Somewhere along a remote stretch of roadway in the Agora countryside near Hidden Valley Ranch, autumn 1978. The setting for last photograph taken of Michael Corby before he left the United States nearly 30 years ago…
“Always haunted by this excellent, remarkably retro-modern shot. Running out of juice, looking backwards, heading past last communication into storm clouds…prophetic in the extreme!
~Michael Corby ~
~ Photograph by Brian D. McLaughlin ~
Hail-All Baby Boomers,
Allow me to indulge and tell you a wee bit about it and please, be easy…I'm an old soldier:
There had been one of those huge bush fires a few days before and a pal of mine who was a pro photographer asked me if I fancied going on a trek in the Californian highlands near to my old ranch for the afternoon as he was being commissioned by a band called Queen for an album cover job. He fancied that they might look pretty interesting photographed on a scorched earth. Whimsically, I accepted his invitation to go on a recce. We could make a cruise out of it, smoke a few doobies and enjoy the parade up the freeway listening to some good music on the old '54 tube radio. The alternative, being that I stayed at home with my infant son and constantly furious American wife, didn't bear thinking about...
Perhaps I should point out that I had been mutinously 86'd from my own band a few months earlier and, unknown to me, this was to be the last time that I would ever be photographed in the USA before disappearing into masochistic oblivion for about twenty-three years whilst I sulked over the entire debacle…
~ Photographs by Philly ~
In order to maintain some sort of image profile whilst suffering the catastrophic consequences of career demolition I had basically swapped my treasured '58 three pick-up Les Paul Custom for the green and white rock 'n roll phaeton. Effectively I flogged the axe to Norman, a vintage specialist axe trader in the L. A. Valley who gave me a couple of grand for it.
~ Photograph by Kristie Bowles ~
Within an hour or two of that lamentable sale I'd bought an automobile mag called Hemmings, sourced the Caddy and without my feet touching the ground, floated home without the least sense of repentance to the anticipated volatility of wifee's temper. The car instantly became...the enemy! From now on, if the temperature got too hot, then here was Heaven parked outside my own front door waiting to pilot me to Nirvana.
My photographic compadre was a tall curly haired regular guy called Brian and he duly arrived in his new Jeep and proudly parked it up at my little pinkish Mediterranean-styled villa on Ivar Avenue in the foothills of Old Hollywood just around noon. It was quite a romantic little love nest where Marilyn Monroe, amongst others, had lived as an aspirant screen goddess. However, the endless friction between a Los Angelean spitfire called Evita Corby and her constant disenchantment with the recent destruction of her own ambitions not only desecrated the atmosphere but also provided me with more than enough excuse for an excursion to the hills with Brian.
We paraded up the Ventura Freeway in radiant splendor. My gleaming '54 Fleetwood which had only ever clocked up seventeen thousand stunning and magnificent Californian miles had formerly belonged to the wife of the guy who owned all the busses in LA. The Rapid Transport District. To the chagrin of my ever enraged spouse this beast of an automobile and I were already engaged a deep and meaningful love tryst.
On arriving at the planned site Brian had little or no intention of photographing anything other than torched landscape He became inspired initially by the sight of me topping up the juice tank in my beloved and insatiably thirsty vehicle with an interesting retroesque gas can. He suggested that I put the can in front of the car and promptly took a shot of it with my spit-out Polaroid camera which I used to document my adventures with.
Delighted by his appreciation of my immaculate Caddy I proceeded to show him the car's party piece and pressed the red reflector amidships of the tail light which was housed at the top of one of the car's great rear fins. The remainder of the tail light housing immediately sprung open revealing the hidden gas cap.
Suddenly, Brian's eyes lit up. "Don't you fucking move, boy!" he cried demanding instant obedience. Hurriedly, he snatched his old campaign tool from its well weathered flight case and struggled impatiently with lense caps and straps muttering curses as he hastened to stuff ol' faithful with the correct film in order to maximise the advantage of the extraordinary atmosphere and natural lighting. All was in place, subject, props, lighting, background and providence herself throwing down the gauntlet to his feet. Even the wind was on his side and he was more than aware that all these factors could disperse before he had time to adjust the filters. Suddenly he became agitated and impatient. Dropping to one knee about ten feet from his quarry, he crunched up a freshly discarded film wrapper and threw it into his opened case without so much as a cursory glance at what he was doing. An aggressive gesticulation with his left hand left me with little doubt as to where he wanted me to look as he squinted into his trusty Canon.
His inspiration seemed to be licensed by the caption on my tee-shirt. It read:
An interesting sentiment by which I had felt well represented when I'd put it on that morning completely oblivious to the effect it might have on Brian. I hadn't intended it to raise the alpha male in him. He had become like a mad canine intent on an immediate feed and my arse was in the hot seat as I appeared to be gracing the menu. The result was indeed staggering. Looking back over a quarter of a century later I could not but be shocked and amazed by the prophecy of it. There I was in California out of juice and putting the last of my resources into the vehicle that was about to drive into storm clouds. The desolate telegraph pole in the middle of this desolate place is the last communication of the road. I was about to drive forward into hell and taking one last look backwards at the devastated dream…
~ Photograph by Brad Elterman Courtesy of Ed Winfield ~
This is exactly what was in my future and I was never to be seen in public again. The photo still haunts me. It always will…
Misbehave,
Always,
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