Jim + Michie

I met Jim Marshall in March of 1984. I was a journalism student at SF State in need of a last-minute subject for a “Whatever Happened to…” profile in John Burks’ advanced magazine writing course. I was 19 and, basically, clueless about a lot of things. Like, who the hell was Jim Marshall?

Another j-school student who knew of Jim’s work and his “dark side,” suggested Jim as a subject after I had my first interviewee fall through; I wish I could remember that guy’s name (Steve? Dave? John?) … anyway, he changed my life.

He ran down some of Jim’s highlights and lowlights: - sorta famous - more importantly, INFAMOUS, into guns and coke and booze (incorrect: with the fear of jail time if busted again, at the time he was clean, no guns) - maybe a genius, the best music photographer who ever lived: Woodstock, Hendrix, Miles Davis, Janis Joplin, 600 album covers, etc. etc. - just got out of jail for a gun beef with some neighbors in his Union St. apartment building (incorrect: he was released from a work furlough program) - on probation and perhaps homeless, banned from ever stepping foot in Union St. digs (incorrect: he never was on probation and was now living in a great apartment on 16th St.) - paranoid, impulsive asshole (very correct)

Even if I could find him, I was skeptical he would agree to speak to me, a lowly journalism student, but intrigued as hell. Also, I had a rep for being the one writer hanging out with a bevy of photographers. My favorite thing to do as a writer was write evocative copy to accompany photo essays. Even though I didn’t think I had ever seen one of his images (how wrong was I!), I wanted to get his story.

Be careful what you wish for

I began a fruitless search for him with the probation department, parole officers (“Which one? I’ve got four Jim Marshalls in the system and I can’t tell you about any of them.”). Out of desperation I called 411 -- I mean what paranoid felons are listed in the phone book? Two minutes and one forwarded number later, the phone picks up on the second ring and a forceful rasp I would come to know and love – OK, sometimes dread: “YEAH lo!”

Shocked to learn it was, in fact, the correct Jim Marshall, I stammered out the gist of my call. Jim barked out rapid-fire: “Haven’t you heard of the white pages? Of course I’m listed, why wouldn’t I be! You call yourself a journalist! Not so fast, how old are you? Sure, I’ll meet you, but what do you look like? Cadillac Bar. Downtown. 3pm. Don’t be fuckin’ late! And, hey, is John Burks still over at State? We were at Altamont together! How is that tall motherfucker?!! Tell him I said hello!!” He brought a photo box full of B/W proof sheets to the meeting and said he had an idea for a promo poster, probably a book: Jim Marshall Shoots People. I didn’t have the guts to tell him I’d never heard of him. He watched as my eyes got huge at his body of work. He scooted his chair closer, ordered us green Margaritas (for St. Patrick’s Day). Kept trying to hold my hand. I literally could not resolve the strange, horny little man with the Leica over his shoulder and the hundreds of transcendent portraits I was seeing. And I could see, deep in that all-appraising gaze Jim was famous for, that this was big trouble. The very definition of “conflict of interest.” Journalism 101, but he didn’t care. He was in love.

So I went ahead and wrote the profile and tried (unsuccessfully) to keep Jim at arm’s length. John gave me an A and it was slated to be the cover story of the campus quarterly I was art directing, set to run with a portfolio of Jim’s greatest hits. But, Jim was so crazy, and when he couldn’t get what he wanted, he’d threaten to pull his photos. Then I came to my senses and pulled the story. You can’t have it both ways. A picture-perfect lesson in journalism ethics 101. It’s why, to this day, that article has never been published. It used to make him crazy. I used to tell him: I can hold a grudge, too, old man.

Bottom line: He knew that his work was what I might truly love then, now and always, he was just the messenger … nobody ever said he was a stupid man.

It’s more than 25 years since that first meeting and that first, critical lesson. But there were many, many more: Listen to your instincts. Be true to yourself. Don’t bullshit. Keep it simple. Know your equipment. Respect your subject’s trust. Get closer! Protect your work. No. Matter. What.

I would say that I miss him, but I can’t. He’s in my heart and head. His work covers our walls: the first iconic Coltrane portrait, the only Janis and Grace together, the only Thelonious Monk with his family, a rare partial frame of Jimi Hendrix singing in Golden Gate Park, so in focus you see a tiny strand of spit attached to his mic.

Too much to say. Just know that Jim never missed one of my birthdays in 25 years, despite other boyfriends, a husband, my dearest partner Dan, Jim’s advancing years and seriously wavering memory. The sheer constancy of it all. He LOVED reminding me, usually after he’d had a few: “You’re stuck with me forever, Michie, get used to it. It’s the ties that bind, darlin’, the ties that bind.” I used to think it was a threat. I know better know.