written with extreme credulity. I couldn’t really separate the photographer from the myth. The author, Kershaw, sets it up that Capa, an introverted Hungarian named Andre Friedmann, thought war was a fun game, invented the fictitious American photographer named Robert Capa to be able to sell more photographs, and may have possibly faked his first big scoop, laughing it up until his girlfriend got killed covering the Spanish Revolution, and then spent his life running from (and to) the horror that took his first love from him by becoming the mythical dashing persona he had invented. Capa preferred women over photography, but preferred gambling over sex. Who knows what really drove him? Where did his eye for detail came from? What he thought when he actually took the pictures themselves? That’s all a mystery the book doesn’t even try to answer. But, the man sure was an exciting character.

And, if they make a biopic, Michael Imperioli (pic) has to play Robert Capa (pic) right?

For some reason, I haven’t been moved to take many pictures since finishing Blood and Champagne. Maybe I need to start palling around with Mark Cuban or something. Or, go to Afghanistan.

Not likely.

Postcript: I Imagine Capa, broke after a three-night bender, all his money lost on poker, drinking his last dime to this Ellington piece.

“All The Things You Are” – Duke Ellington

New York – Live:
Jason Isbell Channels Bruce Hornsby at Bowery Ballroom – Sound of the City – Village Voice

I just noticed a blogger at the Village Voice used one of my photos in their about-town post on Jason Isbell. I think bloggers feel vaguely surreptitious doing this, and that’s why they never let me know. Of course I’m very pleased for them to use it. I’d wish they’d let me know in the comments, but I can understand their wanting to avoid nutters who say “No don’t ever use my photo!” Note that my Creative Commons license doesn’t cover this since I’m sure Village Voice makes money off their blog.

I’m more psyched about this I might normally be. I get photos used in blogs all the time, but this time it’s a film photo that I developed myself. I’m proud of it.

I’m think I like the new Jason Isbell record, incidentally. But, I’m not sure yet. I like him best when he is laid back and poetic.

Play it: “Sunstroke” – Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

I arrived at the address on a bright and hazy Thursday after a long and dreary afternoon drive through muddled Los Angeles congestion. Battling traffic had imbued me with a sense of undeserved urgency, there was no real rush.  Actually, I arrived after missing the place twice and circling back around. For it was a sterile, invisible,  two-story office outcrop that could have once been called Sea Breeze Motel in some other century, but which was now sturdy home to dentists, tax attorneys, and hairstylists. Parking was scarce. In fact, each space was visibly assigned to a specific suite number. The most popular building tenants rated two or even three spaces. There was no space at all allotted for suite number four.

Classic camera repair must not generate much foot-traffic, I thought.

I parked at a laundromat, forced to legitimize my taking up space by buying an orange soda at a liquor store. I considered that it would be a bit surreal to walk in with a Rollei and an orange soda. I stashed the bottle in my bag. Up the stairs past some wooden men speaking Spanish who looked like they knew me, but didn’t. The doorway featured a carved wooden Rolleiflex badge, so there could be no mistake. I looked for any posted information to discourage me from just barging in. I found none, I opened the door, I entered.

I have to confess that I paid too much for my Rollei when i first got it. I didn’t do my homework.  The model that was advertised to me was not what I bought. I think this was not through any malice on the part of the seller, just a matter of general confusion among amateurs. Perhaps this is why I am so keen on making it work for me. I’m self-conscious of its well-worn condition, though Carmen says it’s just well-loved Whatever. I really want the Rollei-tionship to work, and I’m willing to compromise to make it happen.

Inside the door was a tiny hall with a chest-high counter that separated supplicants from the Master. I didn’t have time at all to take it all before a slight lanky greybeard and wire-frames greeted me quietly, and not without some pain in his eyes. I realized I had been counting on waiting a few minutes to be acknowledged, but he was on me in an instant, wanting to know my business.  I insisted first upon introducing myself and offering my hand.  Didn’t he know that he was a legend? Harry Fleenor introduced himself in turn and shook my hand with a worried and awkward curtness. Having done that I launched into a staccato rendition of my problem:

“I have this Rolleiflex  (did I pronounce it right?) I’ve run a dozen rolls through it and the shutter doesnt always want to cock and i think it needs an overhaul (god no why am I telling him just let him check it out) so I was wondering if you could take a look at it, if you wanted. Sir (oh crap i’ve blown it already)” And, I quickly notice the small notice on the wall that there is a ten dollar charge for inspections.

With the jittery slowness of someone who has seen his share of fools like me, he took the camera, popped it open and cocked the –

“Oh, what’s that grinding?” he accused me.

“I can’t say,” I offered mutely.

He fired, wound, fired, wound, fired, wound. He’s going to say it’s fine and why am I wasting his time, I dreaded.

“Oh, yes there it didn’t cock.”

Whew.

“The shutter sounds a little slow, I’d like to test it, if that all right with you.”

Please do.

He stepped back into the office, and I could see it all. Esoteric machinery with Rollei logos, a gaggle of shiny bodies, stacks of documentation, Rollei’s history in posters, magnificent clutter measured by the decade. And, a woman of Italian lineage who was beautiful when the clutter was just a mess, seated at a table with a worklight with some interrupted intricate task, staring at me without curiosity but with unrestrained disgust. Fleenor’s wife? Faithful assistant? I lacked the experience to know just by looking. My life looked pale in that moment.

I noticed the wall with tacked up testimonials and thankyou cards from satisfied customers. I’d seen the same notes at a garage while waiting for a new car window, one that took four hours to replace.  I noticed a printout of a camera mural painted on a wall in Reno — a photo I had seen myself only a week prior. This comforted me slightly, as my circle was not wholly distinct from Harry Fleenor’s after all. I noticed a two foot square print on the wall of greener times with yellower flowers. My only thought was that I could take a better photograph than that.

“The shutter’s a bit slow. And, see here the tripod lug is loose. I can tighten that up for you if you want.”

He quoted a price. I nodded.  He added that based on the grinding, he’d also recommend a transport overhaul, and quoted a price on that. I said okay. This is what I’d feared, but expected.

“Do you use a Rolleikin?”

I thought: Oh course not, whatever that is, What is that? Wait, wait! I know what that is. Yes, I have one Yes I do use one. This is what I wanted to ask him about. Oh God how long am I pausing?

I said: “Yes, well I have. I mean, I do. I want to, but I can’t figure out the counter works. With that. I want to.”

He proceeded to show me how the counter works, that a crucial pin was missing. He could install a new one if I wanted. He didn’t know if I wanted to use thirty-five millimeter film. I said I did. He quoted a price.

I said okay.

At this point, he must have figured he had a boat payment on his hands.

“I don’t know if you want to spend the money, but I have some custom Maxwell focusing screens.”

He proceeded to describe them, but before he could quote a price, I said that I was happy with the the screen, thanks. We both knew the measure of me at that point. I offered that in my limited research, I thought the shutter might have been replaced at some point as I thought that model was supposed to have the Compur-Rapid shutter that went to one-one-thousandths of a second. He looked at me as one might view a child who has spit up creamed peas all over the family photo album. “No, all Rolleis of this model go to one five hundredth.”

So, he got out an invoice and started to write it up.

“My backlog right now is about six weeks. Is that all right?”

Paperwork ensued. He made some small talk about never having heard of Valley Village in the sixty years he’d been there. I assured him that happened to me all the time, as if that were somehow notable given my four years there. He made special note of my mirrored lens cap, and I searched for some hint of approval in his voice for that tiny detail. I may have imagined it, but I think I heard just that.

A significant cash deposit insured an amicable parting, another handshake and I was gone.  I’d taken in my camera to get juiced up, and I’d learned how to use the counter for the Rolleikin. I’d survived Harry Fleenor!

As, I went back down the stairs, the men from before were gone, but a shifty character lumped in their place, he avoided my gaze conspicuously. I couldn’t explain him, and I doubt if anyone could. I resolved that when I returned for the Rollei I simply must bring a roll of film and demand to test it by taking Mr. Fleenor’s  picture. I will try

Incredibly, my car was neither towed nor cited. And, the orange soda was the best I’d ever tasted.

Song of the day: “The Talkin’ Song Repair Blues” – Alan Jackson

Sounds from breakfast on the road

As I walked closer to this industrial grade vent in back alley Missoula, MT I heard eerie sounds emanating from it. I tried recording the sound on my phone:

Play sound