His friend and constant collaborator, Marty Paich, was responsible for much of the unveiling of the "new" Art Pepper. Paich constantly called him for record dates, and last spring told this writer, "I feel the situation between Art and myself is similar to that between Miles Davis and Gil Evans. We understand each other." Paich described the altoist as a musician "of the utmost jazz caliber. There's no one else I would write for because the minute he hears the background, he makes an immediate adjustment to the arrangement." Paich summarized his feelings by declaring, "Art Pepper is probably one of the most dedicated musicians I know. He just lives for that horn."
What Paich did not know at the time he made the statement was that there was a compulsion driving his friend more overpowering than music, than the loss of heaven and the fear of hell, than eating or sleeping, than love or hate, than life or death-the craving and the physiological and psychological need of heroin.
When told of Pepper's arrest, a stunned Marty Paich could only comment haltingly, "During the last few months, I used him on record dates a few times, and he acted awfully weird. I tried to talk to him about it, but it didn't seem to do any good."
Ironically, Paich had been trying to reach Pepper the week of his arrest. He wanted to use the altoist on another record date. But there is no phone in tank 11D-2.
For this gentle, introverted, mentally tortured artist and for all the Art Peppers, society has sanctioned a law-"Thou shalt not find this way out." Because he sought whatever release heroin brings, and found in it his personal panacea, this musician became a criminal in the eyes of the law. And the law is absolute.
To the officers who arrested him, to the judge who may send him to prison for the rest of his life, to Federal Narcotics Commissioner Harry Anslinger, who has expressed contempt for all addicts, the life of Art Pepper may be summed up by the cynicism, "file closed on one junkie." To those who appreciated and were fulfilled by his music, it must be, "File closed on one artist." down beat, December 8, 1960. Copyright 1960 by down beat. Reprinted by special permission.
(Ann Christos) I first met Art at the Lighthouse. Actually, back in Minnesota my husband, a musician, used to listen to his records and he'd say, "Now, listen here! This is Art Pepper!" And then when I came to California, I went down to see him, and I was fascinated by him. I started following him around; he thought I was insane. I heard that he was sleeping in East L.A. in a car, and I remember I woke up at about 3 A.M.: the passage of the moon by the window, the light, had awakened me. I got up and went down to East L.A. and drove up and down the streets looking for him. I saw him the next night and I said, "I looked for you." He said, "I was sleeping in a car on such-and-such street." He was playing at the Lighthouse. I don't know what he was doing. He was on the streets. I don't know what drove me, but I felt I just had to help him. I talked to a black trumpet player, Joe Gordon, and he said, "Don't get involved with him. He'll just drag you down." I said, "It's not sexual or anything. I don't know what it is. I just feel that he needs help."
Two weeks after I looked for him in the car, I heard that he was in jail. I was at work, and it came over the radio, and I went down to Esther, a waitress at the Lighthouse. I said, "Art's in jail. Let's bail him out." It was about five hundred dollars and he didn't particularly want to come out. He really thought we were insane. We got him an attorney, too, but Art said, "Don't waste your money." What year was that? 1960?
He went to Esther's house, and he wanted to fix real bad, and she wouldn't ... She had eyes for Art sexually. Art knew it and he wouldn't give her any satisfaction, but I think he did that time and then he tried to manipulate her from there. She wouldn't give in so he took a hammer after her. She called me up, "He's insane! He's insane!" Hahahaha! So she brought him to my house. He sat down at the piano, out on my porch, and that's when I recognized his scowling "smile." I looked at him, and I realized that he wasn't smiling, he was scowling. Then he started working on me, silently, and finally I took him to East L.A.; he stayed there for a couple of days.
I wasn't using at the time. I was just drinking. I came out here, and I think I used the first six months, and then I cleaned up, got out of it, you know. And Art says, "That won't last long." It's such fun tripping with Art. Art's like fast motion; he walks fast. We'd find ourselves tripping to the connection, just talking, and the excitement of going! And Art's animation! If there's something waiting for him, no matter how sick you are, there's a happiness that sets in; we'd start joking and laughing because we knew that soon things were going to be alright. And we'd get there, and sometimes there's a wait, there's a hassle, sometimes it's immediate. You never know. I guess all this is part of the game.
Art was very handsome. Very, very handsome. I thought he had a strong face, but others say there's weakness in it. I hear strength in his blowing and I guess I see it in his face.
While Art was out on bail, he recorded for Les. Les gave him a fifteen-dollar advance. Art's folks had told Les, "Don't give Art any money." But he talked Les out of fifteen dollars, saying that at least we could buy a soda and go to a movie. I had an old, '47 Dodge, and I had a fifth of vodka in the car. Les gave me the fifteen dollars, and I was taking Art home to Thelma and Pops's. Art drank the whole fifth straight down and then he said, "Give me my fifteen dollars." I said, "No, I need that for gas." And while we were still in Hollywood, the generator or something crapped out and the car stopped. Art got out of the car and said, "Give me my money! It's my money! I worked for it!" And I knew he was right. He makes you feel guilty. I said, "But we've gotta get the car fixed." He had to get home. We didn't have cab fare or anything.
That was the night he beat me up. He turned into an ape, huffing and puffing and stomping. He'd disappear behind a house and hide behind a bush-like an animal. And then he came out and grabbed my purse, turned it inside out, threw it across the street. This must have lasted an hour. And he pounded me on the chest and then he hit me in the face or something, and my glasses fell to the ground, and we both looked at 'em, and he picked them up and handed them back to me. Hahahaha! I was scared stiff, but that indicated that he was ... he was a Milquetoast. He..wouldn't hurt anybody. I still didn't give him the money, and he kept threatening, and he said, "You're so ugly! You're so ugly, and you got a bad body! And ... " I can't remember, just venom, degrading things, degrading to me. And I kept saying, "I know. I know that." And he'd stop. As soon as I said I knew it and it didn't affect me, then he'd try something else to demoralize me. I was aware of all my deficiencies so there wasn't anything he could do to me. And then he started to laugh when he realized he couldn't get me in that area. There was a party going on and I remember going and sitting on the porch at that party and, like, daring him. He came over and he sat down, too, and he said, "Please give me my money." And I said okay. I gave him the money, and I called up Pops, and he came and got me. Art was gone for three days that time.
While Art was still out on bail, Diane got out of Norwalk. Art asked if he could bring her out to my house in Manhattan Beach. I said sure. I was curious. He brought her, and she was very paranoid at first because she didn't know what I was to Art, but I had nothing to hide. In fact, I told Art he didn't have to pay back anything because it was given. I asked nothing in return. Diane could recognize a female threat and I wasn't. I've had a lot of male friends that way. Art and I became friends because he knew I wasn't asking anything of him, sexually or emotionally. I just wanted to know him. I accused Art one time.
I said, "You're so stingy. I bet you don't even have a peepee!" And he pulled down his pants, and he showed me, and he said, "And it really gets big, too!" He ought to remember that one. We just cracked up.
Art had Diane in anklets and tennis shoes and cotton dresses. Frumpy. I asked her why she dressed like that and she said, "Because Art likes it." Then he went back to jail, and Diane was living with her sister, Marie, and she called me up and she said, "Why don't you come to Hollywood and pick me up. I feel like doing something." I didn't recognize her on the
street corner. She had her hair done and she looked sharp and pretty. She was Polynesian or something. She had a small nose; wide, very, very dark eyes. Her mouth-the bottom lip had a nice contour but the top lip was in two points instead of round. And she was always sort of smiling when she spoke. Diane was very articulate, very fastidious, took good care of Art, kept him nice. But when he went to jail, boy, she came out! She looked like she was on the street, whoring, only high-class. A high-class call girl.
Diane could be mean to Art. Going to score in East L.A. one time, I was driving, with Art in the front seat and Diane in the back, and Art was whining or something. Diane said, "Art, stop it!" He wouldn't, so she took her purse and just beat him over the head with it. Art had my radio, and he took this radio, laid his head on it, and buried himself in the sound.
During the times Art stayed with me, he never listened to music. I played his records and he was forced to hear 'em, but when I was at work he'd just watch TV. He wasn't interested in what anybody else was doing. He didn't have to hear it. He had his own thing, his own feelings, his own thoughts. Music was nothing Art ever had to struggle with. It was always there, it seems. He never practiced that I know of. He could pick up a horn ... One time he blew a horn-the upper register was out-and he just blew around it. His mind eliminates any kind of hassle, say, pads falling off. He just ignores it. And Art has no tolerance for imperfection in other musicians. Frank Strazzeri had started out as a classical pianist and had just recently been blowing jazz, and they were at the Lighthouse, and Frank wasn't blowing to Art's satisfaction, and I guess Art put on that scowl. People look at him and think he's smiling. I guess it's for the audience so they don't really know what he's thinking. But the musicians know. When they got off the bandstand, Frank came up and started apologizing to Art and Art wouldn't even listen to him. He just turned him off. Like, if a musician doesn't blow good, he doesn't want them apologizing anyway. But when things are movin' right, behind him, and then he blows! Actually, he sets the beat, he's so solid himself. (He used to test Diane to see if she really was hearing. And he told me once that he found out that she didn't know what was happening, that she was a phony. And then he'd pull it on Christine. He did it to me a few times, but I was listening and I knew what was happening. Art and Christine were living downstairs, and he got a gig at the Blue-something-orother. It was a trio, and he came off the stand, and he said, "Good drummer." I looked at him. Christine said, "Yeah, he really swings." And I said, "He rushed!" Art smiled at me. Christine got furious because I was right. He was rushing. But that's Art's testing.)
I guess the only thing that I know of that has really been important to Art in his life is dope. I think dope slows him down. See, I'm hyperkinetic, and so's Art, I think. Sometimes I travel at a fast pace inside myself; the exterior doesn't reveal it. I think Art is that way, too. One time after we'd scored we were sitting there, and I was moving my hand, and he says, "You know, you're keeping time." I was keeping a beat, as fast as I could go, and didn't even know I was doing it. He says, "I'm that way, too." He needs something to calm him down. And, another thing: when you're on drugs, I've heard this stated many times, you don't give a shit what the public thinks out there. You just shut 'em out and do what you want to do. You can't feel criticism, looks.
Art's life-style is complaining and bitching. That's part of his personality. People that know him, they just hear it and forget it. Some people want to do something to correct some of these things that are ailing him and they extend whatever services-like, if he doesn't feel good; or, "If I only had a drink or a fix." Some people go out of their way, like I did. And I never got anything back for what I did. I can't explain it. I was lonely, and Art was company, and when he's happy he's a pleasure. When Art's happy, he's funny. When he's happy, he's like a little kid with new toys.
Listen, when Art gives a little bit of his mind, his thoughts, or even spits out some of his hate-I don't know how to say this-when he shows you a part of himself, no matter what part it is, that's an extension of his friendship because Art doesn't say much to anybody. But if he even gives you some of his humor, his laugh, it's such a gas.
Oh, Art's always polite to his fans. With his square fans, always. But with the dopefiends, the really down-and-out junkies, to them he's. a star; they make him a star. And he's even more gracious to them because he knows that. They need his fame, and he gives them some of it when he talks to them, and he knows that, too. There are some people who love him, but they're very destructive. I feel like I was one of them at one time. They'll give him dope for nothing, even when he's trying to stay cool. And he has tried. But he can't say no to them. He doesn't want to offend them and he's not strong enough to resist. People'll come up and just give it to him for nothing. To buy his friendship. But that doesn't buy Art's friendship. That's what they never find out.
Art used to think I was insane. He'd say, "There's that crazy girl." Because I'd always go see him. He was worth traveling to see, forty miles, whatever. To me Art is beautiful. I'm not in love with him. I love him.
I WOUND up in the first cell wth my old boosting partner, Rudy. He got busted about the same time I did. We were made tank trustees.
One day I was wandering around, walking up and down the freeway going "Woe is me" and thinking about how groovy it would be to get loaded, when I happened to look out to the front of the tank. When a newcomer comes in, he carries his little donut, his filthy mattress, and blanket and cup, and he puts the donut down and waits for the guard to come and open the tank. I heard a donut hit the deck, and I looked up and saw this guy, and I said, "Oh, no! It can't be! Wow, that's David Arbedian." I wanted to run up to the front, but I tried to be cool. I had a feeling as soon as I saw him; I thought, "Maybe he's packing something."
There's two ways of carrying dope into jail. Either you swallow it and vomit it up, or else you've got it stuck up your ass and far enough to where in a shakedown they can't see it. David's parents owned a business, he had a lot of money, and he'd always had a lot of dope. I just figured if he had a chance he would bring something in. I looked, and I had a feeling.
Now, it has to be a real friend of yours for you to get in on anything, and David was a good friend of mine. We'd been in Fort Worth together. We'd hung out together. I'd eaten at his pad, at his parents'; I'd wrecked his father's car. I had to be cool because of all the people watching: there's all these hustlers, and everybody's got their eyes open to see if anything's going on, and they can really pick up on it because that's their life, seeking dope.
I walked up to the front, and it was David. He was always a handsome guy. He always had some groovy chick with a Corvette and all that. He was strong looking with white teeth and a handsome face and a solid jaw, but babyish, with a boyish grin and black, curly hair. He was the kind of guy women want to take care of, and he always played on that. He'd just gone through that shower thing. His hair was all messed up, and he looked kinda crazy, kinda disheveled and lost. Then he saw me-he saw a friend in the jungle and he got a warm look on his face and he nodded to me. I said, "What happened?" He said, "Ohhhh, man, I got busted for possession, dead bang." That means there's no way out. He had no case.
The guys were standing around. They're looking at me, and they're looking at David, and one says, "Heeeey, jack. What's goin' on, baby?" A black guy. He's strutting along and then he kind of sidles up. The black guys have really got an image going; the real fiends, they're so suave. They'll talk to people they don't even know. The Mexicans are different. They're closed off and won't say anything even when they're dying for some stuff. This guy comes up and says, "Heeeey, jack," and he looks around to see where the heat is. He gets up by the bars and he says real low, "I know you didn't come dry, baby. And I know you're gonna look after old dad." The guy doesn't even know who David is! A lot of white guys are that way, too, and they talk like the black guys with the same inflections. Some white guys talk like Mexicans. Everybody's got his own little game. David says, "No, ain't nothin' happenin
'... "Ohhhh, that's too bad, man. You wouldn't lie to me, would you baby?" "No. Nothin' happenin'."
I'm standing there hoping it isn't true. The guy saunters back. David's still outside the tank waiting for the guard to let him in. I look at him, and he looks at me, and he kind of nods his head. He smiles. I give him a quizzical, like, "What? Really?" It was just a meeting of the eyes, no words said, but in those expressions I knew something was happening.
The guard let him in and called for the trustee. I was there. I took his name. The two trustees take care of the whole tank. We have all the names listed and line everybody up for count in the evening.
The number one cell is the biggest cell in the tank. There's two bunks against the wall and there's a toilet and washbasin and a metal partition that comes out. The tank was crowded so I told David, "Just put your stuff here in number one, man." That was a dangerous thing to do because people would wonder. But I made it clear right away that the guy was a friend of mine and because it was so crowded I was going to let him catch the floor in number one.
When we got to the point where we could talk I whispered to David, "You holding?" He said, "Yeah." I said, "How?" He said, "I got a keester stash." He was already getting sick, and I was wigging out from waiting, but he had to wait till nighttime to get the stuff because people were walking by and looking and trying to feel it out.
Time passed, and the night came. They call salts and soda, and then the bulls come in a team and run up to all the cell blocks and rack the gates, and all the gates in all the cells are roaring and rattling and clanging. They're all shaking, and you have to get in one. They leave one cell open for the people sleeping out on the freeway so there's a toilet for them to use. The bulls holler, "Number five cell open!" It was fortunate that the place was completely filled at this time. Bad in one way-because there were so many eyes-but if it hadn't been filled, it would have been harder to get David into our cell. I'd told Rudy what was going on.
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