I think what was arguably one of the coolest things about the early days of punk rock was how regional it all was. Everyone was doing their own thing. In a pre-internet, pre-MTV era, people had no clue what music was supposed to look like. So they made it up. In fact, that’s what made it “punk”. People felt free to write songs, make clothes — build a world from the ground up. Their bandmates were the only people to please.
Related: A few days ago, I was listening to The Minutemen’s History Lesson Part II and I nearly wept.
Dig: A bunch of kids doing their thing.
LESSON: Be more childlike in everything you do. Be bold. Always.
When I was a teenager I got into photography HUGE. Being as old as I am, photography had just been invented, and instead of me taking lots of pictures, I mostly wandered around the city with a camera around my neck praying for the courage to bring it up to my eye.
When I finally did start taking photographs, they were deeply indebted to two photographers. The first being Bruce Davidson, whose work to this day gives me chills and makes me clam-handedly nervous when I think about howdirect it was — and wasn’t. With Davidson I remember responding to his ability to see a situtation in a particular way. Davidson was discovering the world, and I was discovering too — through him. To find him, and a few weeks later Lee Friedlander was monumental in the way I thought about photographs.
Being an uncouth youth lacking visual sophistication I looked at Friedlander’s photos and thought “huh. that’s a photo? they put that in a Time Life book on documentary photography?” It didn’t make sense at first. For a solid day I walked around thinking that photography was bullshit. Where was the kid in the park holding a grenade? Where was the War, the wit and social commentary? This was just pictures of TV’s in hotel rooms.
Which, the more I thought about it, was an amazing thing, no?
See, it wasn’t until Friedlander that the picture (excuse the pun) was complete about what a photographer was. Sure, he could be the guy (or girl) who took pretty pictures of kittens and sunsets, but he was doing something I’d never even thought about: he was documenting his relationship to the world at the same time as he was documenting the world itself.
I saw these photos, and saw the beauty of the everyday. The language beneath it all, ready to be communicated to anyone who would concentrate and pay attention. To my eye, photo above is lovely little example of Friedlander and his work . It demonstrates Friedlander’s engagement in the world around him, and highlights his prescence in it.
There’s the framing, slightly dropping to left, a Friedlanderim present in alot of his photographs, the subtlest of reminders that he’s there. A Person made this picture, that person tilted his head or dropped his weight onto his hip. This slight touch of the organic, the intentional imperfection is the work of a master. It adds an air of indifference to the photograph, of which there’s probably 10 more like it on that roll of film. In my mind, Friedlander walks down the street, sees the forms; the inverted triangle of the Yield sign; the shadow it carves in the ground; the peaks of the trees on both sides; the wide field that creates a chunky triangle in the middle of the frame — all of these points of contact converge into a rhythm of three — he brings the camera up, CLICK! And he’s done.
These photos still blow me away. When I look at them now I think about all the miles that man walked. The endless images he made. Collections of time, sliced away onto 35mm film. He earned every one.
My interest in photography muted a bit as I got older. But I remember standing in a bookstore in Santa Monica, CA and seeing a book of his photos that I’d never seen before. I picked it up, fully expecting to see the jewels and prizes of another journey out into the world. What I got instead where photgraphs of plants. Page after page of close up pictures of plant.
I recall the introduction vaguely. Friedlander, my hero, forever young in his photos and in my mind, had grown old. Unable to walk the city the way he once had, he was forced to stay within the confines of his home. Rendered immobile by the aging of his legs, his mind, and truer still, his eyes, were sharper than ever. Gone, was the endless roads, and it’s rearview mirrors, store front reflections and televisions screens. All that was left was one being in one place. I sat down in that bookstore and looked at every image in that book. I saw him again in my mind, patient as ever, showing me what I needed to see; elegance, simplicity, calm and dedication. I saw Lee Friedlander in every one of those pictures. I saw a great strength grow from being in one place. I saw him journey inward and come back once again with the beauty of life spoken in a whisper. He had seen so much, and he had the pictures to prove it.
(Source: magnificentruin)
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If you’re awake and in the Los Angeles area, I want you to hit play on this and play it as loud as you can.
This is not optional.
By reading this, you are bound by the higher laws of Allah, Yahweh, and Herman Munster to instill into your earholes, brainpan and bloodstream, the One, the Only, the always mighty — making all of your body go tight-y …. Mark E. Smith!
Now, go forth, children of the night! Wreck glorious sonic havoc, panic, fear, and awe-inspiring pandemonium onto the too silent streets!
creedence clearwater revival - good golly miss molly - live 1970 (by kim8mu)
I’m not versed in all of the John Fogerty gossip so, regretfully, I don’t know why one of the greatest bands from that era allegedly imploded.
Looking at this footage is an astounding thing. First there’s the look of the band. The “no style” as style aesthetic always wins points with me — especially in the era of the faux-proliterian — but beyond that the band has THE ATTACK.
Every member of the band is being led by the music and is working towards intensity and discovery. This is the first time that I’ve watched a CCR video and I find that to be the most alarming thing; the musical attack that can’t be ignored.
In the words of Steve Buscemi “…whoa, daddy, stand back. That’s a geyser…” That quote, decontextualized or not, sums it up.
I recently bought a little box full of wonders at thrift store. For a total of $5 American dollars I was able to purchase a glimpse into what I imagine was big part of some one’s youth: a box of well-worn 45’s.
Over the course if the next month I’ll be writing about each record in the collection. I’m unfamiliar with a great deal of the material in the box; a mix of early rock and roll, and crooners.
Should be fun.
Stay tuned.
(Source: blog.makezine.com)
