Reading this in a photography mag earlier:
“But there are those photographers, such as Eggleston, who insist they’re doing nothing more than looking through the lens and capturing things that interest them; Eggleston, as you know, is famously opposed to any intellectual investigation of his work” it struck a chord as on the whole I dislike photograpic discussions that mess around with juxtapositions etc etc.
So while looking up for some confirmation/quotes I came across this:
With this fantastic exert:
“Back in the mid-Nineties, when Primal Scream were recording their album Give Out But Don’t Give Up in Memphis, they paid a call on Eggleston to ask if they could use Troubled Waters, his strange image of a neon Confederate flag and a palm tree, on the cover. ‘I remember he was wearing jodhpurs and leather boots, some kind of military outfit, and walking about with a rifle and a bayonet,’ recalls lead singer Bobby Gillespie. ‘When he heard we were Scottish, he sat down at the piano and started reciting great chunks of Rabbie Burns. It was surreal.’
Gillespie’s friend, the filmmaker Douglas Hart, takes up the story. ‘William and his wife were knocking back these massive drinks. He asked us to let him hear a song, and then he would decide if we could have the picture. We played him “Moving On Up”, and he fell on his knees and started shouting, “Bo Diddley! Bo Diddley! Y’all love Bo Diddley!” He rummaged through his records and pulled out “I’m the Meat Man”, by Jerry Lee [Lewis] and played it so loud the speakers blew. Then his wife shouted, “Y’all want ribs?” She insisted we all go to a local rib joint. It was wild.’ Gillespie nods in agreement. ‘He let us have the picture though. He was a true gent.‘”
Ha – how cool!
Will have to read up on him some more.
Edit – here’s another from the Guardian article:
“He wore Savile Row suits and drove a Bentley, and played classical piano, but he was more rock’n’roll than any of us, even though he probably hated the music we were making. He’d shoot with some kind of night vision lens often until the bitter end, then just fall over unconscious on the floor. He wasn’t just at the party, he was the party. When he and Stanley Booth [the Memphis-based rock writer] got together, it was like World War Three.”