Fin Costello hit my radar the way the best photographers do: not with a signature, but with a feeling. You’re staring at a sleeve and suddenly you can hear the room. Hot lights. Hair stuck to foreheads. That thin layer of sweat that says the set is only halfway done.

He comes out of late-1960s London photojournalism—learn the craft fast, get close, don’t ask the moment to repeat itself. And when the rock caravan starts dragging its cables across Europe, he’s already in the right place. Deep Purple (1972–1975) looks like volume you could measure with a broken window. Rainbow (1975–1977) looks sharper, richer, a little more dangerous in the fantasy costume. Then Ozzy Osbourne (1980–1983) arrives like a headline that won’t calm down.

The thing I like is that Costello doesn’t “capture legends.” He catches people working. There’s a difference. Legends pose. Working musicians forget you’re there—until the flash reminds them, and even then he’s already moved on.