Me as a soldier boy in 1944.
Playing football at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. I'm on the left, carrying the ball.
A rehearsal with the Army Ground Forces Band at Camp Butner, North Carolina.
Me, Patti, my mother, and my "cousin" John in Tijuana, just after World War II.
My first wife and first love, Patti.
Right after the war, before rejoining Kenton, I toured with The Lou Olds Group for a short time and had this picture taken in Arkansas. The inscription says, "Love! to my beer drinking buddy-your goofy son. Pepper" My mother and I drank and smoked pot together.
Stan Kenton, a powerful man, who was the only person I knew to approach the stature of my father. I'm on the left with my sax. New York's Commodore Hotel around 1948.
On the road in Iowa with Kenton's band. The bus broke down and it was freezing cold. We made a good thing of it, though, and had an impromptu march down the highway. Ray Wexell is the leader and behind him, left to right, are Bob Fitzpatrick, Bart Varsalona, and Harry Betts. Photo courtesy of Buddy Childers.
Bob Cooper and June Christy in their Kenton days.
The Stan Kenton band on Catalina island, 1951. Left to right, first row: Stan, Jay Johnston, Bob Cooper, me (suffering with a terrible sunburn), Bud Shank, Bart Caldarall, Bob Gioga. Second row: Shelly Manne, Dick Kenney, Harry Betts, Bob Fitzpatrick, George Roberts, Milt Bernhart. Last row: Ralph Blaze (on guitar), Don Bagley, John Coppola, Buddy Childers, John Howell, Shorty Rogers, Maynard Ferguson. Photo courtesy of Ray Avery.
Hollywood-Art Pepper, alto man who took first place in the beat's 1951 poll, launched his new quartet at L.A.'s Surf Club recently. Unit is hailed by modernists (down beat, February 22) as the most musically refreshing new group on the coast since Dave Brubeck's. With this issue's Scanning subject are Hampton Hawes, piano; Joe Mondragon, bass; and Lorry Bunker, drums and vibes. down beat, March 7, 1952. Copyright 1952 by down beat. Used by special permission.
Hollywood-Onetime Kenton bass man Howard Rumsey started Sunday afternoon sessions at the Lighthouse Cafe, Hermosa Beach, two years ago. Now it's a fulltime operation and a notable west coast spot for the friends of progressive jazz. Sitting in when this photo was taken were, left to right, Teddy Edwards, Art Pepper, Doug Mettome, Shorty Rogers, bassist Rumsey, and Shelly Manne...down beat, August 24, 1951. Copyright 1951 by down beat. Used by special permission.
In 1956 Diane and I lived on one of the steepest hills in Los Angeles, on Fargo Street. I woke up one morning to a phone call from Bill Claxton, the photographer, saying that he had to take my picture today for the cover of The Return of Art Pepper. I had run out of heroin and was very sick, and I was unable to score before Bill got there. We climbed to the corner, and he snapped this picture of me in agony. Photo by William Claxton. Used by permission.
ART PEPPER
Exclusive CONTEMPORARY RECORDS recording artist.
My grandmother, Diane, my father, and Thelma, about 1958. Diane and I were both fat because we'd been drinking Cosanyl. Photo courtesy of Thelma Pepper.
Diane and Bijou, about 1965. 1 left them both with Marie. Photo courtesy of Marie Randall.
The Buddy Rich band of 1968. My spleen had ruptured and was removed, and I rejoined the band (too soon, it turned out) at the Riverboat in New York. Woody Herman is on the extreme left, lack Jones is holding the microphone, Don Menza is sitting on the far left in the sax section. I'm right next to him. Photo courtesy of Don and Rose Menza.
(Facing page.) Bassist Jim Krutcher took this picture of me, 1967 or '68. Photo courtesy of Jim Krutcher.
Activities board in the main lobby at Synanon, 1971. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
Jamming in Synanon. Phil Woods came to visit. From left to right, Phil, me playing tenor, and Frank Rehak.
(Left) My fourth and greatest love, Laurie, on the beach at Synanon, 1970. (Right) Laurie and I in one of those photo booths, 1975.
Conducting a clinic. I'm instructing the saxophone section of a college band. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
A publicity picture, 1976. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
Laurie. Photo by Mirandi Babitz. Used by permission.
Les Koenig presiding over a 1977 record date for Art Pepper: No Limit. From left to right: Les, Carl Burnett, George Cables (seated; I call him "Mr. Beautiful." He's my favorite pianist.), and Tony Dumas. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
The first Japanese tour, 1977. Cal Tjader and I after our concert in Tokyo, holding flowers given us by pretty followers of jazz. My reception there was overwhelming and frightening. I feel a strong obligation to return to Japan again and again and to justify, in my playing and recording, the devotion of the Japanese fans. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
A live radio broadcast from Tokyo in 1977. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
On the cover of the Newport Jazz Festival issue of the Japanese magazine, Swing Journal, July, 1977. The photo was taken at the beginning of my U.S. east coast tour. Photo by Nobuo Hiyashi. Used by permission.
In the kitchen of the Village Vanguard at the end of the east coast tour, August, 1977. Photo by Mitchell Seidel. Used by permission.
At a photo session for Swing Journal in Tokyo, 1978. One of the photographers took this picture of Laurie and me.
Japan again in March, 1978. We traveled and performed eighteen days out of nineteen. My band, from left to right: Milcho Leviev, Bob Magnusson, and Carl Burnett, all fine musicians. We played large, medium, and small halls and tiny nightclubs. This is a rehearsal in a huge hall in Hiroshima. Photo by Ted Kimura. Used by permission.
One of the most pleasant record dates I've ever done-Art Pepper: Among Friends, September, 1978. From left to right: me; drummer, Frank Butler; bassist, Bob Magnusson; and pianist, Russ Freeman. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
I like this portrait Laurie took of meat the Among Friends date, September 2, 1978, the day after my birthday. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
This picture was taken recently at Dontes, a Los Angeles jazz club. I've played there many, many times, and each time it's a battle; I'm out to conquer the audience. I feel my whole musical life is on the line with each performance. In this picture it looks like I'm winning. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
At Dontes, ready to try to win again. I think my expression in this picture suggests how hard it is to play jazz. Photo by Laurie Pepper.
With Ralph Kaffel, President of Fantasy Records. "He was everything Art admired in a man ... a gentleman." At Fantasy Studios, at the Straight Life session, September 1979. Photo by Laurie Pepper
Art and producer Ed Michel at the Winter Moon session. Art said this ballads-with-strings album was the best record he ever made. Fantasy Studios, September, 1980. Photo by Laurie Pepper
TOP: Artand Laurie, backstage at Yubin Chokin Hall, Tokyo, July, 1979, during the Landscape tour. Photo by K. Abe, used by permission
MIDDLE: Art and Laurie on the book tour, San Francisco, the jack Tar Hotel, November, 1979. Photo by Phil Bray, used by permission
BOTTOM: Art and Laurie at Fantasy Studios, Berkeley 1981. Photo by Phil Bray, used by permission
"Art, onstage, during those years, was a riot.... He didn't tell jokes, he told stories." At Donte's, circa 1980. Photo by Laurie Pepper
The Art Pepper Quartet wearing their band jackets: Carl Burnett, drums; George Cables, piano; Art; David Williams, bass. The background, including other people in the backstage area of a nightclub, has been airbrushed out, but this was taken in Australia in August, 1981. Photo by Laurie Pepper
With George in Japan, on tour, November, 1981. Photo byK. Abe, used by permission
"I remember a day." Off Seattle, circa 1980. Photo by Laurie Pepper
We got to the lower yard, and I was feeling kind of sick, and Ernie said, "Now, dig these cats here." There were a bunch of courts where the Mexicans were playing handball, and there were two full-sized basketball courts. I saw these guys playing basketball that looked like Mexicans, but they weren't. And then I realized that they were righteous Indians, American Indians. Ernie s
aid, "Dig these guys and get a good look at them, and if you ever find yourself in any close proximity to them get away as soon as you can. Never let them see you staring at them. Never bump into them. Watch yourself because they're dangerous. They hate everyone but themselves."
You stay in D section for a while and then you're moved to another section. I was kept in the South Block and moved up to the fifth tier.
Twice a week they'd have a shower run. They call out, "Showers!" You take your blues off; they rack the gates and run you downstairs to the showers in sections. There's about ten shower heads in these open showers, and there's this huge number of men in line waiting to get in. So as you go into the shower you throw your underwear into a bin and then you try to figure out some way to get under a shower head. There might have been five or six or ten people to a shower head, so you got clean the best way you could and then you got in line by the white room. When your turn finally came they'd give you a towel, and you'd give them your size. They'd give you the closest thing they had to your size. If you wore size thirty-two shorts they might give you a thirty-four or a thirty-six all torn and miserable. Then you'd dry yourself and put this stuff on. Cold cement floors. The windows all broken. The wind whistling through the windows. And the groups of people, the noises they made, the whole vulgar scene ...
Maybe there'd be a sissy, a black sissy. There was this one guy, they called him "Chocolate Bar." He had a joint that was maybe twenty inches long. It looked like a snake. And he would squeeze his legs together so his hair would form, like, a cunt in the front and then in back there'd be this long thing like a tail dangling, his joint. And he would be wiggling and swishing and singing, and all these guys would be saying, "Saaaay, baby! Saaaay, beautiful! Saaaay, honey! Boy, I'd sure like to have some of that! You're sure beautiful, gal!" All this sickening shit, guys looking at you, animals. There are guys that lift weights, that got all kinds of muscles, and they're flashing and posing and trying to prove something I didn't know what or to who. I thought, "What kind of creatures are these? What are they trying to do?" What they were doing, they'd see some guy that was young and tender looking and they were trying to impress him. They were trying to get him hot. Can you imagine a bunch of men trying to make another man hot? And make this little kid want them rather than some big spook or some double-ugly southerner? Then you'd see other guys, just terrified, guys with pimples all over their backs, people with big scars and horrible deformities. And you're there, and there you are, and then some asshole just purposely rubs up against you.
And you had to run and be like an animal just to get a shower. You had to act like the animals in order to make it. They only left the water on a little while so you had to fight, and once you got soap on you, you had to push and to touch a male body ... It's the most sickening thing in the world. But you had to push them out of the way to get into the shower because you had these guys that thought they were real tough and they'd stand right in the middle. You were taking your life in your hands. They had fights all the time. And the guards were standing up on the walkway with rifles trained on the showers.
The dregs of humanity, boy, that's what they are. The only thing I can liken it to is when I was in the army in England and France, the American soldiers. They were ordinary people that you'd see on the streets at home; they had mothers and fathers; and they were just human beings that go to church and are polite-actual humans that can get on a bus and pay the fare, transact business. And I saw them overseas screaming at women pushing baby carriages, "Hey, baby! Hey, you fineassed, high-cunted bitch! Hey, baby! How'd you like to suck on my big cock, you beautiful motherfucker you?" That's how they talked, and that's what they did, and it was the same in San Quentin. I thought, "Am I one of these?" I thought, "Here I am again." Only it was worse because I was locked up. I wanted to kill them all. I thought if I just had a knife or a gun or some poison gas.
I realized I couldn't stand the way I felt during those first few showers. I realized if I stayed like that I wouldn't make it. I'd kill somebody or get killed and never get out. I'd never, ever be able to play again. I'd never be able to get up in the morning and go for a walk. Never see happiness and beauty. I'd never have any loved ones again, any love at all, anything decent. I'd never be able to feel the warmth of a woman's body. I'd never know the companionship of a woman's love, just to be in a house with her and be able to hold her and look at her and to feel that I had the comfort and care of another human being. The pleasure of lying together, watching TV, touching one another, waking up in the middle of the night and feeling her body, her hair, having something of beauty there. I thought, "I'll never make it." I would have to kill someone or they'd have to kill me because I hated them so much. Every person. And I hated, above all, everybody who had a hand in putting me there, all the circumstances, all the ... There was no way to define them. I was helpless and just carried away in hatred. Can you imagine these showers? Twice a week? And that's all you could bathe no matter what happened. You couldn't ever be clean at any other time because it was freezing cold water in your little cell with the filthy toilet and the tiny sink. And to be locked up from four in the evening until the next morning with somebody that you had no rapport with, that you despised. You could never be alone. Not for one second. You couldn't shit alone; you couldn't piss alone; you couldn't jerk off alone. I looked around and saw these guys laughing and others almost in trances who looked like they were just wiped out. Oh, a few of them were loaded but very few. I wondered how they could stand it.
That's when I started talking to Little Ernie and Woody Woodward, a huge guy, solid muscle, with fists like ham hocks, but a warm person who played tenor saxophone and painted pictures and loved me because I was a musician. He had committed so many armed robberies before he went to Quentin that they had him in the newspaper, the all-time winner of armed robberies with violence: he'd done about two hundred of them up and down the coast. I talked to Jerry Maher, a Richard Wid- mark type, slender, with steel-cold, blue eyes; I'd seen him in situations with guys that were ten times bigger than him and meaner, you would think, and he was always at ease, had no fear at all. I talked with these people and others. I knew so many-Frank Ortiz was there and Ruben-and I asked them, "Man, how do you stand it? What do I do? I don't want to die here. How do I survive?" And I think it was Jerry Maher who told me, "You have to loosen your cap." He was kind of joking. He said, "I got a cap wrench, man, if you want it." He meant you've got to get a little crazy and a little dingy when you get too uptight. He told me, "Act like you're crazy. It'll keep these idiots away from you. Make noises. Talk to yourself. Mumble. Sing to yourself and groan. Act weird."
That's what I'd done in Terminal Island, but it was nothing to the extent that I did it in San Quentin. I went completely out of it. When I went to the shower, I would stumble like the people in Forth Worth. I'd kick my feet and go, "Grrr- rghhuuughhh!" I'd look at people and go, "Uhhhooooohhhh!" I'd get in the shower and throw the soap up in the air, and I'd put the water in my mouth and scream, "Aaaeeeeeeeee!" They'd look at me and then they'd move away so I could shower. I would bad-rap people. It's a miracle I wasn't killed. I acted like a real maniac and the most violent person imaginable. I'd go to the mess hall with John Wallach-we were in Fort Worth together; we'd go to eat and instead of sticking the food in my mouth I'd stick it in my cheek or bury my head in the plate. We'd put our arms around the plates and eat like animals, slurping and slobbering. I took every kind of pill, every single thing I could get my hands on no matter what it was. There were some pills, they called them "black-andwhites," Dilantin and Phenobarbital; they were for epileptics. Most people were afraid to take them because they really messed you up, but they gave you a nice high so I took them all the time. I'd wake up early in my cell and get my can, and I'd take some wax paper or toilet paper and make a bomb-roll it up into a ball and light it to heat the water-and make some coffee, and I'd take the pills with my coffee and be wiped out when I staggered out of my cell. You lose your equili
brium. You can't walk. So I got a reputation for being really insane. People were afraid of me. And I found that the things I thought I wouldn't be able to live with I was able to play over. I'd mumble to myself and slobber, and that's how I survived. There's nothing like being locked up.
When I went to the guidance center at Chino in '60, we went by alphabetical order, and the name right before mine was Penn, William Penn. Penn was a nice guy, kinda sweet, slender. He had pretty skin. You know how a girl looks when she's young and she goes to the beach a lot, a blonde, when her hair is kind of brownish-blonde on her arms and the sun hits it? Well, Penn had hairs on his arms like that, and he had real pretty hair, little curls, and he had beautiful blue eyes. He looked like a little sparrow, and he loved me because he loved jazz, and he'd follow me around. We were on the chain together to go to Quentin. They called, "Penn, Pepper." So we were handcuffed together. We got on the Grey Goose and we sat together; it just happened to work out that way. They took us off the bus at Soledad and they called the names for the cells, and it's "Penn, Pepper" in the same cell, which was nice because he's clean, very neat, and he adores me. I had someone to flatter me, and he's telling me the records he's got and when he saw me at soand-so, how much he loved it, how much his old lady loved it. The next morning we got back on the bus and it was the same thing: we sat together. So people see us come; we're handcuffed together; we eat together; we go through the physicals and the different things you go through when you go in and we're always together because of our names. And, evidently, a few people decided this cat was my kid, my punk, my girl friend.
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