Music by Deborah Feingold

MU SIC PHOTOGRAPHS BY DE BORAH FEINGOLD INTRODUCTION BY ANTHONY DeCURTIS

MUSIC PHOTOGRAPHS BY DEBORAH FEINGOLD INTRODUCTION BY ANTHONY DeCURTIS

BY ANTHONY DeCURTIS youthful Peter Gabriel, his hands flat and his fingers

demands, musicians’ primitive reluctance to have their souls captured

outstretched, his eyes cast upward with hope, striking the pose of a mime,

in the magic box of the camera, and artists’ genuine aesthetic need to

crawling up the inside of a window, trapped as if within a prison—or within

communicate meaningfully with an audience who loves or might come to

his own creativity.

love their music, speaks to the pragmatic generosity of Feingold’s gift. These

Bono, with an impossible hairdo and an even more impossible belt,

photos are not the result of clever concepts into which a subject has been

looking into the camera as if it were a mirror, characteristically unable

inserted almost as a kind of afterthought, as if they were mere characters

to decide if he is on stage or in the privacy of his bedroom (a false

cast in someone else’s play. Their fascination and intrigue emerge from

distinction?) checking out his look.

the hum and buzz of musicians’ everyday lives, just as an idea for a tune

L.L. Cool J, chilling (with the help of a hand-held fan) in his room in

might occur to a songwriter from a snippet of conversation overheard on the

his grandmother’s basement in Queens, at ease amid the avalanche of

street or the la-la-la melody of a nursery rhyme a child recites. Musicians

his things, all the possessions and obsessions that fuel the roughness,

express their musicality at all times, these images suggest. And like a

whimsy, and winningness of his rhymes.

skilled producer in a studio, a deft photographer can both encourage that

Prince on the couch in his dressing room in a kind of parody of relaxation,

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music to come forth, recognize it when it does, and capture it for posterity.

staring straight at the camera, his legs spread, his shirt open, seduction,

Feingold’s vision began to take shape after she graduated from Emerson

vulnerability, fear, and threat all intermingling, jostling for prominence,

College in Boston and took a part-time job in a camera store that was

within the complex cocktail mix of his personality.

located near Paul’s Mall and the Jazz Workshop, two essential hotspots

The Replacements, too, perch on a battered couch as if in their parents’

of that city’s hip cultural life in the sixties and seventies. Those venues

rec room—their fuck-you (or really fuck-us) ease belying the danger of

became sources of Feingold’s musical education—that is, beyond the

those railroad tracks the couch straddles. With casually self-destructive

pop radio nirvana of the fifties and sixties that lit up her youth—and the

nonchalance, they’re ready for whatever comes—or, at least, they think

beginning of her understanding of what spellbinding subjects musicians

they are.

can be. There and at the Sugar Shack, an R&B hotbed in Boston, she saw

Those images, whether in stark black and white or, in L.L.’s case,

the likes of Miles Davis, Bill Withers, and Ashford & Simpson perform. She

bursting with color, all reflect their subjects in telling ways. Indeed, it’s

joined a photo co-op in Cambridge and simultaneously fell in with a group

as if they were expressions of the subjects themselves rather than

of young jazz musicians. It was a heady time. “It was the early seventies,”

the creation of another person. Such is the empathetic art of Deborah

she says. “It was very free-form, and I’d never been happier. Being around

Feingold, a photographer who for more than three decades has revealed

jazz musicians, I learned how to improvise. That changed my life. It was

striking truths about the people she views through her lens. This book

risk-taking and it was exciting.”

concentrates on her work with musicians. The images are a kind of secret

When her boyfriend, a jazz musician, decided he wanted to move to

collaboration, sometimes even an unwilling one, an unspoken agreement

New York, Feingold decided that might be the right move for her as well.

that, in exchange for their making themselves available to her eye, Feingold

They settled in Chelsea, something of an edgy neighborhood at the time,

will render a character study that speaks with warmth and gracefulness

and when her boyfriend joined Chet Baker’s road band, Feingold got the

about both the artist and the art.

opportunity to photograph the jazz legend for his record label. It was a

That so many of these pictures were taken on the fly, products of

quiet and, for reasons no one could know at the time, chilling experience

the seemingly never-ending battle between record company scheduling

—all of which is reflected in the photograph included here. “We met in an

THIS SPREAD: JAMES BROWN, 1979 PAGE 10: KEITH RICHARDS, 2000; PAGE 11: YOKO ONO, 1990 PAGES 12–13: PRINCE, 1980 8

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