Post From My FB Page

I flew to Denver, Colorado to photograph The Zombies​ tour on Monday. Finally met Chris White​ and Hugh Grundy, got photos of the band, and got an autographed copy of Odessey & Oracle. Heck. Freaking. Yeah. Photos coming soon. Flew back into Charlotte at 3pm yesterday, and was on a shoot at 5pm. One shoot today, and editing a whole lot of photos. Three shoots on Thursday, three shoots on Friday (so far), and more this weekend. RIP and safe travels, Doug Mayes. Life is an exhausting adventure, and I count myself lucky every day that I take on the next adventure. Here's to still being hung up on a dream. See you on the road.
-Daniel
October 21, 2015

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XOd6Uajh-4 

The Day After The CLT 60s Reunion

That day after I helped to reunite the Bondsmen and Mod VI for killer sets at the Neighborhood Theatre, where I found myself in Tennessee doing photos with The Beach Boys at the children's hospital benefit. During which I'm standing near Mike Love, and Peyton Manning walks up and says hello. And then Dan Marino, and more all-pro NFL and college players and coaches also walk by. And then I watch Mike Love teach Peyton Manning the lyrics to "Barbara Ann", so that he can sing them with the band during the show. And he did. And then I ran home to email these photos, because the Beach Boys want to post them as soon as possible.

And that day was my day, today. And how was your day?

-Daniel

June 28, 2015

Mum photos, Charlotte, NC, October 2004

Mum
Neighborhood Theatre
Charlotte, NC
October, 2004
all photos copyright 2004 Daniel Coston
thanks to Hannah for reminding me about this show

Return Of The Road Dog

Hello All-

For all of the great things that happened to me last year, there was one thing that was largely lost in the shuffle. Photographing Rock & Roll bands on the band. This is something that I largely did non-stop for several years. Travel, shoot, travel again. Yep, that was me. While I am blessed now to have a lot more work in the city I live in, not having the time to be on the road knawed at me. I'm not on the road like I used to be. Are those days behind me?

As I often do, I righted myself in the last month all at once. Shows in Greenville, SC, then taking the train to NY to see Chad & Jeremy in Long Island. Then a trip to Cleveland to photograph the Sonics, pictures of which you'll hopefully see soon. And back home, eight hours later. Last weekend was the Carolina Chocolate Drops in York, SC, with a trip to Shelby coming up this weekend. Yeah, I had a big itch that I needed to scratch.

Some of you know that Rock & Roll photography rarely pays well, when it pays at all. All these years on, the business of music can still frustrate the stuffing out of me. But, truth be told, I still need to take photos if it. For all the grumbling I sometimes do about walking away from this, I still love to travel and take pictures. The thrill of travel and discovery, and knowing that you're reaching beyond your boundaries, and creating something good. Yeah, it's addictive. And still is.

I'm quite aware that the travel may ebb and flow, and that is something I will always have to accept. However, it is good to know that all these years on, there some things that I still look forward to doing. And I hope to see you all on the road soon, as you are on your own travels,
-Daniel
March 11, 2014

Travels With My Camera - Pete Best

Pete Best photo copyright 2004 Daniel Coston

In August of 2004, I drove all night from North Carolina to Randall's Island, on the edges of New York City for Little Steven's Underground Garage festival. The weekend was an adventure that deserves its own entry in this series. I don't remember much from that weekend, though that was due more to exhaustion than drink. Thankfully, I took a lot of photos, including when I met Pete Best.

Pete and his six-member band played midway through the day-long festival, which featured 45 (yes, 45) bands. As with most bands on the bill, Pete's band played only two songs, "What I'd Say" and "Twist And Shout". Pete's band aims for the scruffy early-rock sound that the Beatles had in Hamburg, and for the quick set that they had, they did all right. (Perhaps next time, though, they can get the band to all down Benzadrine and lots of alcohol, just like the lads did back in the day. Now there's something you'll never see advertised.)

The thing that struck me, though, was how inconsequential Pete was in his own band. With Pete's half-brother Roag Best (who is also the son of Beatle associate Neil Aspinall) playing on a larger drumkit on the side of the stage, and the rest of the band handling the vocals, many probably did not even notice the slightly gray-haired man tapping away in the back. Pete did not even step up to a microphone, and apart from waving to the crowd at the end of the set, it seemed like the famously shy and reticent Best was content to let others handle the lead roles. Despite the fact that Best has spent the last several years trying to reclaim his place in the Beatles' legacy. I know for a fact that Pete was, and still is uncomfortable singing, and he may have more to say in his full-length show, but after all the years of insinuating that Ringo wasn't any better a drummer than he in 1962, it would have been nice to see more of that famous drumming.

About 30 minutes, the photographers were all shown a note, written on a paper plate with a magic marker, "Pete Best in press tent in 10 minutes." Several minutes later, with his band still in tow, Pete ambled into the press area. After doing an interview with VH1, Pete then posed for photos for the media, most of whom dispersed after the photos were taken.

After signing a record for a photographer, I walked up and told him how much I enjoyed the book that he and Roag had recently put out about his time with the Beatles (a really thorough book, which I highly recommend). Pete's eyes widened a bit, and he said, "Thank you." I think it was the first time that anyone there had mentioned the book that day. I asked him how that book had come about, and he told me that it had come out of an original wish to document their family history for themselves, and their future relatives. The more that they cataloged everything, he said, and the more that the Casbah (Mona Best's coffee bar, where the Beatles played numerous times) was renovated, the more that he and Roag began discussing the possibility of a book.

Pete is an interesting mixture, in person. He does not talk much above a whisper, which sometimes made it hard for me to hear him over the noise of the festival. At the same time, he does answer questions very directly, and looks straight at you with the eyes that once made him labeled "mean, moody and magnificent." Still shy, but he seems much more comfortable in dealing with the public. Pete also hasn't seemed to age much in the past several years, and looks younger with his mid-60s age. Pete does also let Roag handle his business and music affairs, which seems to work well for both.

After getting him to sign my festival list of bands (I apologized for this, telling him that my records were several states away), and posing for a few more photos (including the photo enclosed), Pete walked off to his next destination, and I left to photograph Bo Diddley. In short, I came away with more respect for the man himself, although I'm still undecided about his band. I still believe that the Beatles without Ringo are not the Beatles we've come to know (imagine Abbey Road or Revolver without Ringo- enough said), but I'm glad that Pete has a place for himself in the public eye.
-Daniel Coston
August, 2004/January, 2013

Travels With My Camera - Ravi Shankar

I never thought that I would get the chance to see Ravi Shankar. As the years wore on, the master of the sitar was touring less. As many older artists also do, Shankar rarely toured the Southeast US. Many artists prefer to tour in the northeast, or west coast, where there is a better guarantee of making money on the tour. This is why so many of the artists that I tend to be interested in rarely tour below Ohio.

In 2007, the Charlotte Symphony announced a show with Shankar. I was thrilled. Shankar with an orchestra! Sadly, Shankar fell and broke his hip broke his hip before the tour began. With the tour now cancelled, I figured that my last chance had come and gone. However, nearly two years later, Shankar and his daughter Anouska booked a Charlotte date. I immediately lined up a photo pass.

Shooting the show presented a different problem. I was still shooting film at the time, using my trusty old Canon AE-1. ("George," if you know of my old habit of naming my film cameras.) The venue asked that I turn my shutter sound off, assuming that I now shot digitally. Of course, that wasn't an option for me. Much of the sound in the theater was coming offstage, and was very quiet. Indeed, it was possibly one of the quietest large-theater shows I've ever attended.

The solution was simple. When the crowd applauded, shoot. If the crowd laughed, shoot. If anyone in the audience made a loud noise that covered up my camera sound, shoot. I was only supposed to have shot the first ten minutes of the show, so I snuck some photos from my seat. All in all, the time that I took photos only spanned about ten minutes, so perhaps I was following instructions, after all. I got a few good photos, despite the low light and quiet conditions.

Even at age 89, Shankar was still something to behold. He was not able to always sit cross-legged, but he sat with the sitar for the entire show. Much of the show was improvisational, as is the custom for a lot of Indian music. Shankar and his daughter traded passages on the sitar, building a layer of sound between themselves. Ravi's energy grew throughout the show, as the music still moved him to different ideas. Ravi also had a small white dog with him on tour, which came out on stage to greet him after the show.

You always hope that you get to see your heroes as many times as you can. That's not greediness, that is just one human's hopes and wishes. Once you have seen the mountaintop, doesn't one always hope to someday see it again? In the long run, it does not matter how many times that you saw, or spent time with someone. What happens is that you did spent those fleeting moments you admire. Those few stars in the sky that changed the people around you, and in the process change you. The moments are fleeting, but the influence lasts forever.
-Daniel Coston
December 12, 2012
photo copyright 2009 Daniel Coston

Travels With My Camera - Nappy Brown

In May of 2004, I went to the Double Door to see Pinetop Perkins, who had spent years playing piano for Muddy Waters. The place was packed, and the band was fantastic. Fellow Muddy Waters band alums Bob Margolin, and Willie Smith put on an excellent show. But the big surprise lay in the middle of the show.

About forty minutes into the show, Margolin announced, “We’d like to have Nappy Brown come up and do a song.” I had heard about Nappy Brown, but had yet to see him. Nappy was one of the first North Carolina musicians to break through when rock and roll, and rhythm & blues began to merge. Songs like “Don’t Be Angry” (which Brown also wrote) made the national charts, and another song that Brown adapted, “Night Time (Is The Right Time),” would soon become a worldwide smash for Ray Charles. After spending years devoted to gospel music, Margolin convinced Brown to return to the blues music scene.

Watching Nappy Brown onstage was like watching a ball of fire flash by you. Brown was all of six foot five, rail thin, and strutting as he came on stage. Brown, as he often did, took over the show. Soon, he was rolling on the floor, both on stage, and in the audience. Sitting on ladies’ laps and undoing his shirt, all while singing and shouting, and urging the band on. It was unbelievable. I took so many photos that night of Brown, documenting as his one song turned into a 25 minute set. (I’ve heard that this often happened with Brown.)

Brown came from his musical family. He formed a gospel group with his cousin, Clyde Wright in the late 1940s, and the group sang on WBT, and other stations in the Southeast. Wright would go on to join the legendary Golden Gate Quartet in 1954, and is with that group to this day. In the meantime, Brown jumped into R&B, recording often for the Savoy Records label.

After Margolin coaxed Brown back into performing his R&B songs on stage, a whole new audience began to discover him. I got to see Brown a few times, including at a Savoy Records reunion in 2006. In the last years of his life, Brown finally got the due that he deserved. Appearances on Prairie Home Companion, a new album, and the respect of his peers. I only wish that I had seen him Brown more. 

Shortly after Brown passed away in 2009, I ran into Brown's old friend and bass player, Mookie Brill. I had recently interviewed Mookie for my Double Door Inn book. Brill was upset that Brown did not have a headstone, and that some members of his family were not being helpful. I suggested that a benefit concert be held to raise the necessary funds, and suggested a few names that might be willing to be involved.

A week later, Brill excitedly called me to tell me about the concert that they'd lined up. When Brill and I had talked, it was very late in the evening (early morning, actually), and between that and my work-related exhaustion that evening, I totally forgot that we'd had that conversation. But, I was proud to have had a hand in the benefit, even though all of the credit should go to Brill. The event itself was a fabulous success, and my photos in the Observer the following week helped to raise more money. There is now a lovely tombstone at Nappy Brown's grave, which will hopefully always mark the resting place for one of the amazing singers, and performers I ever saw.

-Daniel Coston

Oct. 25, 2012  

Travels With My Camera - Andy Griffith

I was lucky enough to photograph Andy Griffith on three occasions. The first was the dedication of the Andy Griffith highway, near his hometown of Mount Airy, NC. Much of the town turned out for the event. I remember the event being a bit of a mess. It had rained throughout the day. At one point, it was going to take place under a tent that didn't allow anyone outside the tent to see what was going on. The crowd, and the media grumbled. After a long wait, the skies cleared, and the event began. I talked my way into the media section, far from the stage, and eventually snuck down front with a couple of other photographers.

Andy Griffith sat with the then-governor of NC, Mike Easley, and his wife. The speakers that spoke before Griffith went on forever. There was one in particular, a local politician, who gave the appearance that he had never spoken in public before. He blathered on for ever, speaking so quietly that the crowd kept shouting, "Speak up!" Ten minutes into his (and our) torture, he said, "I'd know like to introduce Governor Hunt." Jim Hunt had been the previous governor. The speaker turned bright red, and Griffith, Easley and everyone else just cracked up. We all got great photos of Griffith's beaming laugh.

Griffith finally got up to speak, and wiped the floor with everyone that had proceeded him. Not everyone on this earth is a natural public speaker, but Griffith had it in spades. He was funny, he was direct, he was suitably grandiose, using his hands in sweeping motions. He was the only speaker that day that didn't need a speaker system. It was an impressive thing to witness. I got some good photos of Griffith with his highway sign, and then he was gone.

Two years later, Griffith came back to Mount Airy, for the dedication of a statue honoring the Andy Griffith Show. It was held in the middle of Mayberry Days, an annual celebration of the TV show. Many former actors of the show were there, as well as the classic lineup of the Dillards, who were featured on several episodes of the show. I went to the event with another photographer, who somehow got into the photo pit ahead of me, leaving me to shoot from a distance. I still was able to get some decent photos, including Griffith watching the Dillards perform.  Looking back, it was an amazing day to witness.

The following year, Griffith made an appearance at UNC-Chapel Hill. He had graduated from UNC in the 1940s, and was returning to donate his archives to the Southern Folklife Collection. This was a fun event, with Griffith playing the guitar that he played on the Andy Griffith Show. I met Griffith briefly later that day. Griffith may have a public performer, but he was not a public person. Griffith didn't have much to say, and I told him that it was great to meet him. My photos of Griffith from that day are also now part of the Folklife Collection's archives.

Another thing I remember from that day was that there was an older gentleman taking photos of the event. A few times, he tried to boss Griffith around, having him pose for photos with different people. Griffith seemed annoyed, but he did seem to know the guy, and he put up with it. "Who is that guy?" I asked someone. "Hugh Morton" was the answer. Since then, I had always been a bit mad at myself for not getting better photos of Morton. When Griffith passed away, I dug out my photos of the 2002 Mount Airy event. After Griffith had left, I finished that roll of film with various pics of people posing with the highway sign. There at the end of the roll, with a camera around his neck, was Hugh Morton. I had gotten the shot I had wanted, and I hadn't even been aware of it. And that's all that I can ask for with these photos, and these experiences. Pieces of the moments, as they happened, that remind me that I'm glad I was there.

-Daniel Coston
July 6, 2012
photo copyright 2002 Daniel Coston

The Men In Black, and other things

I photographed the Mad Monster Party here in Charlotte, in late March. It was a convention for fans of science fiction, horror and other films. Nestled near the back of the hall, at a small table, sat David Prowse. The man that played Darth Vader in the Star Wars films, and has appeared in an amazing number of other great films and TV shows. My dad took me to see Star Wars on my fifth birthday, and the experience just blew my mind. When you're a kid, you want to do, and be everything. After seeing that film, I knew I wanted to do something in media. Something that one could create, and have it play for audiences big and small. I first thought I was going to a filmmaker, which led me into working into TV in my high school days. Eventually, I got more interested in the individual moments of what I saw around me, and I have followed that interest through my photography. But that wide-eyed dreamer of a kid is still a part of me.

When I saw David's book, credited to David Prowse, MBE, I asked, "Oh, you're a member of the member of the British Empire?" David's eyes lit up. We talked about his work with road safety in the UK, and his current work with prostate cancer awareness. He also told me about meeting the Queen Of England when he awarded his MBE, and the protocol involved with that. The realization that I was talking to the man behind Darth Vader about meeting the Queen of England crept in my head, and has made me smile ever since. I had a lot of fun talking to him, and got some good photos of him.

A friend has since pointed out to me that I have now worked with the two most famous Men In Black: Darth Vader, and Johnny Cash. It's amazing to think back to that nine year-old that was thrilled with the Empire Strikes Back, and reading about Johnny Cash in a cheap comic book at the local Super Duper. I wish I could tell that kid a lot of things, but I would tell him that his dreams might well come true, although it might take a little while. (I was an impatient kid in those days, so this would come as a mixed blessing.)

I also have to include a conversation from the social event I photographed right after the Monster Party:

Patron (looking at my notepad): Who's info is that? Is that from another event?

Me: That's the guy who played the sheriff in The Night Of The Living Dead. He's an avid photographer,  and he wanted me to contact him.

Patron: (startled) Oh.

-Daniel
April 2, 2012

Travels With My Camera: Hubert Sumlin

Travels With My Camera: Hubert Sumlin

I first met Hubert Sumlin in July of 2003. It was less than two weeks after photographing Johnny Cash’s final public appearance, and I secured a photo pass to the Gibson Night Of Guitars, an annual event held at the time in conjunction with the NAMM conference in Nashville. The headliner was Les Paul, the legendary guitarist, inventor and namesake of the famed Gibson Les Paul guitar. The rest of the lineup were no slouches, either, and I was thrilled to finally see Sumlin play. Sumlin had been the longtime guitarist for blues singer Howlin’ Wolf, and was the archetype for a million blues and rock guitarists. 

On the day of the show, I drove straight from a video gig in Charlotte, through a nasty rainstorm as I crossed into Tennessee, and finally made it to the Ryman Auditorium during the first set of the show. Later in the evening, I looked around, and I suddenly thought, “Oh, my God! I’m in the Ryman!” The day had been so hectic, the idea that I was also finally attending a show at the Ryman (the longtime home of the Grand Ole Opry) had not even dawned on me. 

Les Paul’s set, even at the age of 88, was just fantastic. The introduction to his set was a video of the very first Grand Ole Opry to be broadcast on TV, in 1950. The show’s special guest? Les Paul & Mary Ford. As the video ended, Les Paul walked out on stage, and the place just erupted. Les was one of the sharpest, funniest and dirtiest minds I have ever been around, and the place (like I) loved every minute of it. 

As the second half of the show began to start, Les was sitting on the left side of the stage, listening to introductions, when an older black gentleman in glasses, pinstriped suit and fedora hat, came from behind Les, and gave him a big hug. This was Hubert Sumlin. The two hugged and chatted like the old friends they were. I wish I could tell you that I got a good photo of this, but I so struck by the beauty of the moment, that I just watched it, and let it go. Sumlin did two songs on this night, and the New York Dolls’ David Johansen singing Howlin’ Wolf’s parts. Sumlin nailed his parts, and just plain looked cool doing it.

After the show, I ran into Sumlin and Johansen in the lobby. When I asked Sumlin how he was doing, he said with a smile, “I’m doing all right. I only got one lung these days, but I’m feeling okay.” I had not heard about Sumlin’s recent health issues, and he certainly didn’t show it on that night. I got Sumlin to sign my program, and wished him well. I spent that night sleeping in my car, at a Steak & Shake parking lot, taking in the experience of the whole day.

A couple of years later, Sumlin came through Charlotte as part of a Kenny Wayne Shepherd tour. It was a collective of musicians that had either been influenced by Hendrix, or in Sumlin’s case, had influenced Hendrix himself. I ran into Sumlin in the parking lot. When I started to explain when I had met him, Sumlin said, “Yeah, I remember you! That was a good show.” I don’t know if Sumlin really had remembered me, but his sincerity in saying that meant the world to me. We talked, hugged, and I promised to see him again soon.

Less than a year later, the legendary bluesman Pinetop Perkins was supposed to play at the Double Door Inn, but he fell ill, and couldn’t do the show. His replacement? Hubert Sumlin. In the intervening year, Hubert had nearly died from a heart attack, but was back on the road in a matter of months. The show was a lot of fun, with Muddy Waters alumni Willie Smith and Bob Margolin backing Hubert up. After two sets of asking and coaxing, another alumni of the Waters band, Carey Bell, got up and played a few songs. Sumlin smiled and played with everyone that got on stage that night.

What struck me about Sumlin on this night was his playing style. He was definitely a lead guitarist, but not in a conventional sense. The playing seemed to dance around the melody, and his guitar solos were sometimes like watching an improvised high wire act. You weren’t always sure where he was going to land, but it sure was fun to see where Sumlin went. What also stuck out to me was Sumlin’s enthusiasm for everything. For playing, for people, for the whole evening. It dawned on me that Sumlin was in many ways still like a kid, perhaps even that young kid that had snuck into seeing Howlin’ Wolf all those decades before, and got himself a job playing guitar in Wolf's band. I can honestly say that Sumlin was one of the oldest children I have ever met in my life, and I mean that as one of the highest compliments I can give.

In May of 2007, another alumni of the Waters band, Mac Arnold, put together a festival in Greenville, SC, and got Sumlin and another alum of the Howlin’ Wolf group, Eddie Shaw, to play together for the first time in 30 years. I was gonna be there, no matter what. The only issue? I was already contracted to shoot Merlefest, in Wilkesboro, NC, that same day. So, I shot at Merlefest all day, shot all of the folks I had come to see, and then drove 3 1/2 hours to Greenville. I got there for the last set of the show, with Sumlin and Shaw standing and playing together on blues classics. After the show, I talked my way backstage, and got posed shots of Sumlin and Shaw together, with the last few shots I had left. How did I pull it off? There was no way I wasn’t going to pull it off. That was my mindset. This is history, and I knew that it may never happen again. And sadly, now it never will.

When a great musician like Sumlin dies, the hardest thing that I sometimes have to accept is, I will never see that person onstage again. Forget the photographs, I will never see another Hubert Sumlin show. No more excited anticipation of another show. No more laughs. No more hugs. The finality of it all sinks in, when you realize that your experiences with someone is now in the past, and we, as the survivors, will always have that empty space in our hearts.

I would like to think that Hubert would’ve said it was okay, that he had outlived many of the bluesmen that he had played alongside, and that he had gotten the chance to meet, and influence, fans and musicians the world over. Somewhere, wherever our spirits go when they leave this place, I hope that Hubert has the chance to smile, give some fellow souls some hugs, and play that guitar. The world, on this side, or the other, doesn’t seem right without it. 

-Daniel Coston

Dec. 21, 2011

Travels With My Camera: Ernest Withers, Sound And Images

Travels With My Camera: Sound And Images

In the fall of 2004, I found out that Ernest Withers was going to be doing an exhibition at the SECCA Gallery in Winston-Salem, NC. I was aware of Ernest and his work through his legendary photographs of musicians, as he had documented the Memphis scene for decades. I immediately wanted to be there. I called the publicist at the gallery, and talked my way into the opening night party, via one of the newspapers that I was contributing to at the time. Above all else, I wanted to document the evening, and meet Withers in person.

I have always felt a kinship to the photographers of past century, much more so than the photographers of present day. Most of those great photographers, Withers included, were freelancers, strong individuals who worked without benefit of a major benefactor, and living and working from job to job. As a longtime freelance videographer, and then still photographer, I knew this sense of work ethic like the back of my hand. Freelance work is not for everyone. It requires confidence in your work, and a willingness to embrace the day-to-day possibilities of the next job, or the next idea. And there is nothing more intoxicating than a good shoot, and a new idea.

I arrived early, and carried with me one roll of black &white film, and a couple rolls of color film. Ernest Withers was already there, doing interviews with local TV crews. He was sitting on a chair in center of the gallery, his photos lined up behind him on the wall. You couldn't have asked for a better position to get photos of him. I loaded my black & white roll into my camera. As I starting taking photos of him, he began taking photos of me. No questioning who I was, perhaps just a recognition of a younger, yet same-minded traveler with a camera. We exchanged mischevious smiles, as I realized he seemed to be enjoying catching my photo as I was catching his.

What struck me the most about Withers' work was the diversity, and longevity of his archives. Withers had started working in Memphis in the late 1940s, and still kept a busy schedule when he came to SECCA. His photos of B.B. King with Elvis Presley sat alongside his photos of civil rights marches, and numerous photos of Martin Luther King, who had been a good friend of Withers.

Withers worked the entire room, and seemed to float from one end of the huge gallery to the other, chatting and taking photos as he went. You could have easily forgotten that Withers was 82 years old at the time. I stayed nearby, getting photos of Withers, and the party. At one point, Withers started handing me his camera, to get photos of himself with other patrons. I would get their photo, hand Earnest back his camera, and a few minutes later, we repeated the process. Throughout the rest of the evening, we passed each other's cameras back and forth. I took photos with his, he took one or two with mine. All while Withers continued to hold court.

I didn't say 20 words to Ernest the whole night. But I didn't need to. He was working, and to a different degree, so was I. We were both looking at the world around us with our cameras, capturing what we were seeing as we went. I would like to think that Withers saw a little bit of himself in me, moving and scrambling to get the shot we wanted. At that point, I had not met many photographers that had shared my view of the world, and our craft. It sometimes made my love of photography feel like a slim minority. And yet, here was Ernest Withers, a man I greatly admired, sharing an understanding of what made photography so exciting. All without saying a word.

At the end of the evening, the president of SECCA invited me to breakfast with Withers the following morning. I drove home to Charlotte that night, and then drove back to Winston the following morning for breakfast. I talked a little bit to Withers, but I was aware that he was still charming SECCA's president, and his family, so I didn't press too much. Near the end of the meal, Withers looked up at me, and said, "Do you have another roll of film?" Thankfully, I did, and passed it over to him. "A good photographer always has a spare roll of film," he said with a smile. Thankfully, I still had enough film on the roll I had in my camera to finish the morning. Withers and I said goodbye, and he was off to another shoot, another day of work back in Memphis.

We move through our lives with varying speeds, all the while thinking (or over-thinking) our own actions. We want to leave something of ourselves behind, and say things that will be meaningful to others. One can spend a lifetime trying to impart these wisdoms. But sometimes, actions alone can reveal so much. They can show that you are not alone in your path, let alone serving as a reminder that you are in fact on the right road. And it is a road that I am still on, and enjoying the ride.

-Daniel Coston

November 22, 2011

Travels With My Camera: Arthur Lee and Love

Travels With My Camera:

Arthur Lee & Love

by Daniel Coston

Sometimes, you find the music you love. And sometimes, the music finds you. I knew about the legend of Arthur Lee and Love before I ever heard a note of their music. In the late 1990s, Lee was serving a twelve-year term for firing a gun on his front porch, thanks to California’s “three strikes you’re out” law. During his time in prison, support for his plight grew, and I began to hear about Love’s third and best-known record, 1968’s Forever Changes.

In 2002, California let Lee go after a six-year sentence, and Arthur Lee began his comeback. By the summer of 2003, Lee had taken his current lineup of Love all over the world, playing Forever Changes in its entirety. A chance look on Pollstar’s website showed that Arthur & Love were booked to play the Birchmere in Alexandria, VA on September 21st, 2003. I lined up a photo pass, and made plans to go.

The Birchmere is a fabled theater near Washington, DC, and brings in top acts to play in intimate settings. It’s a tough place to shoot, as there are no areas around the stage to shoot. You wedge yourself against people’s tables, or on the side of the stage, and hope that the patrons don’t yell at you. But Arthur was there, and that’s all that mattered.

It had been a busy summer for me. I had photographed Johnny Cash’s final public appearances, and spent two days photographing Les Paul in Nashville. However, even with all of that, the best show I saw all of that year was Arthur Lee and Love performing Forever Changes. Lee was a powerful, enigmatic frontman. He drew you in a with a tough grace that was both thrilling and slightly fearsome. Throw in a well-rehearsed band, with strings and horns, and that record hit me in a way it had never done before. By the time he encored with “Little Red Book” and “7 and 7 Is,” I was in awe. Lee finished the show, waved goodbye, and left through the back.

Several months later, Arthur and Love went out on a package tour with the current version of the Zombies. I had just seen the Zombies in Charlotte, and loved the show, so a double-bill? No brainer on that one, as I drove to another suburb of Washington, to the State Theater in Falls Church, VA. After spending way too long to find parking, I finally made it in to see most of Love’s set.

For much of the tour, Arthur and the band “opened” for the Zombies by playing first, which didn’t sit well with Arthur. He was always going to let you know that this was a LOVE show, no matter who or what was on the bill. On top of playing a fantastic set, I noticed that there was an guitarist on this tour, an older man that was nailing all of original guitarist Johnny Echols’ intricate guitar parts. But he hasn’t played live in forty years. It couldn’t be him, but when Arthur introduced to the crowd his “original guitar player,” I realized it was Johnny Echols, adding extra excitement to the audience.

Arthur was also notorious for shying away from fans, and not really having a public persona. Ten minutes before the Zombies went on stage, I noticed a rush of fans clamoring to the merch area. Unbelievably, it was Arthur and Johnny, signing autographs. Fans went nuts, and the Zombies’ merch guy looked on in astonishment.

I got some separate candids of Arthur and Johnny, and at some point, a girl asked to have her photo taken with both Arthur and Johnny. I realized what was going to happen, and moved into an open space. As soon as the girl walked away, I said in a loud voice, “Hey guys, let me get a photo of you two,” and got two quick photos. I was so excited, I didn’t notice that I was slightly out of focus, which I spent some time later fixing it in Photoshop. But I got it. Soon after, Arthur said to no one in particular, “Okay, that’s enough,” and you could feel the colors of the room change. His will, his aura, if you will, told you that he was leaving, and to back off, and most of us did. I said thank you and safe travels, Arthur turned and said “Thank you” to me, and he was gone.

Soon after, I sent one of the photos to Mojo Magazine on a whim, and they proudly ran it in their next issue, later telling me it was the first published photo of them together in 37 years. Arthur stopped performing within the next year, as the band claimed that he was having emotional issues. However, it was later learned that Arthur was badly ill, and eventually died in Memphis in the summer of 2006.

Somewhere around that time, I sent some of my photos to a Love fansite in Denmark. They already had heard of me because of the Mojo pic, and I was happy to have the photos posted on his site. Soon after, Johnny Echols sent an email. He had been trying to find me since the Mojo publication, and found me through the fansite. Could I send him photos? I sent copies as soon as I could.

Soon after, I got another email. “Hello,” it began, “I’m Diane Lee, and you photographed my husband Arthur.” I hadn’t even known that Arthur had married his longtime love Diane in the last year of his life. “I love your photos, and Arthur really liked the photo of him and Johnny that ran in Mojo. Is there any way that I could get copies? I’d like to use them for some future projects.” I started crying as I read that email, which I still have.

A few of my photos of Arthur and Love have since been used in various places. I’m very proud that the photos I took, taken first and foremost for my own enjoyment, have become something else. Do I wish I’d taken more? Sure, a photographer always wishes he had more pics. But sometimes, it’s what we do get that stays with us, and allows others to find us, too.

Travels With My Camera: Johnny Cash and the Carter Family

Travels With My Camera

Johnny Cash and the Carter Family

by Daniel Coston

Originally written for Cash photo show in Raleigh, NC 2005
Originally published on Tangents Magazine website, 2010

It’s June 14, 2003, one month after the passing of June Carter. In previous years, June and Johnny Cash had often visited the Carter Family home of Hiltons, VA, hidden deep within the Virginia mountains. June’s cousins, Janette and Joe Carter (children of A.P. and Sara Carter, of the original Carter Family) had built the Carter Family Fold in 1976 as a home for old-time music, and June’s annual return to the Fold (usually based around her June 25th birthday) with Johnny in tow had always been a joyous affair. But now, these shows as seemed as distant a memory as my hope of ever seeing Johnny Cash in person.

I drove to Hiltons on this day for the Fold’s usual Saturday show with no particular reason in mind, other than this feeling that I should go. Yellow ribbons that had been tied in June’s memory sat all along the road to Hiltons, and the sign outside the Fold bore one simple message: Pray For John.

As the show progressed that night, I began to wonder about the Fold’s show the following week. During an intermission, Janette Carter mentioned that next week’s show would be a tribute to June Carter, on what would have been her birthday show. But there seemed to be something that they weren’t saying, a feeling that something special was going to happen. As I was saying goodbye to the Fold’s merch person (whom I later found out to be Flo Wolfe, granddaughter of A.P. and Sara Carter), I knowingly mentioned to her that I was sorry that I had never gotten to see Johnny Cash. Flo smiled, grabbed my arm and said, “Come back next week.” It felt like lightening in a bottle. Something that seemed beyond even my wild imagination was about to happen.

On June 21, 2003, Johnny Cash arrived at the Fold 20 minutes before showtime. Despite his weak legs, he insisted on walking back into the Fold, so son John Carter Cash, and assorted friends and relatives steadied him as he walked, step by anxious step. Despite the Carter’s best efforts to keep the show a secret, word had leaked out and by 7:30pm the venue had sold over 1700 tickets, in a place that can hold usually hold 600 people indoors. The Carter’s folded up the venue’s back walls, and the crowd sat on the mountainside, a sea of people that just seemed to keep going.  

After singing “Folsom Prison Blues” and “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” Cash began to talk to the audience about June. “There is nothing worse that can happen to you than losing the person you love,” he said. “It’s the big one.” I have never heard anyone else talk with such honesty about loss to one person, let alone 1700. “I want to do this song for June,” he later added. “When I sing this song, I think of her. This is for June.” He paused, and then said in a voice that suggested he was talking to someone just beyond the back row, “I know you’re here tonight, baby.” Myself and the entire crowd exhaled and sobbed at once. As Cash, John Carter, John’s wife Laura Cash, Rosie Nix Adams (June’s daughter by Roger Nix), and the rest of the musicians began to play the Stanley Brothers’ “Angel Band,” I wiped the tears from my eyes, and steadied myself to take another picture, completely lost in the moment….

Johnny Cash had intended to perform at the Fold the following week, but it was said that his health and heart weren’t up to the task. But the family said, “Come back next week.” The following week, July 5, Cash was feeling better, and performed again at the Fold despite a ragged voice that bothered him for much of the show. Even with that, Cash told jokes and took a request for his final number, “Understand Your Man.” 

Cash’s love of performing for audiences was still obvious, and he enjoyed returning to a place that meant so much to him and June. After the show, Cash promised the Carter’s that he would return to the Fold that late September, once his new record was finished….

Johnny Cash died on September 12. I returned to the Fold the following week, which had originally planned to be one of the weekends for Johnny’s return, and photographed the matching “We Love You Johnny and June” that the family had put up in front of their summer home.

Six weeks later, Rosie Nix Adams died of an accidental poisoning of carbon monoxide. I was in Atlanta that weekend, and had this feeling that I needed to check my email. There was a message from my photo agency, with only one line written: “Do you have any photos of Rosie Nix Adams?” I immediately knew why they were asking. 

Joe Carter, a man that shared a love of music and slingshots with Cash, died in March of 2005. I watched his family sing “Will The Circle Be Unbroken” at his graveside, as they do for all members of the Cash and Carter family. Janette Carter hung on for another year, and passed away a year later, ending an era in America’s first musical family, and of American music itself. 

“I wish you could have met June Carter,” one of the Carter family members said to me after the July 5th show. “You would’ve gotten on well with her. But you were here for these shows, and that’s okay.” 

Travels With My Camera: A Dream In Iceland

Travels With My Camera: A Dream In Iceland

It all seemed like a dream. In 2004, I became friends with a group of musicians that worked at the Neighborhood Theatre, a music venue in Charlotte, NC. Their band, which they had named Mar, after the singer’s late mother, had an ethereal, yet emotional sound. They grabbed from different influences, but they took many cues from the Icelandic indie scene, bands such as Sigur Ros, and Mum.

In the fall of that year, both Mum and the Album Leaf (led by Jimmy Lavalle, an American musician that had played and recorded in Iceland) came to play the Neighborhood Theatre, and Mar opened both shows. Both Lavalle and the members of Mum liked Mar’s sound, and they hatched a plan. If Mar could raise enough money for recording, the band could come to Iceland, and Lavalle and two members of Mar would produce their record. They would even record in Sigur Ros’ famous recording studio. One only other American musician had ever recorded there, and that was Lavalle. “This album is going to need some photos,” the band said to me at one point. “Would you like to come along?” How could I say no to this almost unreal prospect?

I rode up to the airport with some of the bandmembers up to Baltimore-Washington airport on February 14, 2005. The driver was another friend of the band that was going to shoot a documentary on the recording sessions. He tried to talk right-wing politics the whole seven-hour drive. By the time we got on Icelandic Air, it was a relief. We flew into Keflavik, the only airport in Iceland, at 5am their time on February 15th. Between the darkness, and our sleep deprivation, it felt like we had arrived on the moon, with fleeting glimpses of the barren volcanic rock going by our car. 

The following two weeks were a blur of photos and anxious discovery. The money that was supposed to be there for recording turned out to be less than promised, and the band was told that they only had enough money for four days of recording. But someone knew a benefactor, and they amazingly wired a generous amount of money towards the completion of the album. Sigur Ros was delayed in finishing their new album, and their studio ws not available. However, they paid to have Mar record instead in a studio in Reykjavik, the country’s lone metropolis. This turned out to be a blessing, as it meant that I had the chance to explore the city during the sessions, instead of being stranded out in the desolate part of the country that Sigur Ros’ studio sits in.

I quickly figured out a way to work around the musicians. I would go in quickly, getting my photos in moments that fit best, and tried to stay out of the way as best I could, especially if recording got bogged down. I also saw the rest of the country on two days trips, taking in the sights of geysers, ocean views, and lakes that were created out of long-ago meteors. I arrived at the largest waterfall in Iceland, and discovered that the path was a narrow, icy path along the mouth of the falls. I originally was going to pass on going further, and I suddenly asked myself, “Daniel, when will you get the chance to do this again?” I sat down at the top of the path, and slowly slid to the tip of the falls, taking photos as I went.

Song by song, brick by brick, the album was finished and was being mixed by the time I flew back on February 28th. Mar then returned home, toured for a week with Jimmy Lavalle, and then broke up. Too young, too much, too soon? I don’t know. The singer moved to Alabama, and released the album himself via Myspace. Drawings filled the album’s artwork, instead of my photos. Thankfully, I had gotten a few quick pictures of Sigur Ros in their studio while helping Mar pick up gear. A few magazines ran these photos later that year, which helped to pay off the money I’d put into the trip. I put the remaining 60-plus rolls from the trip into a drawer in my office. By the time I pulled them out again, six years had passed.

I look at the photos now, and they all seem like a dream. I see the hope, and excitement, the thrill of rushed discovery. Do I wish that things had gone differently for Mar? Of course. But I do not regret the experience. We often see ourselves traveling in our dreams, exploring places that are unknown to us. Dreams are indeed just a state of mind, a momentary belief that what we see before us is real, and that all things all possible. When I see these photos, I am reminded of that hope, of Iceland, of the people, and that fleeting moment in my own journey. 

-Daniel Coston

April 12, 2011

Travels With My Camera: One Roll Of Film

Travels With My Camera: One Roll Of Film

Despite having switched over to the digital medium in the past year, I am still a great believer in what one roll of film can capture. There’s something of a sense of great possibilities when you’ve loaded that fresh roll into your camera. You feel a sense of purpose, and an almost gleeful feeling of charging at a blank canvas with your mind wide open. Granted, there are many rolls of film that I’ve wasted on things that weren’t so great. Business meetings, travel snaps, or just general goofing off on my part. But every once in a while, a roll of film captures things beyond your expectations, and catches things forever on both a professional level, and a personal one. 

It’s September of 1999. I get a call from the publicist for the local amphitheater. Ted Nugent is headlining a show of aging ‘70s rockers, and no one from the local media is covering it. “Can you come out? I’ve already gotten you a press pass.” Sure, I say. I’ve never been a big fan of Nugent’s, but I’ve never photographed him, and the publicist has already gone through the trouble of getting me onboard. So I headed to the amphitheater straight from another gig that evening.

I must tell you that I’m not one to air my grievances with certain musicians in public. There’s enough of that already out there among others in the music business, and I’ve never needed to follow that precedent. Plus, if all you end up doing is throwing out your worst opinions on people that you’ve worked with, it will all eventually come back to you. That being said, I’ve never had a good experience with Ted Nugent’s handlers, which I think says something about the boss. His people once ticked me off so badly that I announced loudly that the Amboy Dukes were the best thing that Nugent had ever done. Within earshot of Ted. I also later swiped his pen to send to a friend, but that’s for another story.

So I get down to the ampitheater, and start shooting. Halfway through one roll of film, Ted’s handler grabs me and says, “You’re not wearing the right colored pass,” and starts to push me out. “Wrong colored pass,” I say, “There IS no wrong colored pass! I’m the only one here.” The minder isn’t listening (deafness when “necessary” is an attribute of many handlers), I walk away, half angry at the handler, and half laughing at the absurdity of it all. Kicked out of a Ted Nugent concert! Back when that would’ve meant something, I think to myself, I was six years old, and taking naps in kindergarten. The venue publicist is furious. “No one else gave a crap about the show,” she says to me. “You show up, and they wrongly kick you out!” I later heard that the handler was let go by Ted’s compound because of my incident, among other mishaps. 

So there I am, now looking for photograph something, and it’s not even 9pm. Earlier in the week, I had been at the local public TV station, working on a show with my friend Stuart Grasberg. Stuart was a music fan like myself, and happened to mention to me that his band was playing in a bar in Rock Hill, SC the same night as the Nugent show. Happy to surprise Stuart, and to “spiritually cleanse” the rest of the roll, I drive to Rock Hill, and have a good time listening to Stuart play rock n’ roll that had been lacking earlier in the evening.

The next week, I printed the roll at Eckerd’s, and gave Stuart his half of the prints, and sent the Nugent prints to a photo agency that I had just signed with. Stuart flipped over one photo I’d taken of him onstage, playing guitar underneath a single red light. He promptly tacked it to the poster board in his office.

Three years later, I’m driving somewhere to a gig, and my cellphone rings. It’s my contact at the photo agency. He excitedly tells me that he’s just sold one of my Ted Nugent pics for the cover of a best-of compilation. I nearly ran off the road from laughing so hard. Eckerd’s did do a good job on the printing! Sadly, I have never seen the CD (the agency received three copies, none of which they’d give me), but the resulting check more than covered the original cost of printing.

In 2006, I ran into Stuart Grasberg while photographing a Charlotte Knights game, and took photos of him with his son. I waved when I was done, and went back to shooting the game. Less than a week later, Stuart was stung by several yellow jackets in his yard, and died from the infection. The photos I’d printed for him from the game became his memorial photos. Soon after, the TV station started a foundation for him. I happened to be watching TV the night the foundation’s logo and photo was debuted. It was my photo of him from 1999, playing guitar in Rock Hill. The station had found the photo after Stuart’s death, still displayed in his office, and had chosen it as his memorial photo.

One cannot be aware of all the possibilities of your work when you begin something, nor should you. The ifs, ands and buts of possibilities can push you into paralysis, if you’re not careful. The hope for many of us in the business of expression is that our work transcends the circumstances of its creation, and becomes something more than even we were aware of at the time. I have not always been prepared for that aspect, but it still is a part of my work. 

That being said, I am still humbled by where some of my photos have ended up, out of their sometimes silly origins. While I would have traded that roll to still have Stuart here, I am proud that I didn’t just waste the rest of that roll, and in turn captured something that I’ll always treasure. We can never know where our actions will lead us over time, but I still believe in the possibilities of a fresh roll of film, an open mind (and heart), and what can come out of the next blank canvas. 

-Daniel Coston

January 5, 2011