Capturing the Music

By the early 1970s, Joni Mitchell was emerging as one of the most gifted and original singer-songwriters of her generation. A beautiful young woman with long blonde hair, a distinctive voice, and an extraordinary ability to turn personal experiences into songs, she was on the precipice of even greater recognition and critical acclaim.

Her early albums, including Clouds (1969), Ladies of the Canyon (1970), and Blue (1971), established her as an important voice in the folk music movement. Songs such as “Both Sides, Now,” “Chelsea Morning,” “Big Yellow Taxi,” “The Circle Game,” and “A Case of You” demonstrated an unusual gift for combining beautiful melodies with thoughtful, often deeply personal lyrics. She was writing about love, disappointment, relationships, and the complexities of life with a candor that was refreshing and, at times, almost startling.

When I photographed Joni at The Troubadour in 1972, she was just 29 years old. Her album Blue had already established her as a major recording artist, and For the Roses, released that November, would further demonstrate her growing sophistication as both a composer and performer. She had already achieved considerable recognition, although some of her most ambitious and critically acclaimed work was still ahead of her.

The Troubadour was a wonderful setting for Joni's music. There was something particularly special about being able to watch an artist of her caliber perform in such intimate surroundings. For a young man with a camera, it was an extraordinary opportunity to capture a musician whose work would eventually become such an important part of my musical life and that of so many others.

What has impressed me most about Joni Mitchell over the years is her unwillingness to remain in one musical place. While many artists find a successful formula and spend the balance of their careers repeating it, Joni continually challenged herself and her audience. She moved beyond her folk beginnings, incorporating increasingly sophisticated arrangements, jazz influences, and musical structures that were unlike much of what was being heard on popular radio.

I've followed that musical journey with enormous admiration. Not every artistic departure was immediately familiar or comfortable, but I appreciated that she was following her own instincts rather than simply giving audiences more of what they already knew.

Looking back at these photographs more than 50 years later, I see a beautiful young woman whose remarkable talent was already evident, but whose artistic journey was still unfolding. I also think about the young woman who introduced me to her music in the first place. Although our lives eventually took different paths, the appreciation for Joni Mitchell that she inspired has remained with me ever since.

These photographs capture Joni at a wonderful moment in her career, and they remind me of a time in my own life when so much was still ahead of me.

Her rendition of “Both Sides, Now,” penned by Joni Mitchell, had introduced me and countless other listeners to the extraordinary voice of Judy Collins. She had a beautiful, calming voice that commanded the audience to listen closely to what she was singing. There was something particularly captivating about the way she delivered a song, bringing an emotional depth to the lyrics that made you feel she was speaking directly to you.

Judy was the headliner that evening, and I remember being impressed by her versatility as a musician, moving comfortably between the guitar, dulcimer, and autoharp. The intimacy of The Troubadour was particularly well suited to her style of performing. There was no need for elaborate staging or theatrics. Her voice, her instruments, and the songs were more than enough to hold an audience's attention.

Throughout the 1960s, Judy had established herself as one of folk music's most important stewards. She helped introduce the music of Leonard Cohen to a much wider audience, recording his compositions at a time when he was still relatively unknown to American record buyers. She had an extraordinary ability to recognize talented songwriters and interpret their music in a way that made it her own.

By 1970, her album Whales & Nightingales included a remarkable interpretation of “Amazing Grace,” a song that would become closely associated with her. The following year, she released Living, a live album that further demonstrated her versatility as both a singer and an interpreter of contemporary music.

There was another interesting connection between Judy Collins and the extraordinary musical community of that period. Stephen Stills, with whom she had been romantically involved, wrote “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” about their relationship. The song became one of the defining recordings of Crosby, Stills & Nash, appearing on their debut album in 1969.

Stevens was only 22 years old when he appeared at The Troubadour in April 1971, a mere three years older than I was at the time. Carly Simon opened for him during that engagement. Both artists were emerging as important voices in a remarkable period of American popular music, and their appearances in the entertainment industry town of Los Angeles no doubt helped bolster their popularity.

The Troubadour offered something that larger concert halls couldn't: an opportunity to experience extraordinary musicians from just a few feet away. These photographs capture Cat Stevens during that remarkable moment in his career, before the intimate clubs gave way to much larger stages.

During the COVID pandemic of 2020, I scanned close to 200,000 images, in negative or slide form, to create a digital library of my photographic archives. For fun, I posted the Cat Stevens images to his fan page on social media. Much to my surprise, a few days later I received an email from Cat's production company, Catch Bull at Four, letting me know how much they appreciated The Troubadour photographs.  They went a step further, informing me that Genesis Publications, a London publishing house specializing in beautifully produced books about rock and roll artists, might be interested in my images. They made an electronic introduction, and for the next year or so, Genesis and I stayed in touch as they determined where my photographs might fit into the book.

The retrospective, Cat Stevens: Back Beyond, was published in 2022. Each copy was beautifully presented and personally signed by Cat Stevens. I was particularly pleased to see my photograph included, with a credit to Neil Resnick Photography. While they licensed four images, they ultimately used only one, which I have included in this collection.

In 1971, I was a young man about to enter adulthood. While many of Cat Stevens' songs resonated with me, the one that was particularly meaningful was “Father and Son.” The song is structured as a conversation between a father who wants his son to follow a safe, conventional path, and a son who feels compelled to find his own way in life.  In some respects, I felt that Stevens was speaking to me.  As a 19-year-old, this interplay between father and son was particularly meaningful. College decisions loomed for me. A profession was on my mind, but I struggled to find a way to combine passion and commerce.  Fast forward to 2014, when my son was turning 19, with the world and his life in front of him. Jonah and I would listen to the song together. To my son it was a lovely, well-crafted song. To me, it was a reflection on my own life.

Looking back over the 50-plus years since these images were taken, I am content with the road I have traveled.

At 25 years old, Carly appeared as the opening act for Cat Stevens at The Troubadour. I was fortunate enough to photograph both performers during the same evening. I remember Carly taking the stage. The audience could sense her nerves and because of her visible anxiety possibly clapped a little louder and longer to help her relax. Neither of us could have known just how successful these two young artists would become, although it was becoming increasingly apparent that something special was happening in the world of popular music.

The Troubadour was an extraordinary place to experience live music. Unlike the enormous concert venues that many of these artists would eventually fill, the club provided an intimacy that allowed the audience to feel almost as though they were sharing a living room with the performers. For a young photographer with a camera and an enthusiasm for music, it was a pretty remarkable place to be.

There is an interesting footnote to Carly's appearance that evening. During her engagement opening for Cat Stevens, she met another young singer-songwriter who was rapidly becoming one of the most recognizable names in popular music: James Taylor. The two would marry the following year.

Looking back more than half a century later, I find it fascinating to consider how many remarkable musicians passed through The Troubadour during those years. Some were already established stars, while others were just beginning their careers. Carly Simon was among the latter, although that distinction wouldn't last very long.

These photographs capture Carly Simon at the beginning of what would become an extraordinary career, during a period when the singer-songwriter was helping to redefine American popular music.

Those songs had become hits in the hands of other performers. Taking the stage to sing her own compositions was another matter. Her relocation from New York to Los Angeles, and a blossoming friendship with James Taylor, helped give her the encouragement and courage to step forward on the stage. Taylor recognized something that audiences would soon discover for themselves: the woman who wrote those melodies had a voice well worth hearing.

These photographs were taken during the early Tapestry years. Released in 1971, the album sold millions of copies and made Carole King a household name. Songs such as “So Far Away,” “It’s Too Late,” and “You’ve Got a Friend” felt personal enough to belong to the listener. She sang what she felt, and people recognized something of their own lives in her words.

She appealed to listeners of all ages, but I felt there was a particular affinity between Carole and women of a similar age. Here was a young woman singing candidly about affection, disappointment, independence, and friendship. Her delivery had a warmth and directness that suited those subjects. You could hear the songwriter thinking through the feelings as she sang. Sitting at the piano, Carole needed very little around her to hold the room’s attention. For someone who had spent years writing songs for others, she seemed to be discovering what it meant to receive an audience’s appreciation herself.

My favorite photograph in this series shows her sitting back from the piano, her arms down at her sides and an incredible, almost winsome, smile on her face. I can’t recall the precise circumstances when I snapped the shutter. But I have always described that photograph as Carole taking a moment to absorb the audience’s adulation. That is how the image has felt to me through all the years I have revisited it.

During the pandemic, I digitized these photographs along with much of my photographic archive. As I had done with my Cat Stevens images, I posted the Carole King photographs on social media, specifically on her fan pages.

That led to a message from a wonderful photographer named Elisa Klein. Elisa explained that she was Carole’s personal photographer and that their archives contained very few photographs of her performing at The Troubadour. She asked whether I would be willing to share mine.  “Of course,” I replied, “with one catch.  I wanted to send Elisa my favorite photograph from The Troubadour series, the one with that extraordinary smile, and, in return, have Carole personalize it to me.  To my delight, she did. That photograph is included in this collection.

When I took these photographs, I could hardly have imagined that decades later they would find their way back to the woman at the piano. I had simply been a young man with a camera, photographing a musician whose songs I loved. Having that photograph returned with a personal inscription gave an already treasured image a whole new meaning.

I knew I must have been on to something when my parents, Jack and Mollie, would stop by my room and ask who was singing. Here was music that could hold my attention and theirs. Clearly, James appealed to a much wider audience than the teenage boy sitting in that bedroom.

That first album included “Carolina in My Mind” and “Something in the Way She Moves,” songs that would remain part of his repertoire for decades. Even then, he had a distinctive way of combining his voice, his guitar playing, and his words. He seemed comfortable leaving a little room in a song, allowing the listener to settle in and pay attention.

For a young man beginning to think about life beyond the family house, there was a great deal to respond to in his music. His songs could suggest homesickness, uncertainty, affection, or the simple pleasure of being somewhere with someone you cared about. You didn't need to have lived through the same experiences to find something of yourself in them.

Eventually, I had the opportunity to photograph him at The Troubadour. The intimacy of that room seemed particularly suited to a performer whose records had already made such a personal impression on me. The voice I had listened to in my bedroom now belonged to someone sitting only a few feet away, with a guitar and a microphone. When you look at the band, Carole King on piano, Danny Kortchmar on lead guitar, Lee Sklar on bass, and Russ Kunkel on drums, it is amazing to think that these same musicians reunited with Taylor and King in November 2007 to celebrate The Troubadour's 50th anniversary. They were the very same musicians who had taken the stage together in the early 1970s.

Looking at these photographs today, I think about how long James Taylor's music has been part of my life. I also remember my parents pausing outside my room, listening long enough to ask who that was. More than half a century later, that small memory still makes me smile.

Songs such as “The Sound of Silence,” “Homeward Bound,” “America,” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water” became part of the soundtrack of my teenage years. Simon had a remarkable ability to write about loneliness, affection, uncertainty, and the search for a place in the world. At an age when I was beginning to consider those very things, his songs gave me plenty to think about.  I was crestfallen when the duo announced that they had decided to end their collaboration.  I thought that their magic could not be replicated with solo careers.

I remember taking these photographs at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium at a fundraiser for George McGovern’s presidential campaign. McGovern was running against Richard Nixon with an antiwar platform that, unfortunately, didn’t resonate with the voting public.  Musicians came out in strong numbers to support McGovern, with artists including Simon and Barbra Streisand lending their talents to the campaign. Music and politics frequently shared a stage during those years, and a concert could be both an evening of entertainment and an expression of hope about the country’s future.

By 1972, Simon was establishing a musical identity beyond his partnership with Garfunkel. His self-titled solo album, released that January, included “Mother and Child Reunion” and “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.” There was a rhythmic freedom and playfulness in those recordings that suggested how much more he had to explore.

What I have always admired about Simon is his attention to the details of ordinary life. A conversation, a passing observation, or a familiar setting could become the starting point for a song. His lyrics could be thoughtful and melancholy, but there was humor there, too. He understood that a small detail could tell you a great deal about a person.  Jumping back to the duo’s collaboration in the 1968 album, Bookends, I found myself smiling at an image he presented in the song Old Friends, “Old friends, old friends, sat on the park bench like bookends.”  I was 16 when the album was released and park benches were not on my radar.  But the image always stayed with me.

His musical curiosity would take him well beyond the folk influences of his early career. Over the years, he explored gospel, jazz, reggae, and the music of other cultures, continually finding new settings for his words. Yet through those changes, I could still recognize the songwriter whose music had first caught my attention in the 1960s. Because my wife, Bess, hails from South Africa, the 1986 Graceland, with its prominent contributions from South African musicians, has a particular resonance for me.

Photographing someone whose records you have spent years listening to carries a particular pleasure. You know the voice and the songs before you ever raise the camera. Then, for a brief time, you have the opportunity to watch the person behind them at work.

Looking at these photographs today, I am reminded of how much Paul Simon’s music has accompanied my own life. The young man listening to Simon & Garfunkel could hardly have imagined the range of music still to come, or that, more than half a century later, he would be sharing these photographs and remembering how it all began.

I was particularly excited to see her perform. By the early 1970s, she had already achieved extraordinary success, bringing her portrayal of Fanny Brice from Broadway to the screen in Funny Girl. She could be funny, vulnerable, commanding, and deeply moving, sometimes within the course of a single song.

For all that talent and apparent confidence, live performance could be an ordeal for her. She has spoken about the stage fright that intensified after she forgot lyrics during her 1967 Central Park concert. In the years that followed, her concert appearances became relatively rare, although she continued to lend her voice to causes she believed in. The opportunity to hear her in person was something I appreciated.

She certainly did not disappoint that evening. She sang familiar favorites while interspersing comments about George McGovern and the direction of the country. I remember her speaking about the need to come together, stop the Vietnam War, and build greater harmony between the races. Those concerns were very much part of the national conversation, and she was willing to use her considerable influence to address them.

What made Streisand so compelling was her ability to give a lyric the attention an actor gives a scene. There was meaning in the phrasing, in a pause, and in the way she moved from a quiet passage to the full power of her voice. Even when you knew a song well, she could draw your attention to something you hadn't considered before.

She also brought humor to the stage. Alongside the remarkable voice was a personality that could be playful, outspoken, and thoroughly engaging. That combination helped explain why her appeal extended across generations and musical tastes.

For a young photographer, there was plenty to watch. A photograph cannot reproduce a voice, but you hope to catch something of the person producing it: an expression, a gesture, or a moment of concentration that brings the performance back even after the final bow has been taken.

Looking at these photographs more than half a century later, I remember the excitement of having the opportunity to photograph Barbra Streisand. I had admired her before that evening. Hearing her sing in person gave me an even greater appreciation for just how much she could bring to a song.

For me, this was the first time a rock and roll band had brought such a substantial horn section into the mix. I was accustomed to guitars, bass, drums, and perhaps a keyboard. Suddenly, there was this enormous additional sound: brass and woodwinds playing intricate arrangements, answering the singer, and then coming together with enough force to make you sit up and pay attention. It was mind-blowing.

The technical proficiency of the musicians, coupled with the strong, gravelly voice of David Clayton-Thomas, quickly made Blood, Sweat & Tears one of my favorite bands. His voice had the power to stand alongside those horns, but he could also bring considerable tenderness to a song. There was a blues singer’s feeling in his delivery that gave all that musical precision a human center.

Songs such as “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy,” “Spinning Wheel,” and “And When I Die” demonstrated how much variety could exist within one band’s sound. They could move between rock, jazz, blues, and soul without making those styles seem like separate compartments. To my young ears, it opened up a whole new set of possibilities for what a rock band could be.

What impressed me was how much was happening within the music. You could listen to the singer, follow a horn passage, or pay attention to what the rhythm section was doing underneath it all. Each time you played a record, there was something else to notice.

Having the opportunity to photograph the band at the Long Beach Arena brought that early enthusiasm into another setting. Here were the musicians behind a sound I had first discovered through a birthday gift from my friends. With so many players contributing, there was plenty for both the ear and the camera to follow.

Looking at these photographs today, I think about that album and the pleasure of hearing something completely unexpected. My friends probably thought they were buying me a record. What they gave me was an introduction to a band that broadened my appreciation of music, and stayed with me for six decades of birthday to come.

As a founding member of the highly acclaimed group Traffic, alongside Steve Winwood, Jim Capaldi, and Chris Wood, Mason helped create a band whose music was difficult to put into a single category. There were elements of rock, jazz, folk, and psychedelia, and a willingness to experiment that made the late 1960s such an interesting time to be listening.

Mason also wrote “Feelin’ Alright?,” first recorded by Traffic and later made familiar to an even wider audience through Joe Cocker’s interpretation. It is one of those songs that seems to have a life of its own, finding a comfortable home with different singers and musicians while remaining unmistakably itself.

His solo career gave him room to develop his own combination of songwriting, soulful singing, and accomplished guitar playing. His 1970 album, Alone Together, included “Only You Know and I Know” and established him as an artist worth following beyond his association with Traffic.

My recollection is that these photographs were taken at the Santa Barbara County Bowl. It was a particularly good place to hear live music: an outdoor venue in a city I have loved since my student days at the University of California Santa Barbara. A camera, a concert, and Santa Barbara made a pretty agreeable combination.

Photographing Mason offered an opportunity to watch someone whose contributions extended beyond the familiar role of the singer at the microphone. He was a guitarist and songwriter as well, bringing those different skills together in the performance.

Looking at these photographs today, I am reminded of how closely connected so many of the musicians of that period were. Bands changed, partnerships formed and dissolved, and individual performers stepped forward with music of their own. Dave Mason’s journey from Traffic to a substantial solo career was part of that unfolding story, and I was fortunate enough to have my camera with me for a small piece of it.

Their sound brought together rock and roll, blues, rhythm and blues, country, and Southern soul, with a willingness to improvise that owed something to jazz. A song could become an extended musical conversation, giving each musician room to contribute while the others listened and responded. They could wander a considerable distance from where they had started, yet somehow arrive back together.

Their 1971 live album, At Fillmore East, captured that ability and helped bring them to a much wider audience. Here was a band whose reputation rested on what happened when the musicians took the stage together.

Tragedy struck in October 1971 when Duane Allman died in a motorcycle accident in Macon, Georgia. He and Dickey Betts had developed a distinctive partnership as the band’s two lead guitarists. Following Duane’s death, Betts took on an even greater responsibility, helping Gregg Allman and the surviving members carry the music forward.

Gregg’s soulful voice and keyboard playing gave the band a powerful center. Betts brought a melodic approach to the guitar that could be lyrical one moment and forceful the next. Beneath them, the rhythm section gave those extended performances both momentum and room to breathe. These were musicians who understood how to support one another without disappearing into the background.

Their reputation for memorable live performances certainly held true when I photographed them at my alma mater, the University of California, Santa Barbara. They played to an eager and excited audience in an outdoor setting that was particularly nice. Of course, I have always felt that Santa Barbara is probably the closest you can get to heaven while still on planet Earth.

For a photographer, a performance like that offers plenty of opportunities, but you still have to be watching when the moment arrives. One of my favorite images shows Betts leaning toward another musician, most probably one of the drummers, holding his gold Gibson Les Paul as if pointing to his bandmate. There is something about his posture that suggests complete involvement in the music and attention to what was happening around him.

That photograph reminds me of what made the Allman Brothers such a compelling live band. However accomplished the individual players were, much of the excitement came from watching them work together. You could hear an idea develop as one musician picked up on something another had played.

Looking at these images today, I remember the pleasure of being outdoors in Santa Barbara, camera in hand, listening to musicians who were prepared to let a song take its time.

But there was another connection to Browne.  Many years before this photograph was taken, I was an avid bicyclist, riding as much as 50 miles every weekend. One afternoon, at the end of a long ride, I stopped to rest in front of a beautiful Craftsman home in Santa Monica. The street was very quiet, so the sound of a piano coming from the house was particularly compelling. Being a music lover, I stayed to hear where this sidewalk concert was going to take me.  By the second song, I realized I was in front of Jackson Browne’s Santa Monica residence listening to his unmistakable voice through the window. Unbelievably, I was being treated to a concert for one: me.

My other connection to Jackson Browne is someone in his band. Bob Glaub is a legendary bassist and, coincidentally, someone I went to junior high and high school with. I vividly recall groups of marauding friends going to Bob’s front door to see if he wanted to join us for some baseball or basketball.  The answer was consistent: “Thanks, guys. I’m just going to keep practicing my bass.”  Bob, practice makes perfect. What a beautiful career you have had.  And while I am sure that I have told you before but in case I haven’t, just know that your friends from Daniel Webster Junior High School and Venice High School have always felt immense pride in our true rock and roll legend.

Back to Jackson… I shot this image with my iPhone. While it doesn’t have the clarity to make a great print, it certainly has the memory and the composition.