Kirk West: A Life in Focus, Behind the Lens and Behind the Scenes
Held Here: Presence in Profile is a series highlighting the artists, entrepreneurs, and visionaries who continue to shape Macon’s cultural identity. Each subject is someone who didn’t just leave a mark—they planted roots. Through their work, presence, and persistence, they’ve helped preserve the city’s creative spirit for the next generation.
This installment features Kirk West, longtime tour manager and photographer for the Allman Brothers Band (ABB), co-founder of Macon’s Big House Museum, and a tireless documentarian of Southern Rock history. From the blues clubs of Chicago to the back roads of Georgia, West has spent decades behind the lens and behind the scenes—building an archive, telling stories, and keeping that Southern Rock legacy humming.
Chicago or Bust
On cold Chicago nights in the late ’60s, Kirk West wandered down South Side streets, camera in hand, neon buzzing overhead. Inside smoky clubs, the air would split open with the scream of a Stratocaster. He was there to party… and capture images.
Muddy Waters. Howlin’ Wolf. Buddy Guy.
The Chicago blues scene was more than a sound; it was an electric sermon. And Kirk, barely out of Iowa, was ready to listen. That's why he had sought out Chicago in the first place.
It would take him a few thousand more miles, a few more lost highways, to find another city that preached its own gospel— this one in the South — and welcomed him as one of its keepers.
Chicago to Macon, from one electric sermon to another.
Somewhere between a roadie and a rock prophet… Tour Mystic Kirk West in the early 90s, conjuring cosmic order from backstage chaos. (Image source: Alan Paul’s Substack. Photographer not listed.)
A Documentarian
Kirk West has been taking photos since age ten, when his grandmother gave him his first camera, a little plastic model.
"Film was expensive," Kirks says, "so I photographed what was important to me, like my model cars, and then just took snapshots of my life for years. Later when I was able, I bought real hot rods.”
Even as a kid, Kirk was collecting things, curating, documenting—tiny model hot rods lined up like a starter fleet. Later, he graduated to the real thing: fire-red muscle cars and street rods that looked fast even when parked. It wasn’t just a hobby—it was a reflection of something deeper, something shared by a whole generation of boys raised on drag strips, drive-ins, and the myth of the open road.
For Kirk, hot rods weren’t just machines. They were expressions—of individuality, rebellion, motion. The same could be said of the photographs he took and the music he chased. All of it pulsed with energy. All of it asked the same question: Where to next?
Hot rods, drag racing, rock 'n' roll, and the perfect shot through a camera lens—they each captured Kirk’s vision of freedom in their own way. They were about framing life in motion, holding on to speed and style, and the thrill of becoming.
Kirk embodied that spirit behind the wheel and behind the lens. And later inside the ABB Brotherhood.
One of the deepest through-lines in Kirk’s life is his instinct to preserve and elevate—to give fans a legacy they can hold in their hands. Kirk might have been riding shotgun but he was driving the record-keeping, archiving, and storytelling.
That takes consistency, and vision.
Photos throughout by Kirk West/Retro Photo Archive, unless otherwise noted. Captions in quotes come from Kirk’s Intragram posts: @kirkwestfotos
In those early Chicago days, Kirk rode the current of the counterculture: acid, concerts, the constant pull of sound and light.
“I had seen the Allman Brothers a lot in ’72 and ’73, they were my favorite band. I wanted to be good and high when I watched them. But I didn’t take any pics of Duane or Berry, regrettably. Didn’t get one picture after seeing them a lot. I realized about that time I could take a picture or get high, but I couldn’t get high and take pictures. In 1973, I stopped getting so high, and the photography got better.”
We’re glad Kirk chose photography. In 1973, when he started shooting the ABB, his clarity sharpened. So did his images.
And, he found he could make a living at it.
“My dream was to shoot concerts, movies, album covers. Photographers in our co-op had other jobs in the photographic world, most of us actually worked at processing labs. Chicago was a big advertising city and I worked in the black and white lab while my partner worked at a color lab across town. We subsisted on our side photography gigs.”
Kirk sharpened his eye as part of the photo co-op Photos Reserve, made up of music fanatics and concert shooters. It wasn’t a business—just a fellowship of photographers with film canisters in their pockets and sound in their blood.
“We all had our specialties. I really liked Blues and old Country, and no one in Chicago cared about shooting Country, so I did that. Another guy liked Alice Cooper and KISS. Somebody else was always chasing jazz.”
They shot what moved them—and learned from each other in the process.
While others might have chased psychedelic color and flower-power spectacle, Kirk was shooting those great Chicago bluesmen in stark, soulful black and white. It wasn’t trendy. It wasn’t flashy. But it was timeless, stripping the frame down to the essentials: hands, sweat, smoke, soul.
Junior Wells. Hound Dog Taylor. Willie Dixon: these performers were architects of American music.
Kirk was capturing a lineage of musical elders, and he photographed them like the legends they already were, even before most of the world caught on. It wasn’t just a stylistic choice. It was reverence.
And here’s the kicker: those photos, taken by a young man still finding his own voice, have become some of the most enduring images of the electric blues era. They’ve been exhibited, printed, and preserved not just in Kirk’s own Gallery West, but in private collections and archives that understand what a gift it is to see legacy in real time.
Here’s a sampling — just a sampling — of the artists Kirk photographed, starting back in 1968:
Frank Zappa and The Mothers Of Invention | Etta James | Country Joe And The Fish | Pacific Gas And Electric | The MC5 | Muddy Waters | Tom Waits | Hank Snow | Bob Marley | Albert King | Keith Richards | Albert Collins | Iggy Pop | Bruce Springsteen | Peter Tosh | Sting | Stevie Ray Vaughan | Tammy Wynette | George Jones | Merle Haggard | James Brown | Grateful Dead | Charlie Daniels | Johnny Cash | June Carter Cash | Carl Perkins | Jerry Lee Lewis | Willie Nelson | Delbert McClinton | Son Seals | The Rolling Stones | Otis Redding | Little Richard Ministry | Van Halen | Merle Haggard | The Police | Pat Boone |
Kirk’s photography has never been confined to the backstage or tour bus. His dream of documenting concerts became real in the late ’70s when he started shooting covers and went on the road with bands, working freelance or for publications like the Chicago Tribune.
Over the years, his work has appeared in major magazines, newspapers, and album liner notes—proof that the gamble to live by his lens paid off. Including his iconic contributions to the ABB’s visual identity; album covers for Seven Turns, Shades of Two Worlds, and An Evening with the Allman Brothers Band. His images have graced magazine covers and record sleeves for artists like Willie Nelson, Delbert McClinton, and Son Seals, and have run in countless publications from local weeklies to national music journals.
Each photo published, each cover printed, was a quiet validation: that the road he’d taken—camera in hand, instinct as compass—was the right one.
In 1973, he started following the ABB with a camera and a purpose, and ultimately freelanced his way into the Brotherhood—first unofficially, then as their official tour photographer. In 1979, he became a life-long part of the Brotherhood.
“I got involved with the Brothers on a serious level and stopped photographing other bands. Did some stuff with Gov’t mule. There were time periods when I look back now and think ‘I didn’t shoot anything that year.’ I’d get off the ABB bus and get on the Gov’t Mule bus.”
Kirk West in Gallery West, repping Howlin’ Wolf with Red Dog at his feet—a living tribute to the ABB roadie and loyal studio sidekick. Photo by DSTO Moore for his Macon Music Project published by Macon Magazine.
Kirk was living what he was chronicling. He slept when the band slept. He endured what they endured. He saw and felt the chaos, camaraderie, and soul of a band born in Southern soil and baptized in grief.
This is what makes Kirk different from the average rock archivist: he never positioned himself outside the story. He was in it all the way. Still is.
In the looser, post-breakup era of the late ’70s, the barriers came down. The venues got smaller. The backstage access got easier. And Kirk, ever the documentarian, slipped right into the frame.
In his North Side Chicago apartment, he built a shrine: more than 1,500 hours of unreleased recordings, videotapes, backstage passes, ticket stubs, belt buckles, and stories too wild to print. It was mostly devotion and a little nostalgia.
That devotion culminated in 1989 with the release of Dreams, a four-disc box set co-produced with Bill Levenson. West curated the tracklist, dug up master tapes from humid Florida garages and Gregg Allman’s closets, and unearthed buried gems like “Drunken Hearted Boy.” He interviewed old sound men, scoured classified ads, and taped more than a thousand hours of rehearsals. Kirk understood that music like this came from the amps—and from the lives behind it.
Dreams was a reclamation. A resurrection. The liner notes, the track selection, including the blistering “You Don’t Love Me/Soul Serenade” tribute to King Curtis—weren’t random choices. They were sacred artifacts, curated by a man who understood their bloodlines.
It was music and bloodline restoration.
“I love music but can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Kirk laughs. “But I could document it.”
He sure did.
The Gospel of the Archive
In the mid-80s, after the ABB had fractured (again), he began a quiet, obsessive hunt for the music and memories they left behind.
“I spent a couple, three weeks at Dickey’s house helping him build a garage—and copying tapes,” Kirk told interviewer Gary James. “I didn’t take a tape. If you had a tape at your house, I’d unload my recording gear from my car and copy it. I wouldn’t take it away from you.”
The ABB didn’t have a benefactor like the Grateful Dead’s fabled acid millionaire. No one was recording every show with an eye toward legacy. Instead, sound man Mike Callahan would tape a gig here or there so the band could hear themselves—and hand it to Duane Allman, who often gave it away. Roadies, girlfriends, even Gregg’s mama’s house held bits of the band’s soul.
“In the spring of ‘97 on Dickey's side porch, we gathered the new line up for some photos & fun. Jack & Oteil fit right in after a couple weeks of rehearsal ... take a few pictures & take the highway... folks were amazed by the new boys & a good summer was ahead for em... Jack would last 2 years & Oteil would be there until the end in 2014... the road went on for a very long time ....
… as always... foto by Kirk West/ Retro Photo Archive.
But in the early 80s, when the band had splintered and the spotlight had dimmed, Kirk was already paying attention. He began work on an early ABB book project with co-writer Joanne Zangrilli, a fellow archivist and editor who shared his passion for documenting the band's story—before it was cool, and before there was any money in it.
The two of them, backed financially by fellow ABB super-fan Ron Currens, spent years digging into the band’s past—conducting interviews with musicians, family members, road crew, and close friends. Kirk even left his job at a Chicago ad agency for four months to go south and dive headfirst into the project. He was collecting stories and building a record. Not just of what the Allman Brothers played, but of who they were.
That work laid the foundation for Les Brers, Kirk’s grassroots ABB fan publication that launched with issue #1 in 1985. Part newsletter, part lifeline, Les Brers connected fans across the country and the world through its handwritten notes, tour itineraries, clippings, rare photos, and deep interviews.
As noted in the winter 1988 issue, the book project with Joanne was the reason that issue of the newsletter was delayed—and the reason Kirk made the leap from advertising to full-time documentarian.
Les Brers Issue #1.
By 1987, his archival work was gaining wider attention. A Blue Sky fanzine article described Les Brers as “a 12-page quarterly featuring itineraries, discographies, interviews, and reviews of classic shows,” and noted that Kirk had compiled more than 140 hours of interviews with figures like Gregg Allman, Eric Clapton, and music promoter Bill Graham. These weren’t just snapshots—they were an oral history in real time. As Blue Sky put it, Kirk’s work was “a vital lyrical muscle” in the Allmans’ larger legacy—helping fans reconnect with their heroes during a time when the band itself was still trying to find its way back.
Those hundreds of hours of raw, unfiltered conversation would go on to become invaluable. Years later, Kirk sold the trove of recordings to author Alan Paul, who used them as the backbone for his book Brothers and Sisters, and publicly credited Kirk for the “precious cargo” no one else had. Not even Kirk had listened to them all.
And wouldn't you love to get your hands on that biography manuscript by Kirk and Joanne—whatever form it’s in?
As for Les Brers, it didn’t stay just a newsletter. It became a gathering place—first by mail, then in person. That early fan community helped foster something bigger: the Georgia Allman Brothers Band Association, or GABBA. While Kirk may not have been an official founder, there’s no question he helped build the fire that kept the fandom warm.
GABBA grew out of the spirit that Les Brers cultivated—connection, curiosity, and reverence for a band that, at the time, wasn’t even sure it had a future. Kirk’s devotion to preserving the sound and the story gave fans a new way to belong to something deeper than a greatest hits list.
He helped create a community long before social media or reunion tours made it easy. Back then, you had to dig through clippings, type up real letters, meet up in parking lots, and remember who played the second solo at Watkins Glen. And Kirk remembered. He had the tapes.
Clearly, the early ABB—and even Capricorn Records—didn’t have an archive plan. But they had Kirk. And before that, they had Willie Perkins, the ABB’s tour manager in the 1970s, who was already collecting memorabilia on the road. Willie even published a book of ABB artifacts years later, crediting Kirk with contributing several rare items and photographs: The Allman Brothers Band Classic Memorabilia 1969-1976, co-authored by Jack Weston and with an introduction by Galadrielle Allman, Duane Allman’s youngest daughter.
Thanks to Kirk’s foresight and relentless work, Les Brers became the connective tissue between the band and its most loyal fans. You could even say it laid the groundwork for Hittin’ the Note, the beloved fan magazine Kirk and Kirsten began publishing while living in The Big House—a kind of living scrapbook of ABB history in real time… and running for 24 years.
Ron Currens, the ABB super-fan, researcher, and early backer, believed in Kirk’s work and went on to play a major role in shaping Hittin’ the Note. Like Kirk, Ron was more than a fan who simply wrote for Hittin’ the Note and edited it at times—he was a documentarian in his own right, ensuring the band’s story was preserved with care, curiosity, and depth. Together, Kirk and Ron helped create a grassroots archive long before the Big House Museum or official retrospectives existed.
With all his writing, photography, and publishing, Kirk became much more than just a chronicler of Southern Rock—he became a co-architect of its legacy.
“The Boys waitin’ on the bus... Burt Reynolds ranch... Jupiter, Florida... Spring of ‘94 during the recording of Where it All Begins... the ranch’s film settings provided lots of cool locations for still photos.... a great couple days of group shots.”
… as always... foto by Kirk West/Retro Photo Archive.
Kirk’s Other Camera
Kirk had that archivist’s eye long before he ever called himself one. He started out collecting hot rods and ended up collecting history. First it was model cars, then cameras and tour laminates, set lists and fan newsletters, bootlegs and backstage passes.
By the time the ABB re-formed in 1989, Kirk was already building what would become the most comprehensive ABB archive in existence.
He was known for his camera lens, but he had another one—a quieter, more internal way of documenting the world. He was always watching… gathering… remembering. While the world looked at the spotlight, Kirk was building the archive in the shadows.
Kirk West and Dickey Betts at Woodstock ’94 — making memories as vibrant as their shirts.
(Photographer unknown, via kirkwestfotos Instagram.)
Kirk was saving scraps from day one — ticket stubs, contact sheets, tour notes, stories half-told and half-lost. He documented the road in real time—through his camera, through his Les Brers and Hittin’ the Note tour reports, and through the anthology projects he helped spearhead.
If there was a detail to remember, Kirk wrote it down. If there was a moment to capture, he already had it on film.
He wasn’t doing it for credit or applause. He was doing it because he understood that memory fades, and someone has to keep the receipts.
Not everyone saw Kirk’s vision at the time. And not everyone understood what he was building while he was building it. That’s often the way it is with people who don’t shout. Kirk never led with ego. He wasn’t the loudest voice in the room. Still isn’t. But the loudest voices aren’t always the ones saying the most.
When the idea of a Big House Museum came to life, Kirk made a monumental donation—his personal collection of ABB memorabilia, valued in the millions, became the seed for what fans now walk through today. He didn’t give everything away, but what he did share laid the groundwork for preserving the band’s legacy for generations.
The Big House Museum on Vineville Avenue — the heart of the Allman Brothers Band’s story and a place Kirk & Kirsten West helped bring to life as renovators, archivists, and historians.
Kirk’s donation to the Big House wasn’t just a handoff of memorabilia. It was the transfer of a lived archive, a gift of decades’ worth of artifacts and context. It was the seed that helped the museum grow into what it is today.
Kirsten was there for all of it—cataloging, scanning, organizing the chaos. Cooking for guests like Colonel Bruce Hampton and Bonnie Bramlett in their home on Vineville Avenue. She helped turn that home into the headquarters for ABB history. She understood what Kirk was doing long before most others.
It’s not a stretch to say that without Kirk, the ABB might have left behind music but no memory. He is the one who remembers. He and Kirsten safely tucked away the receipts.
The value of an archive often isn’t clear until someone else needs to tell the story, and Kirk was building what he knew mattered—to fans, to future scholars, to music lovers who hadn’t even been born yet.
After all, quiet doesn't mean absent, and humble doesn’t mean small. In Kirk’s case, it meant deliberate, devoted, deep.
Big Adventure at The Big House
But let’s back up to where his story with Macon began.
In 1993, Kirk and Kirsten bought the Big House, the original communal home of the ABB, and moved south from Chicago. Kirsten’s idea to turn the house into a rock-and-roll Bed & Breakfast became their shared dream.
That plan got tangled in fire codes and city red tape. They weren’t about to shell out more money to add a fire escape or industrial kitchen.
“We got around the codes by not charging folks,” Kirk says. “We had a gift box and folks would pay what they thought it was worth to stay at the house.”
So they had pivoted: instead of a business, they created a destination.
“We had put the notion out there,” Kirk says, “and were on CNN and the Travel network. That early attention created a destination and we had to evolve with it.”
The fans started flowing toward Macon.
Long before the museum sign went up, the Big House was already a place where Macon’s past and future collided — where Kirk and Kirsten learned just how fiercely this city holds on to its ghosts and guitars.
Kirsten ran the house while Kirk stayed on the road with the ABB. She’d renovated homes in other towns, so managing a crumbling Macon landmark came naturally.
Their vision extended beyond preservation—it was about participation. They gathered a tribe of young artists, trained them in photography, design, and screen printing, and built a groundswell of culture around the band’s legacy.
More than 20,000 visitors knocked on the doors of the Big House while they lived there.
Kirk started Hittin’ the Note newsletter for ABB fans and Kirsten managed it, every detail, down to addressing and stamping envelopes, until it grew into a full-color, glossy magazine.
Inside The Big House Museum, every wall and display hums with the Allman Brothers Band’s history — from gold records, tour posters, and well-traveled stage gear to the instruments and images that keep their spirit alive. Much of this preservation owes its soul to Kirk West’s years as the band’s archivist and to Kirsten West’s dedication to keeping the house intact for fans to walk through these doors.
Two of the rooms housed all of Kirk’s ABB memorabilia, displayed for visitors to view. The Big House wasn’t just stucco and ephemera. It was the emotional and spiritual core of the Brotherhood, brought back to life.
The Big House became an official museum in 2009, born out of a well-funded foundation, sweat, and stubborn love. Kirk had released the documentary Please Call Home to raise funds for the Allman Brothers Foundation.
“I made Please call Home in 2005, intending it as a 15-minute infomercial, but we had such great footage of members, wives, children, etc., we extended it to 90 minutes. We could only talk about the years the band lived there, which was 1970 to 1973, when At Fillmore East and Brothers & Sisters were recorded. Gregg wrote the song Please Call Home about the Big house, so we had to play it in the documentary. It’s a great little film.”
Please Call Home is available for purchase at Gallery West, and it really is a great little film!
Kirk and Kirsten lived in The Big House for 14 years before selling it to the Allman Brothers Foundation.
Please Call Home: The Big House Years
Directed by Kirk West, this film is a backstage pass to the early days of the Allman Brothers Band—shot with heart and the eye of a brother who was there. Featuring Linda Oakley’s powerful perspective, it’s as much about the family as the fame. Premiered in 2021 and still raising goosebumps. Available now at Gallery West.
On the Road
Kirk spent twenty years touring with the ABB—a stretch of time most folks wouldn't survive, much less thrive in. Life on the road is grueling: moving equipment to a new venue every other day, keeping the band and crew fed, lodged, on time, and ready to perform. There are moments of glory, sure—roaring crowds and encores and backstage magic—but also long hauls, broken guitars, and more stress than sleep.
Four weeks on the road and then two weeks at home, over and over again.
Kirk learned to endure it with a sense of humor. And he learned not to take himself too seriously. At 30, he wore the road well and brought with him a creative, offbeat energy—and a knack for solving problems with flair. He quickly outgrew the title of Assistant Tour Manager.
“I didn’t feel like I was an assistant anything. The itinerary listed our titles and I thought, ‘You know, I don’t want to be assistant .’ So I told the tour manager, ‘How about we come up with a different title because I do a lot more stuff than just assistant. I pull rabbits out of hats and make assholes disappear. What about Tour Magician?’”
The title stuck for a while, until roadie and fellow-character Red Dog gave him a new one: Tour Mystic.
“I thought that was funny,” Kirk says with a grin.
Titles, after all, tell stories. They hint at roles within the traveling circus of a touring band. Kirk remembers a summer when the ABB hit the road with the Grateful Dead—another band known for its free-form philosophy and eclectic entourage. One of the Dead’s crew members was having liver issues, so they brought along a man named Doctor Phil—not the TV personality, but a real San Francisco mystic of sorts.
“That summer,” Kirk says, “my job title became Chinese Herbalist. It was an inside joke. One day before a show, Doctor Phil came to me wanting to talk about herbs. Actually, I was the guy who received the pot and then spread it to the band and crew. Weed was the only herb I handled.”
That’s how did he got close to the band in the first place.
“Because I had pockets full of reefer,” Kirk laughs. “You get to know a lot of bands that way.”
It was a half-joke, and also mostly true.
Beneath the humor was a reality familiar to many who lived on the road in that era: a touring life greased by booze, marijuana, and whatever else kept the engines running. The grind was constant; escape came in many forms.
It’s no secret that life on tour could wear a body down. In those days, the antidotes were often liquid or smokable, or sexual—whatever dulled the exhaustion, broke the boredom, or took the edge off the pressure. Kirk doesn’t glorify that part of the job, but he doesn’t deny it either. He was there, helping hold it all together while the wheels kept turning and everyone did what they had to do to get to the next gig.
Gallery West
“I was tour manager of the ABB throughout the 90s and early 2000s,” Kirk says. “In 2010, I retired from the road and Kirsten had the idea to open Gallery West.”
They launched Gallery West in 2015 on 3rd Street—Kirk’s photo archive reimagined by Kirsten as a community hub. Well, at first she had envisioned a pop-up gallery lasting one holiday season, but like most things Kirk and Kirsten start, they made a success of it and celebrated 10 years this past February!
Celebrating 10 years of Kirsten hosting visitors at Gallery West — where Kirk West’s iconic images share the walls with visiting artists and photographers, live music fills the air, and Macon’s creative community comes to hang out. Photo via Gallery West Facebook, photographer unknown.
“I just kept saying yes to life,” Kirk says, thinking back on Kirsten’s vision and a lifetime of unexpected chances. “Every time a door cracked open, I said, ‘Sure, I’ll try that.’ I never did learn how to say no—and maybe that’s the whole secret.”
And because he kept saying yes, a whole creative community bloomed around him.
Turns out, “yes” can build a gallery, a scene, a life—and Kirk said “yes” like he meant it.
Then he spent three years scanning negatives, prepping prints, and quietly cursing every speck of dust that tried to sneak into his legacy.
Gallery West became his next great act: a space to show and sell his prints, to share his memories in tangible form, and to keep the circle unbroken.
That circle was always rooted in Macon — a town that gave Kirk and Kirsten a reason to stay put after so many miles on the road. If Chicago gave him his lens, Macon gave him his frame.
And the gallery displayed his life’s work (or at least a portion of it).
He’s since sold the rights to his earlier works, a quiet closing of a chapter. But the space remains active. Kirsten still hosts, for now. She’s looking to retire from her manager duties at the gallery in early 2026. Local artists still exhibit and gather, and plan to take over the gallery’s management when Kirsten retires to her dream home in Macon’s Shirley Hills neighborhood. Kirk still walks in, slower these day, by his own admission, but still sharp-eyed.
Gallery West continues to serve as a vital intersection of music and visual art—just like Kirk himself. The gallery doesn’t just showcase Kirk’s photographic legacy; it also champions contemporary Southern artists and musicians, providing a space where creativity is honored in all its forms.
Local legends like R&B guitarist Robert Lee Coleman are invited to perform there, and that same spirit of recognition will carry through when Mr. Coleman is awarded the Medal of Freedom from the Tubman Museum on August 15, 2025, along with William Bell, a Stax Records icon.
Kirk’s camera has long focused on artists worth remembering—and now, through Gallery West, his lens becomes a platform for spotlighting others… such as local photographers Bill Brookins and DSTO Moore, local visual artists Johnny Mo and Kevin Lewis, and local musical artists like Mr. Coleman... plus many more.
And he keeps the fire lit in other ways — his voice, smooth and grounded, now broadcast every Monday evening on 100.9 The Creek in a radio show called Into the Mystic. Starting each show with his signature “Howdy Boys & Girls,” he records at Capricorn Studios, where Southern Rock was minted, sitting at a console, calling up old records and new favorites, telling stories with the weight of someone who was there.
Into the Mystic is more than a playlist—it’s a musical memoir. Kirk shares obscurities and personal tributes, lessons wrapped in vinyl and memory.
“the show is really just me playin my albums & tellin the occasional tale.... but its mostly a fine way to spend an hour or so... hope ya give it listen.”
Kirk on Instagram, May 1, 2023.
“I have fun with my radio show,” Kirks says. “I pull the records. I cue up the songs. I tell the stories. It doesn’t take much energy, but I still have to have my mind right.”
You can hear that sensibility on full display in his Creek radio show; it’s a playlist and a personal archive in motion.
Always with the motion, this guy.
Kirk did sit still long enough to curate and publish his Photos into books:
• Les Brers: Kirk West’s Photographic Journey with the Brothers
• The Blues in Black and White The Photography of Kirk West
Onward Through the Fog, My Friends
Even now, Kirk’s still telling stories. He just added new platforms.
On Instagram (@kirkwestfotos), he’s been posting from a “little search thru the forgotten folders”—photos pulled from dusty boxes and old hard drives, each one paired with a memory, a vibe, a scrap of poetry. It’s a digital scrapbook for the faithful, with captions that read like roadside haikus from the golden age of Southern Rock.
It’s the same storytelling voice he brings to his Creek radio show: poetic, sardonic, reverent, and irreverent. On the air, Kirk shares his personal soundtrack—records pulled by hand, stories told in his soothing voice. On Instagram, we get the visuals: a time-traveling tour book, one caption at a time, often sounding like a song.
Together, it’s a living archive in motion. The music, the memories, the man.
Kirk’s Soundtrack
Kirk spent his life capturing music, supporting it, preserving it—but what about the songs that hold him?
When asked about his all-time favorite performer, Kirk doesn’t hesitate: Tom Waits. Gravel-voiced, poetic, and just a little wild, Waits is a storyteller as much as a singer—a perfect match for a man like Kirk who’s always been drawn to what’s raw, real, and a little left of center.
“Tom Waits.... 1978.... a dark corner of Chicago.... where smoke gets in your eyes.... ”
… foto by Kirk West/ Retro Photo Archive.
Waits, Kirk says, was the first artist to treat him like an artist. They collaborated on a series of striking, stylized photos—each one staged by Kirk, with Waits fully game for whatever concept Kirk threw out. That trust paid off in images that still stand out today. And for a creative soul like Kirk—especially one with a poet’s heart—being recognized as an artist by another artist meant everything.
That kind of creative kinship doesn’t come around often, but when it does, it leaves a mark. And it’s not the only time music cracked something open in Kirk. Before the cameras, before the tour buses and museum walls, there was a moment that changed everything.
“I’m a little farm boy from Iowa, and there wasn’t a lick of blues in our county,” he says. “Paul Butterfield’s East/West record changed my life.”
He opened up to a hunger for sound, soul, and stories told better with music than words alone. Since then, Kirk’s personal soundtrack has stretched wide. He speaks reverently about Dreams of the San Joaquin, an under-the-radar gem by Jack Wesley Routh and Randy Sharp.
“It’s just gorgeous. I’ve given so many copies away over the years,” he says. “I think I gave my last one to Jaimoe.”
And then there’s the deeply personal:
“‘Have a Little Faith in Me,’ by John Hiatt—that was played at my wedding to Kirsten in 1991.” In a Chicago blues bar, no less.
Kirk’s not just a collector of records. He’s a sharer of songs, especially on his radio show, but in other ways, too. Even as he helped shape the story of Southern Rock, his own musical tastes ran deeper, wider, and more soul-bending than any one genre could contain.
And like his photography, his approach to music is honest and discerning:
“People say to me, ‘Kirk, you never take a bad picture.’ And I say, ‘No, I do take bad pictures—I just don’t show them to you.’”
Same goes for songs. He doesn’t just collect—he curates. What you see, what you hear, is what he’s chosen to keep. And that, too, is an art.
Hank Snow in rhinestone splendor, Marty Robbins with that trademark steely gaze, and Johnny Cash sharing a backstage laugh with Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis. These moments exist because Kirk West was there, preserving the magic for the rest of us. “This photo was taken in Madison, Wisconsin in 1982 during the Survivors tour.” … foto by Kirk West/ Retro Photo Archive.
Macon owes the Wests a quiet debt for the lasting legacy they’ve created.
Some debts can’t be repaid, just recognized, honored, and carried forward with gratitude. That’s the kind of legacy Kirk and Kirsten have given Macon—not transactional, but transformational.
Kirk and Kirsten are still here. Still showing up. Still part of the soul of Macon’s creative life. The Gallery West door still swings wide, though someone else will soon carry the load of selling Kirk’s prints—but the couple remains rooted. Holding space and Held Here.
These days, Kirk shows up at Gallery West mostly on First Fridays, when downtown businesses stay open, shows off, and invite folks in for snacks, drinks, and discovery. Not one to make a fuss— Kirk just eases in to Gallery West, calm and soft-spoken, ready to talk if you’re curious and quiet if you’re not.
It’s a rare kind of presence, the kind you don’t fully appreciate until it starts to slip away. Kirk and Kirsten hint at stepping back and winding down as the year comes to a close. When that happens, the chance to stand beside him and hear the story behind a photo—from a moody blues club in Chicago or a sun-soaked Southern stage—might be gone for good.
If you’ve ever thought about stopping by downtown Macon and specifically Gallery West, now’s the time. Gallery West still carries that spark and lived-in magic. While the walls will always hold Kirk’s work, there’s something unforgettable about hearing the stories straight from the man who lived them… because some stories deserve to be heard while the storyteller’s still in the room.
“GA smoking hot at Alpine Valley, Wisc... sometimes Gregg was so easy to shoot.. he was just so fkin cool... this was in July of 1980 and the band was working all the time and bringing in big crowds & my access to the band had become total.. I had the run of the place... just don't unplug anything... but go where ya need to go to get the shot... so I did.... and as always...
... foto by Kirk West/ Retro Photo Archive
...pulling around the corner coming into Sturgis during August of 1990, Gregg & crew riding from Rapid City on a day off ... a tattoo artist from Indiana named Roy Boy hooked GA up with a springer softail for a ride to Sturgis & back... I grabbed a ride along in a mini van with the side door strapped open & I shot the whole trip leaning & focusing & hoping I didn't fall out along the way... Gregg's current wife Danielle was riding on back... as always ...
... foto by Kirk West/ Retro Photo Archive
No Van Morrison Just Yet
Kirk’s been feeling poorly lately, though. Covid hit him hard in 2020—nearly took him out.
“I want Van Morrison’s ‘Into the Mystic’ played at my funeral,” he tells me, maybe a thought lingering from his Covid trauma.
While his body says to pace himself, his mind—his soul—is still in the game.
So no Van Morrison for Kirk just yet.
Not while he’s still spinning the vinyl that shaped his soul, still walking these Macon streets in his Allman Brothers t-shirt—the same town that’s held him and given him a place to keep the music alive.
Kirk lived inside the music as he archived it. And he’s still keeping the flame red hot, shining like a beacon that draws folks from all over the world to Macon, to that Gallery West.
And the music? Just like his stories, it still sounds better when Kirk’s around.
Why Kirk is Held Here
Kirk West is Held Here because some people come to Macon chasing the echoes of music history — but Kirk came and stayed to keep those echoes alive. He photographed legends while living alongside them, made a home inside their story, and then gave that home back to the rest of us.
He witnessed the music and built the memory, preserving what might have been forgotten. He knew what to keep, and he kept it for all of us.
In 2023, Kirk’s decades of work preserving and shaping music history were honored with his induction into the Iowa Rock ‘n Roll Music Association Hall of Fame—bringing the journey full circle for a small-town Iowa boy who once dreamed of the open road.
“Get ready to dive into the vibrant world of rock history with Kirk West, the legendary "Tour Mystic" of the Allman Brothers Band! With over 20 years spent as a key figure in the music scene, Kirk West's contributions are unmatched. From his role as the founder of Hittin’ the Note magazine to his work as the official archivist for the Allman Brothers Band, he has left an indelible mark on the rock music landscape.”
Iowa Rock ‘n Roll Music Association.
He’s a reminder that what’s worth saving is worth sharing — an archivist and storyteller who never hid behind the camera but leaned all the way in, letting Macon hold him. The Big House, the gallery, the radio show — they’re all testaments to a legacy built with heart, with hustle, and, just as importantly, with Kirsten by his side.
Kirk & Kirsten: Two Halves of a Whole +
There’s something rare and quietly extraordinary about the way Kirk and Kirsten West move through the world together. Their partnership isn’t loud or performative—it’s steady, intentional, and deeply felt. They’ve built not just projects and legacies, but a kind of space for each other to grow, to take risks, to be fully themselves. He never clipped her wings. She never dimmed his fire. And vice versa. If anything, they lit each other up.
Over the years, they’ve created room—for the work, yes, but also for ambition, for independence, for the late nights and rabbit holes and obsessive sorting and dreaming that creative lives demand. That kind of support isn’t flashy. It’s not always easy. But it’s the reason they’ve lasted—and the reason their work has, too.
They consult one another and trust one another. That trust has shaped everything they’ve built. A museum. A gallery. A community. A shared life rooted in mutual respect and a fierce kind of freedom. Theirs’ is the kind of union that doesn’t happen often. And for those lucky enough to witness it, it’s clear: the real magic isn’t just in the archives. It’s in the way they keep showing up for each other, and for Macon.
Select quotes and stories in this piece are from my interview with Kirk in November 2024, and a 2000s-era interview with Kirk conducted by Gary James of classicbands.com, used here with respect.
Next up: Kirsten West—the Godmother of Southern Rock—who helped turn Macon into a music mecca. From reviving the Big House to launching Gallery West and steering the Capitol Theatre, her quiet vision made Macon hum with history and heart.
About the Author
Cindi Brown is a Georgia-born writer, porch-sitter, and teller of truths — even the ones her Mama once pinched her for saying out loud. She runs Porchlight Press from her 1895 house with creaking floorboards and an open door for stories with soul. When she’s not scribbling about Southern music, small towns, stray cats, places she loves, and the wild gospel that hums in red clay soil, you’ll find her out listening for the next thing worth saying.
