The kids were usually awestruck, especially after I showed them what I could do. If they hadn't really heard of me, before I even started talking, I'd take out my horn and play and beat them down with my playing. Once I had shown off, techniquewise and chord-wise and soul-wise, they had to look up to me. I talked about dope sometimes, what they'd be headed for. And usually I'd stay a couple of days, and I'd talk to the kids in the hallways or over breakfast, they'd ask me questions. For that I got the horns, my airfare, expenses, and a fee for doing the clinic. That did a lot for my self esteem.
Moving in with Laurie was a great help to me too. I still wasn't completely honest with her, and we had some hassles, but I was doing the best I could except for drinking. That really became a problem. Finally, one day, Laurie moved out. She said she wouldn't come back until I stopped. I realized what the drinking was doing to my health. I consented to take antabuse. If you drink while you're taking antabuse, you get terribly sick. It looked like all I'd be able to do was take methadone and smoke-cigarettes. I don't like marijuana anymore. It makes me nervous. I was buying extra methadone from Ann and John twice a week. I stopped drinking to excess. Every now and then, I'd stop taking the antabuse and goof. I always felt awful afterwards.
(Ann Christos) Art was working at the bakery in Venice. Someone told us he was there so John and I drove out to see him. A few days later he called and asked us if we could score for him. He came to Hollywood in that little tiny car. John and I were both on the state methadone program, but we did score for him-and for ourselves. That was the only time, and the stuff had no effect on us; we thought we'd been burned. But Art fell out. The methadone was just blocking the heroin; it was doing its job. Not long after that we drove out to the bakery again to give Art some methadone. Laurie was there. That's the first time we met her and she was very cold. I told John I understood why. She thought we were leading Art astray, but actually we thought that meth would be good for him. John was trying to convince him to get on the program. We thought it would be his salvation.
Art was quiet-like I've always known him to be when he's not working in music and hasn't anything in sight. Lethargic. No goals. No pleasure in anything. We would talk to him at times, though, and get laughs out of him. When you get Art goin', you know, he's funny. Even after he got on the program he'd come to buy meth a couple of times a week, and we used to look forward to his coming down. It was time to talk and crack up. We saw a lot of him, and our relationship with Laurie grew. We saw the way she was handling him. He was stagnating, playing those Jewish weddings. Actually I think Laurie's the one that pulled him to the fore. I think it was all her energy that got it together. Laurie's very feminine. She's very petite, pretty, with china doll features. She has a bright, bright smile and a keen mind. She wouldn't cater to Art or indulge his depressive attitude. She just soared right on ahead, kept on cookin'. She sort of turned it around and laughed at all his little woe-isms.
LAURIE pushed me, in music, and she took care of a lot of things I couldn't deal with-arranging the clinics, writing to the colleges, answering the phone. When the phone rings I get terrified. I never know what it's going to be. She shielded me from a lot of people from my past. . . so that I wouldn't get involved with them.
We had lived in Venice, which we loved very much, but the place was tiny, and our rent kept going up, and I was getting so much work. We decided to move to the valley. That's where all the musicians are stationed. The valley is a great point of departure. We found a little frame house, very reasonable rent, and we've been there ever since.
In 1975, Les and I got together again, and we made a new album, Living Legend. I was very proud of that. In 1976, Don Ellis, the trumpeter and bandleader, called me and asked me if I'd like to join his band. It was an extremely modern band with a lot of amplified and electronic instruments. And instead of just four beats to the bar, like all jazz music, except for 3/4 waltz time, his arrangements would be in 5/4, 7/4, 9/8. It was difficult to read the parts; it was very hard to feel the beat and to play jazz solos. I figured it would be good for my name, to get that experience. People would look up to me because a lot of the real good players in my age group were afraid to go with that band, afraid they might not be able to cut it and word would get around. I wanted to be thought of ... I could do any thing. There was a guy in the saxophone section, we'll call him Phil, a very nice guy, he gave me a lot of help. I had to play piccolo, flute, clarinet, alto. We played at a big place on the strip, a rock and roll place, and we played an arrangement I was featured on, all the way through, "Invincible." It opened up with just myself and an amplified cello. I went through all the changes and time patterns. I got a standing ovation. I stayed with Don as long as I could, but the band was going to Europe and the money was nothing to what I could get on my own, so I left. I had a lot of great moments with Don Ellis.
ART PEPPER
"I'M HERE To STAY!" by Charles Marra
When jazz enthusiasts, musicians, critics and historians hear the name Art Pepper, the universal reaction is that here is a musician who has done much with his alto saxophone, a champion of the cause of inventiveness, lyricism, and vigorous emotional warmth.
Arthur Edward Pepper, then, is recognized as a brilliant musician, yet little has been heard of-or from-him in recent years. His career has not exactly been a bed of roses.
But here is some welcome and happy news: Art Pepper is alive and well, living in California and a participant in what he terms "a lifesaving methadone program administered by the Veterans Association. The program has been the biggest factor in my re-awakened interest in life and in music.
"I feel absolutely certain that the past that-past! I have no fear whatsoever of any future hangups. I'm here to stay ...." down beat, March 1, 1973. Copyright 1973 by down beat. Reprinted by special permission.
ART PEPPER LIVING LEGEND by Doug Ramsey
... He has overcome the monster and emerged from the struggle a strengthened person and deeper artist.
... Aside from the free aspects of Pepper's playing today, the listener will hear an emotional concentration, a cry, sometimes a sob and sometimes a joyous shout- that come from the wisdom of ex perience. In that sense, this is autobiographical music, a testatment of the artist's life.
... On the blues called Mr. Yohe, the section builds such a powerful swing, that by the 13th of his 15 choruses, Pepper has been propelled to an intensity that for a few bars becomes nearly unbearable. It is a cathartic listening experience .... He is a virtuoso but not an exhibitionist.
... Art Pepper was never really away in the minds of serious listeners, but it is satisfying to know he is well, happy, and again creating important music. Radio Free Jazz, September, 1976.
I'D ONLY tried cocaine a couple of times in my life, when I'd shot it; it made me very nervous. One night we were playing some club with Don Ellis' band, and this guy, Phil, said there was an old friend of mine from San Quentin in the audience. I hadn't seen the guy in years. Phil says, "Come on , we'll meet him." This guy was Phil's coke connection. He asked me, "Would you like to have a little toot?" I enjoyed it, sniffing it. The guy came around again and again. I found myself really liking it, not realizing how expensive it was. That was my start into coke. I liked it better and better, and, of course, I started paying for it-more and more. But I felt I deserved it. Ann and John had moved away. I'd fallen into the habit of buying a "treat" from them, extra methadone, once or twice a week. They wouldn't let me overdo it. It gave me a little buzz. It was something to look forward to. It kept me out of trouble. Now they were gone. I started using cocaine the same way.
Coke is sort of an upper. But it gives you a feeling that's very hard to describe. You're animated, interested in things, and, as withdrawn a person as I am, it made me very gregarious. And it made me really love music again, as I had when I was a kid. But it was just the pattern of my past, using heroin, using Cosanyl, using codeine, using alcohol. Coke was the most insidious of all. It wreaks such havoc on your b
ody and your mind. You stay up day and night. You don't eat. And the more you use it, the more you like it. I got to the point where, when I didn't have it, I had no energy at all and I'd become very depressed. I felt I couldn't play without it. I couldn't live without it. It was con trolling me. Maybe it isn't addictive as a physical thing, but it really gets you messed up. And it's against the law.
My records were really selling in Japan. I was considered the number one jazz alto player over there. I couldn't believe it. I was asked to go to Japan, but we weren't sure, because of my past, whether I could get into the country or whether I could take my methadone with me. It worked out, and I went with Cal Tjader and did three concerts. It was very hard, even for that short time, to do without coke. I took enough to last me on the plane trip. Just before we landed in Tokyo, I went to the bathroom and did the last of it. I couldn't take the chance. If they decided to shake me down it would have been suicide.
Friday, April 8, 1977
Dear John and Ann:
Our trip to Japan was beautiful. Both Laurie and I thought maybe the reported popularity and record sales I was supposed to have in Japan might be just another shuck; neither of us related that feeling to the other as we didn't want to rank the other's trip. Even Les Koenig, who owns my record company had his doubts about my getting into the country. So you can imagine the pressure we felt before my first appearance on stage. To make these feelings worse was the fact that the promoter didn't know I would even be admitted into the country until I actually got through customs and was waiting for the car to take us to the hotel. So no advertising was done on me. Everything, stories, tickets, programs, ads, marquees, etc., had only Cal Tjader Sextet on them. He's not very well known there, so the first concert in Tokyo had a very poor advance sale and it was in a gigantic theater with two balconies. As soon as the word was out that I was actually there, they added a one page flyer to the program and added my name, where possible, to the posters, but the time was just too short to reach the people in a city the size of Tokyo. It at least made a terribly small crowd a respectable one. Naturally, I wasn't aware of all this at the time, so I got angry, and my ego took a beating. I couldn't figure out why all the written material said THE CAL TJADER TOUR instead of the ART PEPPER-Cal Tjader TOUR. I wouldn't ask anyone because I was too hurt and angry. To add to my bad feelings, my contract stated that Cal's rhythm section would be required to learn all the arrangements. I had, given the arrangements to Jimmy Lyons a month before we left for Japan. I spent several days and nights writing out all the parts in ink, putting them in plastic sheets with complete beginnings and endings, solo orders, etc. in individual folders, one for each instrument-plus Laurie recorded on cassettes each tune, one cassette for each instrument. We gave all that to Jimmy Lyons, and we were promised he would give them to Cal who would give them to his rhythm section with the word that they must each learn all the charts so that when we arrived in Japan a short rehearsal would be all that would be required. We made sure this was in writing. Cal showed each guy his packet for a few minutes. They said there wouldn't be any problem, so he collected them, put them in his briefcase and carried them to Japan with him. I learned this while waiting for the Japan Airlines 747 in San Francisco. Before the first concert, my also-promised long rehearsal lasted about eight minutes. So you can see I was pretty drug when I was about to go on stage after the intermission, allowed only four tunes which had to be all standards. Laurie went out into the audience. The intermission ended. I was called to the wings and introduced by Cal Tjader. Then I started a slow walk to the microphone. The minute my body became visible, the audience started clapping and cheering. It continued, getting louder and louder, until I reached the mike. I stood there for at least 5 minutes, bowing and waiting for them to stop and feeling the most beautiful feeling I think I've ever felt in my life. Laurie later told me that the feelings of warmth and love were so strong that she just started crying like a baby. I knew then that it wasn't another shuck, another injustice, another disappointment. It was real. Retribution? Maybe-whatever it was, it justified my whole ex- istance, my whole past, my whole life!
In '76, I'd made another album for Contemporary. The Trip. The '75 album, Living Legend, was excellent, and I thought, after that, the next album couldn't possibly be as good. It was even better. It got a lot of praise. It's one of my favorite albums of all time, and it pushed me into the limelight a little bit. I got an offer to tour the east coast. I'd never toured before as an individual. Here I was in my fifties, and I'd finally made it. I was invited to perform at the Newport Festival. I was scared, so I didn't carry any coke with me. I played in Toronto for a week, then New York. On the last day of my appearance at the Village Vanguard, a friend, to my surprise, offered me a taste of coke. I had the money, so I decided I'd use a little bit during the tour.
Pretty soon I was staying up all night long, writing music in the toilets of our hotel rooms, sitting on the tile floor, sniffing coke.
By the time I got to Chicago, I was really strung out on coke. I asked around at the methadone program there if anyone knew a connection. We had rented a car, so I drove all over the city looking for some way to score. I wound up in an industrial area near a methadone clinic, and I saw a black guy and his old lady in an old, beat car. They were stalled or something. I drove over and introduced myself. I asked them if I could help them out. I said, "You wouldn't know where I could get any coke?" The guy said, "Yeah." They took me to an old boarded-up building in the black ghetto of Chicago. It was filthy, no running water. We shot the coke instead of sniffing it. I got an outfit.
We went to Boston and Dayton and back to New York. Les Koenig came out from L.A. to record me, three nights, live, at the Village Vanguard. On the third night I had a fight with Laurie. On top of the coke I'd been buying huge quantities of extra methadone from another friend in New York. Laurie had stolen some of my money to pay the hotel bill, and I hit her, and she left the room. I knelt down to snort some coke off the little bedside table. It had a glass top. I hadn't slept in days so I passed out with my head on this table and the glass cut my cheek and made an indentation in my face. Laurie came back and woke me up. I looked in the mirror. My eyes were all puffy and I had this mark across my face. I'd had no sleep in days, hadn't been eating. I'd lost about twenty pounds on this trip. None of my clothes fit me. I shot the rest of my coke, and they practically carried me to the Village Vanguard for the final night of recording.
(Hersh Hamel) Art got out of Synanon, and he came around to my house while I was out on the road. He was working at a bakery or something. He had just broken up with Laurie and he was really moanin' the blues to my old lady. My old lady said that he stayed there that night and after the second day it was just too much for her. She started to get real depressed. It was just too heavy for her, because he was moanin' the blues so bad.
Laurie is the most positive woman that he's had. The most able to help, to really help. The others tried with very little success. She's the firmest and also she doesn't mess around with any dope which is good for him: He's got to have somebody that's removed from that. And also she's been able to make him look at himself as no one else has been able to do. That's good for him. Sometimes, I feel, you know, I've thought she seemed a little overprotective. Regardless, my main impression is that she's helped him more than any other woman. I was a little taken aback when I met her. I didn't expect him to have an old lady like that. She was really enthusiastic about the music. She wasn't super cool. More extroverted. More honest, able to show her feelings and not playing the "I'm a jazz musician's wife" scene. I was very happy for him.
I have to say that there was one time that amazed me. Art went to New York or something. Came back. And he looked like he was gonna die. He played at Donte's one night, and he looked like he was sixty years old. Then he played at Donte's about three weeks, a month later, and he looked fifteen years younger than he was. His skin was beautiful. I was amazed. Amazed. I asked him, I says, "What did you do?" "Awww
w," he says, "Laurie wouldn't let me out of the house."
I think Art still has the same main problem in his life. He can't accept success. Everytime success starts comin' his way, he starts his destructive behaviour. He just cannot seem to function with things going his way. Things start getting good he puts it in the toilet. I don't think he consciously wants to do that. It's just that he feels a lot of pressure under those circumstances, whatever it is in his psyche that makes him go crazy. He'll start doing well, and people'll start respecting him, and he'll start almost living down this terrible reputation he's had for, what, thirty-five years: big monstrous doper, outta control. He starts to get some success, and then he'll be going around Donte's and the other clubs that he's working asking people if they've got any coke to sell, any dope. He starts doing that number and man, the next thing I hear is, "Art's up to his old stuff again, isn't he?" Or, "That poor guy, man, can't ever get himself straightened out." And that's what I hear. From the other guys.
WE CAME back to L. A. Laurie did what she could, but I was completely out of control. She gave up on me. I was hanging out with the guy I knew from Quentin and with some other guys who lived out in Venice who dealt coke and played music. I'd jam with them, and they'd give me coke. Every minute of the day was spent in getting money, driving to score, and getting loaded. I pawned my horns. I'd sworn I would never do that again.
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