Yesterday at Ronnie Scott’s in Soho an eclectic crowd gathered to pay their respects to the memory of the world’s greatest jazz photographer, David Redfern, who died last year. As befitted that giant of a man, there were no fewer than 12 eulogies, one for every 6.41 inches of him.

Here’s mine:

I’m honoured to have been asked to say a few words. I’ve always wanted to play Ronnie Scott’s, but not like this.

David and I met in 1980. My company HPR was doing the publicity for Pete Townshend’s Eel Pie Publishing, run by John Brown. John showed me a book of splendid photographs of jazz musicians, and asked “Reckon you can do anything with that?” I reckoned we could, and we launched David Redfern’s Jazz Album into the bestsellers.

David was far from aloof, and was intrigued to know how we achieved all that publicity. It was simple, I told him; hard work and an easy subject. I told him about the Frankfurt Book Fair where HPR had had a stand for the past three years, and how we drove out, and how we had a great time and even got some work, and he was in for it. He booked a stand next to mine and we removed the dividing wall to give the impression of a much larger booth.

And so for 25 years David and I travelled to Frankfurt and back every October, staying in the sophisticated town of Spa on the way out and in Monschau, Germany’s most beautiful village, on the way back, enjoying some memorable meals. One year I had a TVR Tasmin, a car shaped like a door-wedge, and David had to be physically restrained from using its bonnet as a launch ramp for his Range Rover.

Range Rovers weren’t quite as solid then as they are now, and one year David limped into Frankfurt with a fuel leak gushing under the bonnet. He rolled to a stop outside the main Fair entrance, and a curious crowd gathered. A German with a fag in his mouth leant over to take a closer look until David spotted him and bellowed “NICHT RAUCHEN YOU WANKER!”

At Frankfurt his great pleasure was replicating in human — and vastly more threatening — form what PicScout and TinEye do for picture libraries nowadays: tracking down unauthorised image usage. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of his archive so he would cruise the music and calendar publishers in the German halls looking for what was rightfully his. With 6’5″ of big Brit looming over the frightened publisher, it wasn’t long before he was returning to the stand with a fistful of Deutschmarks and a satisfied grin.

David liked women and women liked David. It was a mutually agreeable deal. His second book of photographs, The Unclosed Eye, was soon dubbed The Unzipped Fly. Married three times, he knew a fair number of girlfriends in between. Dede Millar was working at HPR when I introduced him to her. Dede was — sorry, is — smart and attractive, and pretty soon they were partners in both life and business. Dede was just what David needed; a savvy business brain to back David’s photographic genius. He had the assets; Dede knew how to exploit them. For ten years it was a rewarding partnership for both of them, and it continued even after they separated personally, right up to the Getty sale.

Both David and I were sons of vicars, and this amused him hugely. “Son of a Preacher Man!” he’d shout when he saw me.

Hiss death shocked me. Not because it wasn’t expected, but because that bear of a man was as near to immortal as anyone I’ve met. I read about it in Will Carleton’s admirable Photo Archive News, and for a moment felt slightly aggrieved that David hadn’t told me himself.

I saw him last year at Dede’s opening of She Bop A Lula, and he was just the same David, but thinner. “I feel fine,” he offered. “It’s all under control.” And his emails in 2014 conveyed the same positive optimism, his enjoyment of life, Suzy and France.

David was for looking into the future, not dwelling on the past.

What I didn’t have time to say was that David was instrumental in the setting up of fotoLibra. You can’t share a stand with the President of BAPLA for 25 years and not learn something about picture libraries. So when a flood destroyed our family photographs the solution was obvious.

God speed, David. A great man in every sense.