(Alan Dean) It was in the forties toward the end of the war, and I was singing with a small band in a hotel in Southampton. Southampton in those days was quite a place because it was more or less a clearinghouse for all the G.I.s who has fought in various areas of Europe during the war. They would come back to Southampton, and, according to priorities, would be put aboard troop ships and go back home, As I remember, Art and the guys that played with him in the military band had the unfortunate job of playing for them every morning as they took off to go back to the States. Of course the band remained behind.
I first met Art, I suppose, one night when he and a couple of other fellows came to us and said, "Hey, we like your band. Can we sit in?" We were, I must admit, a little reluctant at first, because it had been our experience that when a G.I. would say, "Can I sit in with you, I used to play with Tommy Dorsey," it usually turned out that he hadn't played with Tommy Dorsey at all. He could barely play his instrument. And it was bit embarrassing. But these guys seemed to be genuine, so we said, "Sure. By all means, sit in." Well, of course, when they started to play we knew that they were fine musicians, particularly Art, who just ... absolutely ... just stopped us in our tracks, he was so good. And, after that, they would come into the hotel almost every evening and sit in and play a set with us, and we became good friends.
The engagement, which was for several months at this hotel, came to an end, and we went back to London, and almost at the same time the military band that Art was playing with was disbanded because some of their members were being sent back on the priorities system. They broke it up and sent Art back with a few of the other guys to London, and, of all things, made Art an MP, which I don't think he was very happy about. He wasn't cut out for that kind of action.
London was really quite an exciting place to be in those days. There was a sort of free-for-all atmosphere. The war had taken away a lot of the stuffy social stigma that I remember England having before the war (I haven't lived in England for many, many years now). I know the war made people more together. They had nothing to lose so they had a good time. I know I did. Oh, there was rationing, and they had lots of bad air raids and that sort of thing, but generally life wasn't that bad.
My dad had a pub in London, which is only significant because good liquor was very hard to come by during the war, and my dad, having a pub, used to get a fairly good supply and would always keep a few back for me or himself or his friends. Whenever Art and the guys needed a drink, they'd just buzz me, and I could usually rustle something up. I was always amused when I'd get a phone call from Art sometime around midnight, and he'd say, "I can't take this MP thing. Have you got any gin?" I would say, "Yeah, I can get a bottle of gin." "Well, get in your car and meet me on the corner. . ," of Picadilly and something or other. I'd get in my car and park, and suddenly, out of the darkness, this small figure with a huge white hat would loom up, and it would be Art, and he'd take a quick look around and hop in the back of the car and dispose of about a half a bottle of gin, and he'd say, "Well, now I feel more like it." And back he'd go on the beat again. Studiously avoiding problems. He went the other way when he heard a fracas. He just wasn't interested, and I didn't blame him either.
The fellows came to my house on many occasions, and we used to sit 'til all hours of the morning playing records and getting boozed. On one occasion, one of the guys got hold of something that resembled grass, but I don't think it was. I didn't smoke anything, even ordinary cigarettes; I still don't, so I didn't participate. Fortunately. Because the other guys smoked whatever it was and were all violently ill and fell about the place. I don't think they tried it again.
Jazz was pretty hard to come by in London in those days, but there was this one place run by a man called Feldman who had three sons who were aspiring musicians-Robert, Victor, and Monte. Victor, who was then about ten, played the drums, and of course, it's the same Victor Feldman who's one of the top guys in the studio scene in Hollywood now. He played amazingly well as a child, and then took up vibes and piano, and, as you know, he's quite a giant.
Feldman's was the place where jazz happened, and Art would go there and sit in and play and, of course, made a tremendous impression on the musicians around him because his technique, his fluency, his complete command of his instrument, was far ahead of any of the other musicians around. None of the English saxophone players ... There were some good ones, but they just didn't have it all together like Art did. I think perhaps one of the reasons ... I can't remember knowing anyone, ever, quite so dedicated to their music as Art was. Even when he was doing those awful MP things, walking around until five o'clock in the morning with a great white hat and a nightstick, he would grab a couple of hours sleep and a shower and go straight to a rehearsal room and practice his instrument for hours and hours on end with very little sleep. For him it was more important to maintain his ability and improve, and he did it studiously, without any hesitation. No matter what else was going on that had to happen. And I always admired that tremendous ability he had to dedicate himself to his work.
One time in Feldman's, a young fellow, oh, he wouldn't have been more than sixteen I suppose (I was about twenty at that time), a young kid, asked if he could sit in with us. We asked him, "What do you play?" He said clarinet, and we said, "Don't you play saxophone as well?" He said no, only clarinet. We said, "Well ... alright." He played beautifully, and we asked him what his name was, and he said, "Johnny Dankworth." He said, "I'm actually studying to be a classical musician, but I love jazz, and I thought I'd like to try it." And I remember Art asked me who he was, and I said I didn't know. Art said, "Well, he has more promise than any musician I've heard in England to date." And I think he was very perceptive where that's concerned, because Dankworth, as you know, turned out to be one of the finest jazz musicians England has produced, and he's still very prominent along with his wife, Cleo Laine.
Art, of course, and the other guys subsequently went back to the States, and I didn't hear from them again until 1951, by which time I had become a name pop singer in England. I had won all the popularity polls and I had made a few recordings; some of them had sold very well. And, travelling around, I worked with a few cats from the States, and they suggested I try my hand in the States. I decided to do just that. Late in 1951 I emigrated. I brought all my records with me under my arm and a lot of press clippings and whatever money I had and off I went. A few days after I got to New York, I saw an ad that the Stan Kenton Orchestra was going to be playing at Carnegie Hall. I had every one of his records I could lay my hands on, and the thought of seeing the Kenton band live was just too much. I bought tickets in the first or second row and sat there waiting for the band to come on. When they walked on, who was sitting right in the middle of the sax section playing lead alto but Art Pepper! I was thrilled to death. I ran around backstage afterwards and we had a big backslapping contest-"How are you? What the hell are you doing in the States?" And that was actually the last time I ever saw Art.
I got an engagement as a singer in a nightclub in Washington D.C. and was very well received, and was then signed up by MGM Records. I had a few near hits, or near misses, whichever way you want to look at it, and my career went very well for me. I never got to star status, but I did very well until the advent of rock-and-roll which brought me undone like a lot of other people.
WE lived right by St. James Park in one of those old, four-storey tenements, across the street from King Peter of Yugoslavia; he was in exile or something at the time. At first I worked at the Marlborough Street jail. We stayed there for twenty-four hours and then we were off twenty-four. The prisoners were American soldiers who were AWOL and deserters. If they had a long time to do, we would transport them to Paris because they didn't have space enough in London. We'd fly them to Paris carrying sawed-off shotguns and .45s. I'd fill a small suitcase with soap and nylon stockings and cigarettes and razor blades, things you could get through the army that people in Paris couldn't get at all. We'd deliver the prisoners to the P
aris detention barracks, and then we'd get a three-day pass. Somebody had given me the name of a woman in Pigalle, so I'd go to this lady and she'd buy whatever I had. She'd give me francs and I'd stay in Paris for three days and spend them.
They put us in some billets the army had taken over, miserable but cheap. I never went with any of the other guys. I'd stay by myself, wander around, riding the subway, drinking cognac, and every now and then I'd run into some pot. They had what they called Gunje, which was black, and I got some absinthe a few times, when it was the real stuff, and got wiped out.
Once in Pigalle I went into a club where there was a group playing jazz; they were from South Africa or Morocco. One guy played saxophone. I was drinking, so I went up and talked to them. I got across to them that I was a musician and that I would like to play. The guy let me use his horn, and they were amazed that I played so good. After I finished, this beautiful French girl smiled at me. She didn't speak English, but we sat together and I bought her a drink and then we left together. We walked until we came to a gate. She said, "You have money?" I said, "A little." She rang a buzzer and a light went on over our heads. A buzzer rang back, and the iron door opened, and we walked in.
It was a whorehouse. It was a place where the women take their tricks, but she didn't seem like that. I'd been to Tijuana when I was a kid and I'd been to San Bernardino when there were whorehouses there, and they were really a drag. This was different. I gave them a certain amount when I checked in, and that paid her; it paid for the room and it paid for the drinks. We had a couple of drinks and went upstairs to a room with one of those little French balconies. It was really like making love. It was almost like being with Patti. The girl was gorgeous. She had short, straight, black hair with a little wave at the bottom; beautiful skin; small, perfect breasts; and a beautifully rounded ass. She was really a woman. She seemed to have character and depth. She had little lines around her eyes, and she had such soul and such feeling. We made love all night long. She talked to me in French. She had a beautiful voice, and afterwards I thought about her a lot. I went back to Paris once more after that and looked all over for her, but I couldn't find her. I never saw her again.
The English girls had blotches on their legs, red blotches from a lack of protein. The English people never got eggs or anything like that. When I was in Bournemouth we'd have dances, and to get the girls to come, the girls from the surrounding territory, they'd get out all the old cheese and salami and "horse cock" bologna and make these godawful sandwiches using dry bread and stale mustard. They'd have old fruit all messed up and no good. They gave this stuff out, and no one was allowed in the dances except the girls. And the girls would come, and you could see them sneaking the food inside their clothes and then going over by the door, where their mother or grandmother or a little kid would be hiding out in the bushes. They'd sneak them a sandwich. That's how the girls got paid off. Some of them would ball you for a bar of soap, a pack of chewing gum, a piece of chocolate, a stale piece of cheese or salami; they'd cut the mold off.
It was very hard to get liquor. The English would line up by the pubs because at a certain hour each pub would have two or four fifths of gin which they'd put in the spigot and start selling, first come, first served, and that would be it for the evening. The' soldiers used to get Old Kuchenheimer 100-proof rye whiskey at two dollars a quart; it cost us ten shillings (we got paid in English money). I'd buy it and I'd buy up the rations of a couple of guys that didn't drink so I always had my footlocker filled with alcohol.
I had been transferred to patrol duty in Picadilly, and when I had the day off I'd wander around the parks or Picadilly Circus, get drunk, observe things. This one time I went over to St. James Park, and there was a girl there, very pretty; her skin wasn't like most of them, pale, pasty, sickly looking; their teeth were all bad. This one looked pretty good. She was sitting on the grass. It was morning, around ten o'clock, and I had a sack with two quarts of whiskey in it. The girl smiled, and I noticed that she had a beautiful body, so I walked over and said hello. She said hello, and I said, "What are you doing?" She said, "Just relaxing. What are you doing?" I said, "Nothing. I got the day off." She said, "What have you got in the sack?" I said, "Oh, I have some goodies. Do you drink?" She said, "Yeeeesss!" I'd even brought a couple of little paper cups so I could drink outside. I went and got a cup of water from the drinking fountain and sat down beside her on the grass.
It was a pretty day. There's very few days in London that are warm and pleasant, so when you have one it's a joyous thing: everyone's outside and happy. I filled the other cup with Old Kuchenheimer and we started drinking and talking, and I told her I was a musician, and I think she had heard of me. When I was in London I played at the Adelphi Theatre. George Shearing was on the card. They had jazz concerts, and I was the young American, the Yank. I played at the London Palladium as a guest star with Ted Heath's band, so my name had been in the subways.
We talked and drank, and the time went by. She was pretty and I was very lonely. I balled only rarely, and then I'd suffer terrible feelings of guilt. And I'd look at myself every time I'd urinate. I'd be afraid there would be something dripping out the end of my thing, that I'd have a disease. But this girl appealed to me and I'd already made up my mind. We started lying close and goofing around with each other, and time kept passing. I asked her what she would like to do and she said, "Oh, don't worry about it; everything will be alright." At one point I said I could rent us a room but she said, "Don't worry, everything will be fine." It got later and later. At last I said, "There's no point in laying here in this park. Why don't we find some place that's a little more private?" And she said, "Alright, let's go
She lived way on the outskirts of London, so we got on the subway and rode and rode and rode, and by the time we got there it was dark. Then we walked. And as we're walking, all of a sudden she says, "Well, it was nice meeting you. We'll have to get together again." I said, "What are you talking about?" Here I'd spent the whole day! We'd drunk almost the whole two quarts of Old Kuchenheimer! And I'd given her cigarettes! I said, "What do you mean? Yeah, naturally it's been nice, but where are we going?" So then she said, "Well, I've got to get home, and my parents are home. We can't go there." I said, "Why didn't you tell me? I told you I would have rented a room." She said, "But I just met you." Here she'd been rubbing up against me and spreading her legs! It was outrageous and I thought she was joking. I said, "Look, I went through all this thing with you and spent all this time, I'm not going to waste it. We're going to make love regardless!" She said, "No, we're not!" And she started to get snotty. I thought, "This fuckin' broad is not going to make a chump out of me! No!" I really hate prick teasers.
We were walking. I looked over to the right and saw a church there and a cemetery. We were way out in the country and hadn't passed anybody since we got off the subway. I said, "We're going to make it one way or another; either you're going to do it peaceable or ... Suit yourself! She really got indignant and she started to pull away from me, but I held on to her and dragged her to this cemetery and threw her down on the ground. I said, "Come on! Are you kidding?" I thought she was playing a game with me. She said, "No, I can't! Please believe me! I would if I could, but I can't." I said, "Are you having your period?" She said, "No, I can't!" I said, "Well, you're going to!"
It wasn't even enjoyable. I spread her legs and got my thing out, and as soon as I got it in her she started fucking, and I came real quick, and it was nothing, and after I finished I said, "Oh, shit." She said, "You're going to be sorry." I said, "Fuck you." I hated her guts and I really despised myself. I would have liked to have killed her for causing me to go through such feelings as that. It would have been bad enough balling her if we'd been in nice surroundings and she'd wanted to ball. She walked off and I found my way back. I felt sick when I went into my billet. I showered and scrubbed myself as if I could wash the filth off me.
Right after that, word came that we were going home. I was so happy. They give
you examinations before you go, and they found out I had the clap.
I tried to get out of going back but there was nothing I could do. And in those days you had to wait three months, period, before you could ball again or you might give it to the other person. So I had to come home to Patti and tell her that we couldn't make love. She cried, and, oh, I cried, and I told her that the girl didn't mean anything, and she knew that that was true. Patti marked the days off on the calendar. We went a month and three days, and it got so bad I had to do chin-ups on the doorsill of the bedroom because I hurt inside, because I wanted to make love so bad. Then finally the time came, and she forgave me. But that's retribution.
5
Heroin
1946-1950
WHEN I CAME HOME Patti was staying with my dad and my stepmother, Thelma. And when I came to the door my daughter, Patricia, was there; she was walking and talking. She didn't respond to me: she was afraid of me. I resented her and I was jealous of her feelings for my dad. Naturally, she'd been with them so she didn't feel about me the way I wanted her to, and that started the whole thing off on the wrong foot.
I was bitter about the army and bitter about them making me have a kid I didn't want, bitter about being taken away when everything was going so good. I was drinking heavily and started using more pot and more pills, and I scuffled around and did a casual here and there or a couple of nights in some club, but nothing happened and I was getting more and more despondent when finally, by some miracle, Stan Kenton gave me a call.
Stan Kenton was incredible. He reminded me a lot of my dad, Germanic, with the blonde, straight hair. He was taller than my dad; I think Stan was about six, three, slender, clothes hung on him beautifully. He had long fingers, a long, hawklike nose, and a very penetrating gaze. He seemed to look through you. It was hard to look him in the eye, and most people would look away and become uncomfortable in his presence. And, just like my dad, he had a presence. When he spoke people listened. He was a beautiful speaker and he had the capacity to communicate with any audience and to adapt to any group of people. We would play in some little town in Kansas and he'd talk to the people and capture them completely. We'd be in Carnegie Hall and he'd capture that crowd with another approach. We'd be at the Kavakos in Washington, D.C., a jazz club filled with the black pimp type cats and the hustling broads and the dope fiends-and he'd capture them. He would observe, study the people, and win them.
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