The sad news of David Carradine’s departure left me thinking about my days in Southern California — Laurel Canyon to be more precise. I moved there in the late ’60s to be in the West; I wanted to shoot outdoors stories after the terrible incidents of 1968, and the assassination of Senator Robert F. Kennedy.
My house in Laurel Canyon was just below Carradine’s — at least a 100 steps separated us. Often there would be parties at his place, complete with gunshots, smashing glass and really loud music. On weekends we never had to light our pool at night. The LAPD did it for us, with helicopter spotlights. I saw him occasionally in passing.
One day, I was assigned to photograph Carradine at his house. (It’s been a long time and so I really can’t remember what publication it was for.) As per prior arrangement, early the next morning, I carried about sixty pounds of gear up the steep steps to his front porch, and knocked on the door. No answer, so I banged harder. I heard some grumbling noises coming from somewhere below. Then, heard someone speaking in the manner of being rudely awakened, also from below. The gruff voice said, “Awww shit, just wait a fuggin’ minute.”
I looked down and from way back underneath the porch, came crawling, covered with dirt, David Carradine. Followed by an equally begrimed but beautiful young lady — actress Barbara Hershey (at that time she was going by the name, “Seagull.”)
David squinted up at me and said “Oh … hi Eppridge. Weather was so nice we decided to camp out last night. I’ve got coffee on down here. You want some?”
I politely declined — I couldn’t be sure it was only coffee. And so the shoot started. It was the early ’70s after all, and this was not really an unusual thing to be doing in Laurel Canyon.
