2018 - KYLA MORAN FOR CAKE MAGAZINE.
CREATIVE DIRECTION AND PHOTOGRAPHY FOR IMOGENE + WILLIE BRAND BOOK "HOME".
2014. NASHVILLE + LIEPERS FORK, TENNESSEE.
SELECTS FROM MULTIPLE ISSUES OF CAKE MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY AND CREATIVE DIRECTION BY CAREY HAIDER.
PHOTOGRAPHS FOR THE WHISKEY BRAND SLOW AND LOW’S SOCIAL MEDIA.
2016 - MARFA TEXAS.
CREATIVE DIRECTION AND SELF PORTRAIT PHOTOGRAPHY FOR CLIENT URBAN OUTFITTERS ON THE BUILD PROCESS OF AN A FRAME CABIN. A TWO MONTH BUILD IN MY OREGON YARD.
On the road in West Texas. As featured by the Woolwich marketing team on website and social media and in the Refueled book.
As seen in Greasy Kulture magazine issue 36. A week spent in Tokyo with the Rats, Tenderloin, Roller, Gak at Hawgholic, Love Hunter Garage, and the Tokyo Breakfast Club.
RYAN GROSSMAN | VINTAGE DREAM'S
Portrait Of An American Family
Inside the home of the Grossman family. Located on beautiful Skid Row in Los Angeles, California where it never rains and the sun always shines.
Blackboard Cafe was the local hang out spot where the Hells Angels drank. Named after the cafe, the Los Angeles D.I.Y. brand is filled with swap meet chopper parts and oil stains on the floor. Here are photos from a day in the life of Al and Brittney.
In the mid 1990's I obtained an overdubbed VHS tape. It contained super 8 footage from a geography called Salton Sea which was littered with broken concrete and looked like an abandoned post war paradise. After some research, I found out the geographic location was next to the fence that divides Mexico from its northern brother, the United States of America. Originally developed in the early 1900's to create irrigation on a small scale level for agriculture, the great flood of the Colorado river in 1905 blew out these small canals and filled the Salton Sink creating the massive lake known today as Salton Sea. In the 1950's people began to inhabit the shores with dreams of it becoming Palm Springs. The 50's and 60's were scattered with great floods which washed out the towns along the shore, and the agricultural runoff of fertilizers along with the salt mine concentration under the lake began to kill its inhabiting fish leaving them to litter the lake's shores. Surrounding towns eventually began to rebuild further off of the grid leaving the damage to bake in the sun and be long forgotten. A decade after the 90's, I was still stuck in my teenage mindset with a fascination for the place so I headed south to finally enter its womb. For the trip, my friends and I loaded a white utility van with tools, an assault rifle and sawed off shotgun, hoping to leave the desert intact or at least celebrate our amendment rights which aren't included in the state of California. One of the friends who happened to come along for the ride is a registered felon. In America, the law states that a felon is not to be around guns. In California, sawed off guns and assault rifles are also illegal. This never came across my mind as a big deal until the road abruptly stopped at a USA border patrol checkpoint. The cops opened the van and put a K-9 dog inside to inspect. "You boys are good to go", he announced, as we were sweating bullets wondering how he couldn't see the guns sitting on the shelf. Back on the road, headed south, the desert whispered vacancy until a dark shape in the distance intruded the palette with a lake larger than Jesus himself. "Bombay Beach right turn" read the sign. A dead coyote carcass baked in the sun directly at this point while a trailer park lay ahead in the distance. Bombay Beach already had the mystical methamphetamine euphoria which turned into paranoia when I entered the Ski Inn for a beer. Its inner appearance looked as if it had been abandoned since the 1960's, and three bar patrons appeared as decor mangled and mentally ill while every word that they spoke was undistinguished as if this place had created its own lingo. With a strange vibe in the room worse then a bad hit of acid, we pushed on. The whole town of Bombay Beach is dirt roads littered with garbage and trailer homes which appear to be so thrashed one wouldn't consider them liveable. Dead fish permanently stained the air as I drove from the bar and came across an old man in his yard. He could tell I was foreign and said "What the hell are you doing here?" After responding that I was just passing through, he then asked if I had any beer I could give him in which I responded, "I do not." "What are you doing here?" I asked. His response solidified the foundation of the town and the predictions I had when entering. "I am hiding from the government. I've been here 25 years. You boy's have a nice day." Upon scouting the alphabetical street names, I noticed it was a ghost town as everyone was sheltered down in their trailers dodging the blistering heat which was doing damage on me. I can see why living here would drive one insane. The desert sucks your mind and soul, and the desolation complicates the problem. These people weren't born insane, the geography chiseled them this way. Next on the map was a town further south and two miles inland from the lake called Niland. Niland is much like Bombay Beach visually, with past era decor and destruction. The town was slithering with the local population outside. Each person I took spectacle to was either drunk, on drugs, or yelling obscenities to one another. The local mini mart had a steady movement of traffic all exiting with cases of beer. God Bless America decorated one fence with an American flag soaring high above. Patriots of the land of the free. Main street splits the small town in half, and takes one to the outskirts where the painted masterpiece that has made this place famous, lays. Just before leaving the town, I stopped at the last house on the left to get out and stretch. Over the fence, I could hear a father beating his child and yelling, "You little piece of shit, I outta fuckin' kill you". Salvation mountain is a mystical experience. Leonard Knight dedicated the later years of his life to promote his ideal that "god is love". The mixture of clay, hay, garbage, and paint, have stained the desert floor drawing gypsies from all over to inhabit its premises. Located on the backside of the mountain, a community of motor homes and homemade dwellings create a community odd and peculiar.
THE DANDY WARHOLS
Words and photography by: Carey Quinton Haider
As seen in No Cigar Magazine issue 7
Photography spans the recording of "Earth To The Dandy Warhols" and "This Machine".
Photography taken in studio, home, and live sets of the band.
Courtney Taylor-Taylor; front man of The Dandy Warhols sits on his recording studio floor sipping wine and smoking on speed dial. What is about to come to light on an old boombox stashed in the corner is a rough mix of the bands tenth studio album This Machine. Thirteen years ago MTV and major label giant Capitol would be masturbating over a new Dandy's record. Courtney, Zia, Peter, and Fathead were the definition of cool with songs like Godless, Sleep, and Big Indian coming as a rock 'n roll savior when Grunge was running past its pull date. Supporting a platinum selling record, the band played sold out venues across the world. They say all that goes up must come down. Most bands who obtained these levels of success either end by breaking up or age and drugs gets the better half of them. The Dandy's instead kept it together with a blue collar mindset of recording and touring consistently before finally leaving Capitol a decade deep into their deal. Going back to the underground a record was released on Taylor-Taylor's newly founded label Beat The World before coming to indie label The End to release This Machine. As This Machine goes for a drive it feels like the sister to Thirteen tales From Urban Bohemia and could easily be the best Dandy's record in ten years. If the record industry had still known what is cool they would give it rock record of the year. Instead the mainstream has turned into a mockery of cookie cutter bands once again. The Dandy Warhols left the room at the perfect window and are able to make art without suits condescending intent. This is something that can be sensed in the record. It is real and sounds unique. Taylor-Taylor and gang wrote the songs in his home and their warehouse named Odditorium which is located in Portland, Oregon. I Am Free stands out on the record as being a good candidate for the first single and feels like an anthem where you want to rip your shirt off and road trip across America with your friends the summer time. On the opposite end of the record you have the song Slide that would be perfect for Ryan Gosling to drive a get away car in the pouring rain to. A few months after the record was mixed Taylor-Taylor reflected back and described each song in a sentence.
Sad Vacation - Fathead (Dandy Warhols drummer) wrote this.
The Autumn Carnival - This I wrote with David J (Bauhaus). We were talking about the Bradbury story "something wicked this way comes" and so we just decidided to write a song about it.
Enjoy Yourself - This was written by me and how I view getting older. I don't hate it but you do have to be a bit smarter and generally can't be as big of a fuck-up.
Alternative Power to the People - The keyboard scratching sound reminded me of old school rap and it also brought to mind how goofy it is for flaky neat-guy musicians to get all full of wind about politics.
Well They're Gone - Another girl that I thought would work out for me. It didn't.
Rest Your Head - Go to sleep. Worrying solves less problems than sleeping does.
16 Tons - This was an important song to me as a child and I happened to notice recently that they are the heaviest lyrics ever written.
I Am Free - When it comes to my music I do not give a fuck about or often even respect the opinions of others.... unless my music helps them cope with life.
SETI vs. The Wow! Signal - We are not alone.
Don't Shoot She Cried - Zia (Dandy Warhols key's) wrote this.
Slide - Fathead (Dandy Warhols drummer) wrote this.
Haggard & Proud is a WWF tag team of a couple guys out in Portland, Oregon building champagne dreams on a peanut shell budget. Slim-Jim has been known to spend a month fasting on a hot dog diet.
Machines built by master magician Kenneth B. Wright. I first met the Bobcat in a swap meet booth while he was holding a small blonde-haired child named Monty. Our friendship has blossomed to random run-ins in California back yard pools and basement shenanigans at his Portland art studio. Kenneth is one of the most beautiful people you will ever meet.
HOMES AROUND THE WORLD.
Documentary photos driving from Portland to South Dakota and back in the Summer of 2014.
Photographs from hikes, camping, and road trips out on the road in America.
Inside the start to finish build process with ICON.
http://icon4x4.com/
I was born in 1984. That does not make me old compared to most but it takes you back damn near thirty years. Back when Panheads were cheap. My dad bought his 1963 Panhead and 1949 Flathead a few years previous to my birth for $2,400 each. The Panhead had two first place trophies which stood as tall as I hoped to be some day. Dad would take me out riding when the Oregon rain went into seclusion which was not often but it became special like going to the fair. He even let me steer a few times and neither of us were wearing a helmet. A passionate father if you ask me. The outlaw days of my father's wild past started to dwindle with the births of me and my sister. Every now and again that mean old son of a bitch nicknamed Spike would surface and to this day I still wonder why he is not in jail. From a young age, the tales of going 130 miles an hour on the Panhead which he had gold plated the engine of, and the accounts of throwing a woman off the back at 45 miles an hour because her shoes were melting on the pipes made me laugh and I would always want to hear more. The stories cut short as I’ve come to realize we're to keep a small child’s mind innocent. The late 1980’s economy crash excused my dad from his job at the machine shop so he took what he knew best and opened a motorcycle repair shop in our home garage. This is where I grew up along with my grandmother babysitting me on off days. Melvin, my mom’s brother, lived with my grandmother. He was a biker and a close pal of my dad. My grandma's back pantry was filled with flathead parts where he told me the wise tale of a cougar living. To my young ears that meant you become dinner if you go back there. Here I am, damn near 30 gaining age faster than I can count. Harleys are now parked in my own garage but I took a road different than my dad. I haven't married or had kids. To me the motorcycle has become a passionate lover along with my old friend the camera. The friendships, shitty situations, and places these two have taken me have turned a boy into a man and left my soul wanting more. See you on the open road.
"Open highway, lonesome wind blows, tell me something I don't already know." - Waylon Jennings
Welcome to the Pacific Northwest. Oregon and Washington are a densly forested region in the United States where it rains nine months a year. Bigfoot calls this region his home. After spending my life on the road camping down logging roads here and there I have compiled images of my favorite nooks and crannies.
As seen in Ache Magazine issue 8 and Showclass magazine issue 34/35.
I first met Skye in 2008. She had run away from Big Bear, California and hitched a ride to Oregon with a couple dirt bags I called friends. Stories surfaced that she was as wild as honey dew and to keep my distance. Before I got to experience these wild ways she disappeared just as fast as my Harley sucked up gas that Summer. A year and a half later I noticed a woman down the street from my house with a little too much pep in her step and a fur hat with long blonde locks swimming out. Low and behold she had moved to Oregon and was my neighbor. As I got to know Skye, I learned what built her foundation. Above Skye's bed was a proud magazine tear of her dad and a Harley build he had done. It was haphazardly pinned on the wall and contaminated with evidence that it had been around a while. True to the tales I had been told she was down for anything. Chopper rides in the middle of winter through grave yards. Tresspassing onto Catholic school land to easy ride gravel pits on a BSA chopper. A true free spirit with nothing to lose but age.
No Cigar Magazine
Issue 7
Words and photography: Carey Q. Haider
Grand piano echoes entertain the California air composing harmonies of dread and despair as a pale frail figure sits behind keys battling depression. Each glass of wine washing away hell and the struggle within of writer’s block. Sunset Sound Studio in Hollywood, California, is the location of this romance. The Doors recorded here some fifty years previous, and today Sune Rose Wagner sits embalming a moment in time leaving every imperfection as a scar of brilliance. Sharin Foo, Sune’s bandmate and long time friend is here to help in the process and add the harmonizing layer that give it the soul that Richard and Joan once shared. The beauty of this outcome shall become The Raveonettes’ most compelling work to date, Observator. Flooding the record are dark sounds which steer the ship into the familiar harbors that the band has perfected, holding hands with a new friend; the piano. The penmanship which embodies the work, gives recognition to death of all things beautiful, and puts the listener six feet under in the deep dark hole that Sune sat in weeks previously on the shores of Venice Beach, hopeless and sinking with the sun. With writer’s block and inspiration feeling like an ex-lover, Sune began to find refuge in a numbing, sinking ship of Benzodiazepine among other substances.
Leaving the beach for the lights of Hollywood to start tracking an album would become the guiding light that would pull Sune out of defeat. With Sharin’s help they found hope in the last resort of spontaneity. The organic affair built on purple hearts blossomed into nine completed songs which were composed in a few weeks time; the fastest recording the band has made to date. Observator truly is a rose from the concrete.
Two weeks in China traveling through Shanghai, Shantou, and Shenzou.
The Reservation is home to the machines built by Philadelphia born Denis Babin.
As seen in Showclass magazine Vol.2 issue 15.
