James R. Minchin III

The Verdugo Mountains softened the horizon and grazed the high cotton clouds. The wooded peaks surrounding the valley appeared more like crumpled blankets than their true unforgiving dirt, mud, and stone. It was noontime in the spring on Lake St. in Burbank, California and the sun was glowing, reflecting softly off the hoards of dusty windshields in the used car district. Barreling down the street with a loud muffler-less growl crawled a large, red, rusty Ford truck. It was making its way to the side parking lot of a very unassuming, fly-by-night, built in a couple of days, pre-fabricated steel and cinder block building which housed Tranzformer Studios. Inside the truck, gripping the wheel and scanning house numbers was James R. Minchin III, Rolling Stone photographer.

The rusty red truck with South Dakota plates and a mismatched topper slowly bellowed into the parking lot. It coughed and wheezed as James cut the engine and exited. The door protested with a loud creak as he pushed his long, skinny, denim-covered leg out and to the ground. His worn, gray Converse shoe twisted on the pavement as he stood up and out of the truck cab. A tall man, James looked to be in his mid-forties with an early graying of his short, messy hair and trim, yet bushy beard. His long face was accented by his receding hairline and low, dark brows. A large, rounded nose made him look more like a professor of Biology than a rock star photographer. If not for his inked arms, wrinkly t-shirt, and flower child pendant you’d probably want to raise your hand before addressing him. In a relaxed stride, James made his way over to the side wall of the building and leaned back, kicking his knee up and crossing his arms like some plywood cut-out cowboy.

Inside the building was the large, open space studio that Bryan Carlstrom and Dave Jerden called home. Carlstrom and Jerden were audio pioneers in the ‘70s, ‘80s, and ‘90s, recording everyone from the Rolling Stones and Talking Heads to Alice in Chains and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Gold and platinum records dotted the walls, along with works from local painters from Los Angeles. Mood lighting, accent walls, uncoordinated couches and an abundance of recording equipment filled the inside to give a cozy atmosphere and fuel any creative sparks. James was commissioned by Rolling Stone magazine to be there for a photo shoot that day.

James has photographed the likes of Tom Waits, Avril Lavigne, and Kings of Leon; a quick Google search would show you just about any popular artist’s photograph accredited to him. James has been working with Rolling Stone for many years and has the stories to prove it. “I spent a day shooting Kings of Leon during rehearsal and then afterward getting to know how they are outside of the band,” James reminisced. “It would take a lot for me to do it again. Those guys are crazy; they’re all brothers and they fight like it, too,” he claimed in his soft, mid-range, relaxed voice. “They would go out to drink and get in to knock-down-drag-out fights, leaving each other bloody and bruised when the smoke cleared,” he went on, “but that was back when they first started to gain popularity.” James was done talking; it was time for him to survey the studio and get ready to shoot.

A plain, oversized, white van rolled into the parking lot and several guys jumped out to begin unloading all of James’ photography equipment. First to be hefted inside was lighting. Two short trolleys were pulled out of the back of the van full of car batteries, lighting stands, umbrellas, cables and anything else you can imagine that would be needed. There was so much equipment scattered about, it looked as though they were about to light up an entire stadium for a major baseball game. Heavy-duty, black and silver cargo cases poured out as the men unloaded. A cart loaded with a dozen cameras ranging from high-end digital SLRs to expensive instant Polaroids sat in waiting near the entrance of the building. This was when it became clear James meant business. His busted truck and disheveled appearance were misleading. He was there to work.

Once everything was set up, James grabbed a Polaroid and started snapping test shots to get a feel for the lighting and color. Two of his equipment handlers acted as stand-ins for the shoot, and the three of them joked and laughed as the test subjects struck strange, dramatic poses and sang into the microphone prop. James would snap a shot, move, snap another, grab a different camera, then snap some more. Once he was happy with how things were turning out, he asked for the real models to come out from the makeup area. He shot through five rolls of film and filled a couple of memory cards as he danced around the set, grabbing sideways shots at all different angles, remaining professional and courteous at all times. James would tell jokes when he wanted smiles and asked for seriousness when he didn’t. Hot lights in umbrellas, strobe flashes, and quick clicks of the shutter filled the room as he held up his camera, signaling his assistants for a change in medium or lenses. James was talented and ran a well-oiled machine. I’m certain any number of the thousands of shots he took that day would have fit the bill.

After a few hours the magic subsided, the equipment slowly disappeared, and there was James, helping to break it all down and carry it outside. In the past, I have only heard of big time photographers barking orders, throwing their arms up in frustration, and ultimately storming off the set. Seeing one up close, I realize they’re just hard-working human beings with an eye for art and a need to pay the mortgage. I’m sure James pays his bills like everyone else; the difference is he has a passion and a love for his career and is talented enough to do it for one of the most creative industries on earth. I didn’t see James leave, but his old truck announced it clearly as it rumbled off into the tepid evening air. The next time you see a flower child past his prime choking down the highway in a broken down truck, assume nothing. It might just be James on his way to photograph your next big obsession.