January 5, 2009 | Vol. 5 Issue 1
Archive of past issues, hurricane news, funky links, odds and ends — not quite a site map, but enough to navigate your way around.
July 20, 1969
Our playgrounds were beaches, rivers, and orange groves. Going to the Big City meant a run over to Orlando’s Steak ’n Shake or Ronnie’s, on Colonial. Remember Florida before air conditioning? Or how it felt waiting for the bus when the mosquito control spray planes fogged the whole county? Say, wasn’t that...DDT?
For us, the rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air most likely meant another launch that went haywire, ending up with someone hitting the destruct button and another million bucks of rocket up in smoke. The eyes of the world were on us — and life was great.
by John Siebenthaler
(ST. PETE BEACH, FL) I wasn’t a huge Tom Petty fan in ’85, with the major exception of his trademark hit, "American Girl". I dug it because of it’s track back to Gainesville and the connection to Dubs rock ’n roll go-go girl hangout on 441, the outskirts of town, a spectacular backbeat and of course that whacked out intro. Toss in the slightly out-of-synch harmonies and you’ve got an instant classic.
When the call came a few days earlier to shoot a gig at the Don CeSar I thought, "Yeah, ok, no big deal." In all the years before and since, I’d only been there once — to shoot a friend’s wedding (his third but not last) just the month before.
Bulldozing The Show
The deal was, Tom had broken his famous hand a few months before and this was ostensibly the first time since his surgery anyone would have any idea of whether or not he’d still be able to play. Hard to believe now, but before round-the-clock cable blabbermouths hooked mostly on self-adoration and stupidity, it was possible to embargo news to either prevent or spur speculation.
So there I was to record the moment of truth, shooting stock for LGI on a referral from Tampa ASMP buddy and ace studio shooter Terry Drymon. (Terry had an infamous collection of model’s other lips on the wall of his studio dressing room. First timers couldn’t quite figure out how the lipstick on cocktail napkin impressions were created.) Me and MTV in full music video production mode, which obviously was a huge clue if you were wondering whether or not there was any doubt Tom still had a career. I wasn’t that sharp.
The Way It Was, Then
Neither were there personal computers, damn few "cell" phones, and fax machines were a status symbol that weighed a ton and cost a fortune.
Photoshoots were covered the old-fashioned way: load up on film, make sure you had backup metering, check your "automatic" lenses to make sure they would, in fact, stop down to the set aperture when the shutter banged across and then reopen, load everything up and haul the assorted luggage around, through, up and down whatever obstacles popped up.
What I remember is, as metering — first analog, then digital — became more precise, so too did the fanatic obsessive-compulsive behavior to constantly check the reflected light. Not like anything would be changing if, for instance, the assignment would take place on a penthouse patio underneath a brilliant and beautiful beachy Florida spring day.
Lets just say for the sake of discussion we’d be shooting Ektachrome 200, which in this instance would come out to something around f8-11 at 1/500th. More or less, with no bounce off the Astroturf, as it was then referred to, covering the patio.
Say, You With the Band? Duh!
There wasn’t any pretense about the group. The atmosphere was relaxed, the mood laid back, and I was silently praying to the Kodak gods that my putting off overdue lens overhauls wouldn’t catch up with me today. Please, let me capture something worth smiling about.
We mostly waited while the video crew finished laying track and setting lights. When they were satisfied, the band and one out-of-water photographer headed out onto the patio and in the next few moments I was introduced to the difference between top of their game professional musicians and club bands playing covers. Bang! Straight into "American Girl" and immediately everyone was grinning like Santa came early and the tooth fairy left Travelers Cheques. One word describes the sound — tight. Yeah, these guys really are that good.
Like rock, don’t like rock, it was infectious. Here we were on a beautiful sunny spring day in Florida, on top of a four-star hotel looking out on the intercoastal in one direction and the Gulf in the other. About three or four songs into a set that would last nearly two hours, the guests gathered around the pool were trying to figure out what the hell was going on. They knew the music was pouring down from the heavens, but how? Time passed and soon boaters who’d been chased down by their pals began rafting up on the beach and before long you could definitely say…it was a concert.
I kept shooting throughout, even though about the only thing that changed was when Orlando’s channel 9 chopper dropped in out of the clouds, adding their whap-whap-whap to the band’s output. And then it was over. Hotel security finally decided they’d had enough of the complaints and called the show.
Later that afternoon I shoved however many rolls through the film drop at the lab over in Tampa. A few weeks later I’d watch along with 60 or 70 million other close friends as the Heartbreakers kicked it in Philly for the American finale to the Live Aid session that started in London.
At the time I was riding my 92-inch Shovel ’Blue Pearl’, with full frontal Frazetta-style airbrushed nudity on the tanks and pipes to match the attitude. Riding home from the bar that night all I could hear was a song about an American girl, out on 441. And I sorta’ understood what it was all about.
all©john siebenthaler 2009