JERRY GARCIA: UP FROM THE DEAD
David Gahr is already a half-block ahead of me up the street, bounding past the Navarro's sharpy redcap, shlepping all his cameras, and lights, and wires, brown chewed-up pipe sticking out from his pocket—Gahr looks like a Hal Roach version of what a harried photographer is supposed to look like who's on his way to take a picture or two of an old friend.
David Gahr is already a half-block ahead of me up the street, bounding past the Navarro's sharpy redcap, shlepping all his cameras, and lights, and wires, brown chewed-up pipe sticking out from his pocket—Gahr looks like a Hal Roach version of what a harried photographer is supposed to look like who's on his way to take a picture or two of an old friend. A picture or two. Or three. Or fourteen rolls.
A half-hour before, Gahr, the dean of folk-rock photographers, was making his customary pass through my office, bored, checking me out, "Where ya going?"
