You know the work of photographer Mick Rock, you just don’t know you know it. Mick Rock is everywhere, from the movie poster for Hedwig and the Angry Inch to his famous shots of rock stars. He’s been called the glam/punk-rock Forrest Gump, because Mick Rock was there through much of recent rock ’n’ roll history. His new 2002 calendar, Punk Rock, is filled with pimples-and-all closeups of the Sex Pistols and everyone else who was vital to the music scene at the time. His new book, Blood and Glitter, is filled with revealing shots of young Bowie, Queen, Iggy Pop and Lou Reed. You feel Mick Rock has given you a secret backstage pass and you’re hiding in the wings, seeing your idols out of the spotlight, away from the cheers and applause, looking right into their souls as they are in the process of becoming who they will eventually be in the history of rock ’n’ roll.

Timing, instinct, luck, obsession. In retrospective a lot of factors came in to play. Obviously it wasn’t because I was so smart or prescient. How could I possibly have known so many of these people would become such a big deal? I was very much a child of my times. Certainly I identified with a lot of the people I shot back then. The other important factor was that in those early days, I not only photographed but I also did interviews and articles on them, so I got into their heads in a way most photographers wouldn’t. All the quotes in Blood and Glitter are selected from interviews I conducted. It was such a crazy time and everyone was very young. We were very insular in a way, only interested in each other, people that lived the same outsider lifestyle. It all grew out of what was dubbed "the underground"–the hippie/bohemian/ revolutionary/student/artist/rocker community–where we were all exploring sex, drugs, esoteric literature, yoga, meditation. Gurus galore, psychotherapy and any means to an altered consciousness. That was the key urge–the bending of the mind and the senses... You rolled the dice with your sanity and health and of course there were many casualties.

Syd Barrett comes to mind. I met him through friends of mine at Cambridge–see Psychedelic Renegades, the book of my photos of Syd to be published by Genesis Publications–before Pink Floyd made their first album. In those early days Syd was the Floyd. He had the magic and was a precocious and mesmerizing artist. Only later did I start playing with cameras, and when Syd departed the Floyd to start making solo albums in 1969 I did the photos. These were among my very earliest sessions.

The first time I picked up a camera I was on a trip. It belonged to a friend. When I went to retrieve the film a day or two later, the camera was empty. I had totally overlooked the essential first step of loading it. So my very first images of a beautiful young blonde lady are floating somewhere in the ether. Next trip I borrowed the same camera and made sure my friend loaded it. I still have those frames. So career and money were the last things on my mind when I started out. It was an entirely different universe media-wise. I just gravitated to the people who interested me and a lot of them were musicians.

Meeting David Bowie in early 1972 just as he had morphed into Ziggy Stardust was pivotal. That was in February, and there were only 300 people at the first concert I saw and shot... It took a little longer for a broader public to catch on. When Ziggy Stardust the album was released in June, after that nothing was ever the same again. From the start, we found that we had many interests in common, so I took photos, wrote a few articles for music and men’s magazines. Through David I met Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, Mott the Hoople and the master mime Lindsay Kemp–Bowie’s stage mentor–all without any commercial success at that point. I saw the whole thing explode that summer and autumn in front of my camera.

When I first met most of these people, they were like me–desperate for novelty, for breakthroughs, for anything that would make things happen. Make people stand up and be shocked. What they were interested in, I was interested in. My loyalties were totally with them. Not with record companies or publications. I never approached them with a critical eye. For me the artist was and still is first and foremost. I identified very closely with them. They were my people. I was very protective of them. Of course, as the years rolled on, I realized I was as much in need of "protection" as they were–but I was too blinded by my enthusiasm for my subjects to realize this... So it’s clear they were very relaxed with me. They knew I was one of them, totally on their side, not some outsider attempting to exploit them. Some of the photos were a little too candid–but those are locked deep in the vaults...

No, I don’t think anyone ever felt betrayed by the intimacy of my photos–first, because we were all so desperately uninhibited, and also where they maybe went too far over the line–especially in the case of graphic sex or chemistry abuse–everyone knew that those images would never see the light of day.

The miracle is that, notwithstanding the notable casualties, so many key players are still alive and working. Altered consciousness was paramount. To explore the full potential of the mind and the senses, that was the ambition. Money, fame, career–that was all by-product. Heroin was never a problem for me, because I had three friends OD on it by the time I was 20. I wasn’t looking to die. But that left plenty of other powders and pills to indulge in. I was more interested in the "up" substances. Nodding out in a corner had very little appeal to me–although not everyone I knew felt the same. Early on, I learned about hatha yoga, which I would use to bring myself down from an extended high. Not what the wise men intended it for, but then I wasn’t playing strictly by the rules... I was very drawn to extreme, self-destructive artists and I wanted to push things as far as I could. But in my mind, I wasn’t on a death trip. By the early 90s, I was slowing things up, but I still retained a serious cocaine habit. At one point in the 80s I knew at least a dozen dealers so I was never very far from a line or two. The reality is that the quality of the drug deteriorated by the late 80s. God only knows what people snort today, but it is clearly not the substance it was in the 70s.

Anyway, to cut to the quick of it: Christmas 1996, I nearly died. All the arteries to my heart were clogged. I should have been over and out. My heart is apparently very strong–maybe the headstands I had practiced for years saved the day. I ended up at NYU Medical Center thanks to a very kindhearted friend–I had at the time no health insurance–and had quadruple bypass heart surgery. Throughout the operation and the recovery, I was detoxing. So it was a very painful experience. Not one that I have any desire to duplicate. But it completely wiped out my lust for cocaine and cigarettes.

When I approach a photo session I feel more like a cook. I make sure all the prescribed ingredients are present–subject, studio, location, set, equipment, assistants, makeup artist, etc. Then I empty out all expectations with yoga, massage, etc. I allow the session to progress organically. I follow the scent. I cajole it, prod it, let it all evolve through interplay with the subject and circumstances. It’s more like a love affair. For the duration of the session, I am totally fixated on whoever is in front of my lens. I explore the unique aura that every individual gives off. It’s like a transmuted sexual thing. I’ve studied very little about photography but a fair bit of Jung and Stanislavsky. I remember very early on reading sections of An Actor Prepares, in which he talks about the fundamental process of "building the circle of concentration." When you get everyone focused and going in the same direction, you will always get the right result. My sessions are never about revelation, but rather about evocation.

Everyone who has seen the calendar likes it–Debbie, Johnny, Iggy and Lou. The photo of Johnny on the cover was taken at the very first Sex Pistols concert ever. It was Chelsea arts college Christmas party in December 1975. There was Johnny in his inimitable way signaling the death of glam and heralding the advent of punk. No one knew what the hell to make of them. People weren’t used to being insulted by a performer. He kept calling us "cunt" and "wanker" and wondering why we don’t all just "fuck off out of it." The Siouxsie shots were the only time I ever lensed her, but she was a lot of fun and it turned out to be a classic session. I love the Debbie picture in the calendar. She was always an exquisite photo subject and remains so to this day–the greatest blonde that ever rocked.