There was a time before Instagram, smartphones and celebrity publicists armed with military-grade media training when getting a photograph of a famous person required rather more effort than refreshing a feed. It required tip-offs, informers, drivers, doormen, blagging, bribery, car chases and, occasionally, getting thumped by Mick Jagger.
David Koppel knows this better than most. Having cut his teeth as house photographer at London’s Limelight nightclub in the mid-1980s, he graduated to the rough-and-tumble world of Fleet Street paparazzi, spending the best part of a decade hunting the photographs newspapers wanted most.
And what a decade. Koppel photographed everyone from Diana, Princess of Wales and Frank Sinatra to Madonna, Prince, Michael Jackson, Marlon Brando and David Bowie. Sometimes the stars were happy to see him. Often they weren’t. Bowie punched him. Bob Dylan whacked him. Jagger thumped him. Pierce Brosnan – then playing James Bond – put him in a headlock. Joanna Lumley gave him a dressing-down.
This was paparazzi photography as blood sport. Cameras contained film rather than memory cards; pictures couldn’t be checked on the back of a screen; and getting the shot was only half the battle. Film still needed processing, prints needed delivering and everything had to reach a Fleet Street picture desk before the opposition did.
Koppel’s new book, Spotlight, opens the archive on that gloriously analogue world, bringing together the photographs and, crucially, the stories behind them: the stakeouts, back doors, scrapes, near misses and moments of extraordinary luck that turned a speculative tip into tomorrow morning’s front page.
Celebrity culture hasn’t disappeared. But the game that Koppel played – chaotic, competitive, occasionally physical and frequently ridiculous – very much has.
Here, Koppel talks us through some of his most iconic shots – and the lengths he had to go to secure them
Joanna Lumley
Carnegie Hall Tower, New York City, 1994
In the 1990s, regular sources of information were a couple of printed subscription services called Celebrity Bulletin and London at Large. I would spend hours on the phone during the day trying to get myself access to many of the events listed in them. As a freelancer, it was always a struggle unless you had a newspaper behind you.
I noticed a listing that Jennifer Saunders and Joanna Lumley were filming in New York for the new series of Absolutely Fabulous. Undaunted, I went to see Piers Morgan, editor at the News of The World at that time, and asked if he wanted it covered. He did and would send me and a reporter to New York, paying all expenses, including a daily rate of £150 a day.
We were flown to New York by the News of the World but had no idea where the filming would be. We were booked into the historic Algonquin Hotel. By chance we found out at breakfast the following morning that we were staying at the same hotel as Lumley and Saunders.
After breakfast I waited on the street, opposite the hotel entrance. When they left, I hailed a cab and told him to follow them. They were driven to the Russian Tea Rooms at the base of Carnegie Hall Tower.
The reporter found out that they were going to be doing a scene on the roof of Carnegie Hall Tower and no photographers would be admitted. We approached producer Jon Plowman and explained who we were and that we had come all the way from the UK. Could we join them on the roof later that day and get something exclusive? He flatly refused.
I got the lift to the top floor, climbed up an internal ladder and through a fire escape window up onto the roof and hid behind the air conditioning unit. Just as they were about to start filming, Plowman spotted me and told me I would have to leave. I left, dispirited and without my exclusive.
They asked, they begged, they pleaded. We flatly refused
I suggested to the reporter that we hire a helicopter and I could photograph the whole thing from the air. We would have to phone Morgan in London and get his permission to hire a helicopter. Given the clearance, we headed off to the heliport, somewhere on the West Side.
When we arrived we found Jennifer Saunders and her assistant, waiting to get their helicopter to shoot the scene. Saunders freaked at seeing us, and got extremely agitated as we were taken to a room to brief our pilot. Our plan was to follow Saunders in our helicopter and get our exclusive pictures. This would mean a helicopter chase over the streets of Manhattan.
Saunders’ aide came over and begged us not to follow. We argued that we gave Plowman the opportunity to let us have an exclusive on the rooftop but he had refused – and this was our only chance to get something exclusive. They asked, they begged, they pleaded. We flatly refused.
Eventually, they stopped the filming on the roof of the tower and producer Plowman appeared at the heliport to try to persuade us not to follow. After 20 minutes of refusals, we struck a deal. Plowman would allow us two exclusive shots if we agreed not to follow in the helicopter. One on the ground at the heliport of Saunders in the chopper with the door open waving and smiling at us, and one of Lumley on the roof at Carnegie Hall Tower. Both parties agreed.
Once we had shot Saunders on the ground, they took off in a helicopter to film the scene and we raced back to Carnegie Hall Tower to shoot Lumley. They had finished filming, but kept her on the roof as agreed for me to get shots of her swigging from the bottle.
As I got on the roof, the crew were packing up and Plowman or Lumley, maybe both, instructed, “Right. You’ve got 30 seconds, get a move on.” With that, I directed Lumley, “Over here, right, now here, take a swig, take a puff, just over here now, back here, another swig, cigarette held up, great, thanks.” No more than 30 seconds, if that – and a perfect celebrity shot was in the bag.
Cast and crew moved on to Times Square – and we followed. Plowman was furious but I explained to him we had agreed not to follow in a helicopter, that’s all. As I stood in a crowd of people snapping Lumley, Plowman stood in front of me trying to get in the way of my lens. He didn’t succeed and it meant that I ended up with stills not even the BBC got.
Jennifer Saunders let rip in a foul-mouthed tirade about me working for Rupert Murdoc
I returned to the Algonquin Hotel after a really long day and got into the lift and as the doors closed behind me, noticed I was sharing the lift with Jennifer Saunders and Joanna Lumley. Saunders let rip in a foul-mouthed tirade about me working for Rupert Murdoch, saying, “How could you work for that cunt?”; the ever-fragrant Lumley simply and calmly stated, “Well, really, it’s a bit much holding the BBC to ransom like that”, as she got out on the lower smoker’s floor, leaving me at the mercy of the angry Saunders.
Several days more filming followed and I shot 20 rolls of film and we flew back to London after five days. I showed the film to the News of the World who weren’t interested in any of the material because, unbeknown to me, there had been saturated coverage in the dailies throughout that week.
They paid me a fee of £750 for the week’s work, £1,461.71 for expenses, flights and hotels for me and the reporter, expenses for the reporter and the hire of the helicopter, not to use a single frame.
I headed off to the Daily Mail in Kensington to see if they might be interested in the pictures. Before that, I would pop into Today to see their picture editor, Geoff Webster. During the conversation, Webster asked what I was holding under my arm, pointing to the stack of negatives I was carrying. I lied that it was something for the Mail, hoping it would make him more interested.
A deal was done and they used it centre-spread with the headline “Ab Fab bites into the Big Apple”. They ran six photos across two pages, with a tease on page one. I was paid £2,750 by Today.
A few days later, Webster called to ask if I had any more pics from Absolutely Fabulous in New York. They would use my Lumley picture on the front page of a new magazine with another double-page spread using a further six photos and another payment of £2,250, which meant including the fee to shoot from the NoW, that week
I would earn £5,750 from that one shoot.
Further sales followed, and over the years I have done several sizes of limited-edition prints. This is by far my most successful image to date, having earned me more money than anything else – and continues to entertain whenever exhibited.
Mick Jagger
Marquee Club, London, 1992
Keith Richards was playing a solo gig at the Marquee Club in London and only four photographers were allowed in to cover the event. The three others chose downstairs and for some reason I decided to go upstairs and shoot from the balcony. When I got up there I was surprised to find Mick Jagger with his brother Chris supping on a pint. I had known Chris for years and we were on speaking terms.
I asked Chris if I could do a photo of him and Mick together. “You better ask Mick,” said Chris. “Mick, can I get a pic of you and Chris?” “Nah, fuck off.” So, I turned round and continued to take photos of Keith Richards on stage. Glancing behind me to check the Jagger brothers, I noticed they were both slumped forward, resting their forearms over a steel frame that formed a barrier.
This was too irresistible so I just turned to face them and started taking photos, despite Jagger having told me not to. In defiance, he stuck his tongue out and as I continued to snap, he lifted his right hand over his left shoulder and took a swipe at me. I fell backwards but continued taking photos, capturing the moment he hit out at me.
A truly bravura creative performance from Piers Morgan that proves beyond any doubt not to believe what you see or read in the press
Piers Morgan would use the sequence of pictures in his daily Bizarre pop column with the headline “Thumping Jack Flash”, telling how Jagger’s “violent blow sent Mr Koppel reeling, leaving him with a cut eye and facial bruising”. In fact, all it left me with was a rather hefty pay cheque.
Months later, I was in Morgan’s office after an opening night party where I had asked Jagger if I could have a photo taken with him. “As long as you fuck off afterwards, yeah,” he replied. I also had photos from another night’s event where we were filmed miming to ‘Satisfaction’, dressed as Guns N’ Roses, and the print of myself with Mick. Three completely unrelated events. Morgan put them all together and came up with a hilarious fabricated story of how Mick Jagger and I had made up after him whacking me at Keith Richards’ concert, when I had presented him with a framed photo of all us snappers dressed as the Rolling Stones, and that he and I were best of friends again.
He used the photo with the caption “Mick and snapper make up”. A truly bravura creative performance from Piers Morgan that proves beyond any doubt not to believe what you see or read in the press.
David Bowie
London, 1987
David Bowie’s Glass Spider tour had just wrapped and it was a balmy summer evening. As I pulled into Piccadilly, a silver Merc sped past and I recognised the driver and knew him to be Bowie’s man from an earlier encounter at Legends nightclub.
Watching Bowie speed past, I pulled out immediately behind the car and gave chase. He wound his way through the streets of Soho to a little club on Dean Street. I arrived, parked up and found two other snappers on the pavement. Mick Jagger arrived and I fired off a few frames. No photographers allowed inside. I noticed a fire escape leading down to the kitchen.
I walked down the stairs, wearing a long trench coat and walked through the kitchen at speed, watching the chef watching me and turning his head at the speed of my walk. A spiral staircase took me up into the party which was small and intimate. I picked up a drink from a waiter standing and pretended I was a guest.
I spent most of the time hiding behind the camera, terrified that Bowie was going to recognise me
I saw Bowie sitting at a long table talking to Paula Yates. In front of the table was a minder with one hand clasping the other and looking around the room. At a given point he moved away from the table and I moved in. I approached the table, undid my coat, pulled the camera up to my eye and as I did, Bowie looked up and pointed at me and screamed “NO!” I froze on the spot but instinctively started taking photos on a motor drive... click, click, click, click, trrrr-rrrrrrrrrr.
The next thing I knew, Bowie is on the table hovering over me and screaming “You are SO rude”, and with that walloped me round the head with a right fist. Not one, but two minders now ran over to the table and were pulling Bowie off me. I thought my career had ended… it had only just begun.
Six days later, I was the official photographer, and the only one allowed into the VIP room for a charity event that raised money from the music industry. Fergie – Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York – was handing out the top prize to the guest of honour. I was the chosen photographer – the only snapper allowed in.
The recipient of the 1987 award was… David Bowie. I spent most of the time hiding behind the camera, terrified that he was going to recognise me from the Glass Spider party and didn’t dare show my face – not really what you want from the official photographer.
Marlon Brando
London, 1992
Marlon Brando was in Europe filming Christopher Columbus: The Discovery. That was just one of many bits of information swirling in my mind as a freelance photographer, always waiting for a scrap or tip-off to bear fruit.
On an otherwise quiet Sunday night, my colleague – nicknamed the Fatman – and I were at Heathrow chasing a tip about Daryl Hannah. He was a caricature of a paparazzo: unshaven, round, angry, and determined. When she was a no-show, we headed into Bayswater for a meal at the Mandarin Kitchen with Fatman’s sister and cousin. Sitting upstairs in the corner, my celebrity antenna started quivering. A party of three walked in. I looked at the Fatman: “Don’t look behind, but Marlon Brando has just walked in.”
“That’s not Marlon Brando,” he said, looking over his shoulder.
“It’s him,” I insisted.
Moments later, the waitress seated Brando, his wife, and child right next to us. The Fatman’s face turned pale: “Fuck, it’s him.” Panicked, we knew the cameras were in the car. We paid up and slipped out to wait. As we walked past, Brando sat with chopsticks looking like toothpicks in his gargantuan hands, gorging on Peking duck.
It was the peak of my career – Brando had been at the top of my hit list
Outside, we grabbed our gear and waited in the Fatman’s car while the girls gave us updates from inside. We watched as fancy cars pulled up – a silver Mercedes, a gold Rolls-Royce, a polished BMW. None were his. Then, an innocuous white Ford minicab arrived.
“He’s walking out,” one of the girls announced.
Brando hoved into view, reaching for the street door. “Now, go, go, go!” I yelled. We flung open the doors and ran like madmen. Brando grasped his hat, pulling it over his head like a scene right out of The Godfather. With eyes shut tight and arms outstretched like an Egyptian mummy, he was led by his wife toward the minicab while we papped him relentlessly.
As they squeezed his giant torso into the back seat, dwarfing his tiny son next to him, I opened the front passenger door, leaned in, and said, “Hi Marlon, welcome to London.” I fired off six frames in two seconds. He sat emotionless, eyes wide shut, perfectly mirroring his famous scene from On the Waterfront.
We sprinted back to chase them, but the minicab pulled out dangerously into traffic, losing us instantly. Still, the pictures splashed across every morning paper with headlines like “The Godfatter” and “Pile on Brando,” earning us a cool £5,000.
It was the peak of my career – Brando had been at the top of my hit list, and from that point there was nowhere left to go but down.
'Spotlight' by David Koppel is available from pap-art.co.uk
