Dillinger, Kingston, Jamaica 1992.

Tuesday, 14 December 2010 I ran into the dub legend that is Dillinger completely by accident. I was working on a slightly ill-conceived article for NME, about the legacy of Bob Marley in his native country. I was with the writer Ian McCann. We’d gone along to Bob Marley’s birthplace, to his old studio, around many of his old haunts, met his wife and met a couple of the Wailers. Quite naturally, we also went down to the Tuff Gong record plant (which was a bit like a couple of old garages and not like anything European). 

Whilst we were there, someone pointed to an old guy leaning against a tree and casually said “…and that’s Dillinger over there.” I was gobsmacked. I’m not a huge reggae fan or anything but I loved a lot of that late ‘70s dub. And Dillinger was really the king of that era.

So I wandered over and asked him if I could take his photo. He didn’t seem at all surprised to be asked.  It was almost like he’d been waiting for me.

Lydia Lunch, New Orleans 1992.

Wednesday, 8 December 2010 One of the really great things about being a photographer is that sometimes it can give you access to people who otherwise you might never meet.

A friend of mine, Karl Blake (of the Lemon Kittens and Shock Headed Peters fame) casually mentioned to me one day that he’d been doing some recording with Lydia Lunch. Since I was a huge fan of hers, I persuaded him to give me her phone number. At that time Lydia was living in New Orleans and I just rang her and asked her if I could come over and take some photographs of her. She was absolutely lovely about it all and agreed, possibly because she’s a keen photographer herself.

A week or two later, I flew over and spent an afternoon photographing her in her house and around the city. Which was gloomy and deserted.  It was raining heavily the whole time, which imbued the photos with a strange, but not totally unattractive, melancholy.

Damien Hirst, Holborn Studios London 1998.

Tuesday, 30 November 2010 Together with Keith Allen, Alex James and Joe Strummer, Damien Hirst was one quarter of the pop group Fat Les. Put together to record the ‘official’ World Cup song ‘Vindaloo’.

It got to number two in the UK charts but it’s fair to say but this is probably not the achievement for which any of them will be best remembered. 

For my session, they all dressed in ‘Village People’ type outfits and this is why Damien Hirst is seen here as a Native American Indian. For some reason, a few frames later, he insisted in getting his ‘old fella’ out and having me photograph that too.

He’s quite a rich guy, I believe?  Maybe I should blackmail him with it?

John Peel, Peel Acres, Suffolk 1987.

Friday, 19 November 2010 Back in the mid ‘60s, like most British kids of my generation, I was a big fan of the pirate radio stations Radio Caroline and Radio London.  Other than Radio Luxembourg (which only came on in the evening and had a pretty flaky signal), the pirates were really the only way of hearing any decent music on the radio.  

John Peel was one of the early stars of Radio London and his ‘The Perfumed Garden’ was essential listening

When BBC Radio One started, at the end of ’67, and all the best pirate DJ’s switched over, John Peels’  ‘Top Gear’ show became my new favourite.

In those days, other than the equally brilliant Pete Drummond, he was virtually the only DJ playing the new music that was coming out of the American West Coast - stuff like Moby Grape, Love and Buffalo Springfield.  And with his low, lugubrious voice and self-deprecating sense of humour, I always felt he was talking directly to me personally.  Between songs, he’d ramble on at some length, in the hippy-dippy, peace and love type way that was fashionable at the time - talking about cycling in the park, looking at the birds and smelling the flowers.  And he often used to say how much he liked it when any of his listeners would come up to him and say hello.

One day, for some reason that now completely escapes me, I was wandering around Hyde Park with a small group of school friends and I noticed John Peel sitting against a tree, earnestly reading a book.  At that age, I was very shy and gauche and my friends were mostly the same.  Nevertheless, I persuaded them to come over with me and try to engage the great man in conversation.  “It’s okay” I told them, “he said on the radio he likes it.”

We wandered over and I ventured a rather meek “Hi” to which his response was a sharp and unequivocal “F*ck off!”  He didn’t even bother to look up.  I was really rather shocked.  Not by his choice of language - I heard those same two words, in that exact order, virtually daily from girls at my school.  It was just that it was the absolute last thing you’d expect radio’s most mellow, flower-power type bloke to come out with.  We obediently did as he suggested, but that day the altar of my hero worship received it’s very first, small dent.

Almost exactly twenty years later, I was commissioned by the NME to photograph Mr Peel at his house in Suffolk.  At some point in the proceedings, I light-heartedly mentioned our somewhat unpromising first meeting.  Unaccountably in my view, he claimed to be totally unable to recall the earlier event.  Nevertheless he was quite apologetic, verging almost on the sincere.  A while later, when I was packing my gear into my car, he came out and by way of a further apology and completely out of sight of the NME journalist (Sean O’Hagan) or anyone else, presented me with an album from his extensive collection that I mentioned earlier I’d been looking for for years - Jackie Whitren’s ‘Give Her the Day.'   Which was extremely nice of him.  He appeared genuinely sorry about that day, 20 years before, that he couldn’t even remember anyway.

John Peel genuinely was one of the good guys and is sorely missed.

Anne-Sophie and Jenni, Torture Garden, London 2010.

Tuesday, 9 November 2010 I've been taking photographs in London fetish clubs since 1981.  And the occasional fetishist in other clubs since about 1978.

To the best of my knowledge, the popularity of fetishism really started in the UK in 1976 with the emergence of punk rock and the appropriation of elements of bondage and fetish wear by many of the punk era designers.  Prior to this time, people who wanted to dress in rubber and PVC had to do it behind closed doors, ordering their outfits by mail-order in brown paper parcels.

To begin with it was just a handful of people in a small dingy Soho club called Skin Two, which resided in what was, the rest of the week, a gay club called Stallions.  Skin Two was started by an actor called David Claridge.  He went on to become famous as the hand up the furry arse of TV star 'Roland Rat' and after his nocturnal predilections were exposed by the gutter press, he disappeared from the scene.

The atmosphere in the Skin Two club was oppressive and sometimes menacing.  Outsiders, especially ones with cameras, were certainly not made to feel welcome.  But, pretty soon, big name photographers like Bob Carlos Clarke and several others brought fetish style images into view more and things got a lot more relaxed.

By the mid-’80s PVC and rubberwear was all over fashion magazines and pop videos.  By the late '80s/early '90s some of the bigger fetish clubs like Submission and Torture Garden could easily attract 3000 people a night and people came from all over the world to get there.  And then some of them went back home and started their own fetish clubs.  Nowadays, Torture Garden has become very mainstream and it's not completely unlike any other large club in any other major western city, except sometimes people are dressed very oddly.

In the early days, I got threatened with physical violence in Skin Two several times.  One guy seized me by the neck and we nearly came to blows.  A couple of women grabbed me one night and tried to drag me over to where one of the dominatrixes was waiting, whip in hand.  I had to manhandle them off me and make my getaway.  But I was clearly an outsider back then and I would never have even gotten into the early fetish clubs if I hadn't become friendly with some of the people running them.  I know for a fact that most of the old-time fetishists resented my presence.  But it was obviously people like me that helped to publicise and promote the scene, so the people who ran the clubs have always been very welcoming.  These days you can't move for photographers in these kind of clubs.

I'm not really sure what it was about the fetish scene that appealed to me.  I'm not a fetishist myself and don’t even really like wearing the leather trousers I’m obliged to wear in these clubs.  To begin with I had a real compulsion to photograph the way people were dressing and the amount of humour and invention some people put into creating their own, largely home-made, outfits was certainly worth somebody recording.  These days, most people in fetish clubs are wearing shop bought, off-the-peg outfits but there are still many remarkable individualists.

Nevertheless, some people say that there's something badly wrong with any man over 30 who still wears leather trousers, whatever the excuse.

In my case, they’re probably right.

Exactly what that something “wrong" might be, I'll leave you to draw you own conclusions.

Anyone who wants to know more about the fetish scene could do a lot worse than go here -

http://www.thefetishistas.com/

Keith Richards, The Savoy, London 1985.

Saturday, 6 November 2010 Back when they were great, I was a massive Stones fan and, like most people, my favourite Stone was always Keith.  I was ecstatic to be asked to photograph him. And so was my wife Jo-Anne, who clearly harboured feelings for him that she never quite harboured for me.

On the day of the shoot, I was absolutely determined nothing would go wrong, so I spent ages cleaning and checking my gear. But when it was time to leave, I couldn’t find my car keys anywhere.  I was about have a heart attack when Jo-Anne chanced to remember that our eight-year old daughter had been asked to take any “old and unused” keys she could find into school that day. The school was promptly rung up and my car keys were located and Jo-Anne more or less ran the half mile there and back to go and get them.  Whilst Jo-Anne was running, I had to have a brief lie down to try to recover some modicum of calm.

We got down to the Savoy only a few minutes late. Unusually for such a big star, the whole time we were with Keith Richards there were no helpers or hangers-on trying to hurry us up. There was just him, his wife, his baby daughter and Mat Snow who was writing the article for NME.  When me and Jo-Anne (who had bizarrely insisted on assisting me), were packing up my equipment, he said to us “Now you’re absolutely sure you’ve got enough?” And I honestly felt he meant it.

He’s a very, very nice bloke.

Michael Stipe, Athens, Georgia 1991.

Saturday, 30 October 2010 When I tell people what I do for a living, the one question I get asked more than any other is “who was your favourite subject?” Actually, sometimes that’s the only question people ask.

I don’t have a very good answer, I’m afraid. 

Anyone that I’ve enjoyed photographing once, I always want to photograph again.  With the prior knowledge that they’re good to work with, I can go to the shoot with a greater expectation and the sense that maybe I can push myself a lot harder a second time. On the other hand, with anyone I didn’t really enjoy photographing, or didn’t do a very good job with, I’m always convinced things would be bound to be better a second time, whatever happens.  (Things don’t always work out like this.  Musicians, actors and the like are usually creative people and, just like photographers, can have good days and bad days).

Michael Stipe would certainly come into my first category, he’s a perfect subject, has nice eyes and a great head, and is a keen photographer himself (and that always helps).

Lou Reed would come into the second category. He’s famously moody and is always difficult with members of the press. He seems to view photographers with particular suspicion. For our session, he would not get up out of his chair because, he said, he didn’t want to be made to “look short.”  I thought to myself: “but you are short mate, it’s not my fault.” I kept that to myself, of course.

Nevertheless, he’s a bona fide rock icon and he’d certainly be in the list of subjects I’d love to try to shoot again.

Ari Up, Brixton 1992.

Thursday, 28 October 2010 (More apologies for the further non appearance of this blog. I think my website difficulties are now coming to an end.  They do say you can't teach an old dog new tricks and that would certainly seem to apply in my case).

It was with great sadness that I learnt of the death, on October 20th, of the Slits lead singer Ari Up.  I can't claim to have really known her, though I did photograph her a few times.  

And anyone who went to the Roxy club, during it's initial inception under Andy Czezowski, would have certainly seen her livening up the proceedings.  Not that they really needed enlivening but she did so anyway, that was the spirit of the times.  I was a big fan of the Slits in those days and I must have seen them in and around London in 77/78 at least a dozen times.  It was always different and you never knew quite what to expect, that was why I liked them.

The photograph of Ari above is, I admit, not very good and if it were not for this blog, would probably never have seen the light of day.  It shows her in her normal irrepressible, lively mood in the foyer of the Brixton Academy after a Grace Jones gig in 1992.  As you can see she was also quite a snappy dresser.

She was a real one-off and she will be dearly missed.

The circumstances around the one studio session I did with the Slits is mentioned here -

http://www.derekridgers.com/homepage/Blog/Entries/2010/4/26_The_Slits%2C_Chelsea_1978..html

Phoebe Legere, Carlton Hotel, Cannes 1990.

Thursday, 9 September 2010 (First of all, many apologies for the hiatus with this blog.  This is due to some improvements that we're trying to make with the rest of the website.)

I first became aware of Phoebe Legere when I saw the film Mondo New York, during which she’s shown, doubtless in some dingy lower Manhattan club, giving an absolutely mesmerising performance of her minor U.S. hit ‘Marilyn Monroe’.  Think Jimi Hendrix but with different hair.  That performance, once seen, I doubt anybody would forget.

As luck would have it, only a few months later, I saw Phoebe on the Croisette, during the Cannes Film Festival, whilst she was promoting The Toxic Avenger Part 2 (in which she played Toxie’s blind, accordion-playing girlfriend).  During a pause, I went over and introduced myself and took a few quick snaps and, later on, she very kindly invited me up to her suite to take some more (of which this is one).  It led to a friendship which has lasted ever since, with only a few hiccups along the way.

Phoebe is a classically trained musician and there’s no instrument that she doesn’t seem to have mastered.  She’s astonishingly accomplished.  When she wants to, she can play jazz piano like Keith Tippett only better. In her lower East Side appartment she once showed me a pile of her best reviews.  It was about a foot tall.  I looked through a few and they were absolutely glowing.  I said to her: “this is amazing, how come you’re not a huge star?”  With her hand about four feet from the ground she said: “Because my pile of bad reviews is about this tall.”  Phoebe can, sometimes, be a little overpowering.

She told me doesn't like this photograph much (but then she did post it on her Facebook page).   She said it made her look like a "hooker in a ten dollar hotel."  Never mind that The Carlton Hotel is one of the most famous and expensive hotels on the whole Riviera, I suppose she does have a point.  I like it because it shows her as she is, always totally irrepressible.

Niagara, Camden Town 2006.

Thursday, 29 July 2010 I first photographed Niagara on the stairs outside the dressing rooms when her band, Destroy All Monsters, played at the Camden Music Machine back in 1978.  It was one of the first shots I ever had published anywhere - in Zig Zag magazine. Twenty-eight years later, and completely out of the blue, she emailed me to ask if I wanted to take some more photos (that’s the wonder of the internet, I guess).

I was slightly apprehensive. In the late ‘70s she was just about the most beguiling female singer I’d ever seen. But, nearly three decades on, I wasn’t so sure how she would have aged. I wondered whether I might prefer to remember her as she was. Nevertheless, I agreed.

I don’t know what sort of deal she’d made with the devil, but I can honestly say she didn’t look much different to how I remembered her at all.  It was absolutely remarkable.