Danny Clinch - Danny Clinch: Still Moving

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Table of Contents

Guide

STILL IS STILL MOVING TO ME.

WILLIE NELSON

abrams

new york

C L I N C H

DANNY

Foreword by Bruce Springsteen

STILL MOVING

FOR MAR IA, MAX & NINA

FOR MOM, DAD & ROBIN

When Danny Clinch and I clicked as photographer/

subject, it was because somewhere deep inside we had

similar points of referencethe same songs and movies

dancing in our heads. With each click of the shutter he

was scrolling through my record collection, referencing my

influences, searching for the same magic. I could feel hed

been mesmerized by the same 12 x 12 album covers and

the same images of our heroes that made me want to be a

musician and that made me, during our shoots, tilt my head

down a little (like Elvis), or move to the left into half shadow

(like Dylan) or out into light (like, like... ?). I did this for

years as a pimply faced teenager in front of the mirror in my

bedroom, searching for the perfect rock-and-roll pose. The

only difference is that now I do it in front of his camera. But

to do the professional version of what you did in front of

your mirror as a kid takes trust in the person who holds the

camera. A trust so strong that, here in the world of pop, or,

as Joe Strummer called it, the land of a thousand stances, a

common history unfolds, made up of the music and images

that set the two of us on fire and dreaming.

BRUCE

SPR INGSTEEN

foreword by

THERE IS ALWAYS HIS

KNOWLEDGE OF THE

ARTIST; HIS EYE FOR

THE STRIKING; THE

CAPTURED MOMENT

OF DEFINITION.

From opposite sides of the lens, together Danny and

I turn those dreams into a visual language that speaks to

the viewer. We stand a few feet apart and conduct a silent

conversation. A conversation that leads both back in time

and forward into the future, all the way from those wild men

and women whose dreams made us dream and deep into

another storythe one Ive imagined through my music,

and Danny through his photography. Thats why were here.

Thats the job were doing together. Shape, shadow, color,

light, movement, texture, attitudeall of these elements

turning into a narrative that regenerates and renews the

thirty-five-year-long conversation Ive been having with my

audience. When it works, its the visual equivalent of writ-

ing a hit song. Something familiar, something new.

Boom!

Lightning strikes. Danny and I have written pretty well

together over the past decade.

I work with Danny because, from the first frame, he

instinctively understood all this. When I look at Dannys

photos, I see that this story is present at every one of his

shoots, no matter how diverse the performer, musical styles,

or setting. There is always his knowledge of the artist; his

eye for the striking; the captured moment of definition; and

the black magic, voodoo, guitar-slinging world of rock and

roll that Ive lived for since I was fourteen years old. Danny

nonchalantly carries this with him when he shows up on

your doorstep, along with his hyperawareness of history

and place. His photos bleed atmosphere. The atmosphere

of time, of music, and of magic being made, conjured by

the ordinary people who were struck by that lightning.

Theres Bob Dylan elegantly reading the (Spanish!)

newspaper or staring out that light-filled window. The

Beastie Boys in a dead-serious comic trance about to go

on. Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis, the grand architects,

barely staring at each other from opposing pages. Now

theyre ancient kings with no more wars to fight, but still

the living, breathing embodiments of a secret everyone else

in this book would sell their souls at the crossroads for. If

you wouldnt, you dont belong here. If Danny wouldnt, he

wouldnt deserve to take their fucking pictures. They are

the first frontiersmen, who cannot shed their raw royalty.

They sit with weary eyes and worn bodies but still carry

some fuck-you, kingdom-conquering slice of humanity. We

all carry this within ourselves, but it exploded from them in

a shrapnel of color, outraged genius, untempered demands,

and insane American expectation that would pass for a viral,

mass lunacy if their fruits hadnt been twistedly sanctified

by the Man himself. They gave us a God we could believe in.

Faulted, sexual, absurd, glorious, and transcendent, theyre

what this book and Dannys photography is all about.

Theyre still real folks like you and me, but

transformed

on

some strange quest or musical odyssey, outside the bounds

of everyday life, inside the untamed land of rock and roll.

As for Danny, if hes anything, hes a rock-and-

roll photographer, one of the last of a breed in the hallowed

tradition of Jim Marshall. Like Jim, he limits himself to his

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