It had been a long time since I’d gone out on a Friday night for anything other than a quiet walk with a camera. But last night, I found myself standing in a familiar place for unfamiliar reasons: the Rose and Crown, camera in hand, watching Scully and the Cross Bones tear through the first set. No flash. Low light. Fast music. Faster moments.
This wasn’t a planned shoot. There was no access, no pit, no press pass. Just a local pub, a favourite cover band, and the quiet curiosity of wondering whether the instincts I’ve built on the street could hold up when the light drops and the tempo spikes.
This Isn’t Concert Photography (At Least Not the Way It’s Usually Framed)
Most advice on concert photography starts with rules: shutter speed minimums, ISO tolerance, acceptable noise levels, where you’re allowed to stand, and how many songs you get. All useful, all valid. But I wasn’t there to optimize. I was there to observe.
That mindset stems from my ongoing work in urban photography and street portraiture. The same approach I write about in What Is Urban Photography?
A live band in a pub is just another way the city reveals itself. People gather. Light misbehaves. Moments appear without warning. The job isn’t to control it—it’s to stay present long enough to recognize it.
Gear Was the Least Important Decision (But Still a Conscious One)
I went out deliberately light:
- Canon RP
- Thypoch Simera 28mm f/1.4 ASPH
- No flash
The 28mm field of view is home for me. It’s the same perspective that shaped my street work, my portraits, and my understanding of proximity. I’ve written extensively about how this focal length disciplines attention and forces engagement.
Wide apertures weren’t a stylistic flourish—they were a necessity. The pub lighting was uneven, contrasty, and unpredictable. At low apertures like f/1.4 and f/2, the depth of field becomes razor-thin, especially up close. Add manual focus, moving performers, and a crowd that never quite stops shifting, and you’ve created a perfect environment to fail publicly.
That’s precisely why I wanted to be there.
Manual Focus as a Training Tool, Not a Handicap
Manual focus in a fast-paced environment sounds like masochism. In reality, it forces a different kind of seeing. You stop chasing sharpness and start anticipating distance. You pre-focus. You wait. You commit.
This way of working mirrors how I approach street portraits—especially the Faces of Toronto project, where proximity and timing matter more than technical perfection.
In the pub, the same logic applied. I wasn’t trying to nail every frame. I was looking for moments that could survive imperfection. A singer leaning into the mic. A guitarist caught mid-gesture. A shared laugh between band members just before the chorus hits.
No Flash, On Purpose
I’ve written before about using on-camera flash to deepen contrast in black-and-white street photography.
This wasn’t that situation.
Flash would have broken the atmosphere. It would have flattened the light, pulled the band out of the space they were actively creating. More importantly, it would have shifted my role from observer to interrupter.
Instead, I let the shadows win sometimes. I accepted motion blur. I allowed highlights to clip. The result feels honest—not polished, not promotional, but true to what it felt like to be there.
Thinking in Sequences, Not Singles
One thing shooting a live band reinforced is how naturally it fits into a photo essay mindset. Performances have rhythm. Sets have arcs. Energy builds, releases, and rebuilds.
That’s straight out of the LIFE magazine photo essay framework I’ve leaned on repeatedly:
Instead of hunting for the shot, I found myself thinking in chapters:
- Arrival and setup
- Early-set restraint
- Mid-set confidence
- The room loosens as the night goes on
Even though I only stayed for the first set (feeling my age, I was home before midnight), the structure was there.
This Fits the Bigger Picture More Than I Expected
What surprised me most wasn’t the images—it was how naturally this experience folded into the larger body of work I’ve been building. Walking the city, shooting street portraits, documenting moments without permission or expectation—this was all of that, just louder.
The same philosophy that underpins Why Walking the City Is Essential to My Urban Photography Practice applies here, as well.
You show up. You stay present. You let the environment do what it’s going to do.
The Quiet Win
I left the pub happy. Not euphoric, not buzzing—just quietly satisfied. The images held together. They felt consistent with my voice. They didn’t pretend to be something they weren’t.
Last night was just another chance to practice presence, under different lights, with a little more noise, and a little less sleep.
And that, it turns out, was more than enough to put a smile on my face.