Straight Life

by Art Pepper; Laurie Pepper

  I had an old electric typewriter. After a month or so I transcribed what I'd recorded. I read the transcript and realized that as he'd told the stories, he'd described nobody and nothing. I instituted truly brief sessions (which he came to a little more willingly) that were "fill-ins." I'd ask, "What was your mother like?" He'd give me a few minutes of telling de scription. "What about Patti?" A few more minutes. "Just one more: `Dicky Boy."' I'd go down a list of people and things and also try to clear up any confusions about events he'd already narrated. We continued that way from then on with both chronological narrative (which I hesitated to interrupt with requests for details) and fill-ins for description and clarification.

  Les Koenig at Contemporary knew what we were doing and suggested that someone he knew at a skin magazine (I think it was Penthouse) might be interested in excerpting and paying for some part of it. I thought that what they might be interested in would be sex, so I got Art started talking about his sexual career. And because there was a possibility of publication, I began to edit that material (most of it wound up in the HEROIN chapter). The magazine offered $200 or something like that and it didn't seem like enough, so we decided not to go for it, but editing had begun.

  The telling of the story took about two years, the editing took four or five. Art tended to tell an anecdote a little differently every time he told it, with different flourishes, sometimes with a different emphasis. So I got him to tell me some of the same stories over and even over again. Then I'd take my transcriptions of his different versions plus the transcriptions of the applicable fill-ins, pick out the best parts, cut redundancies and excess, clarify ambiguities by changing words and/or syntax, make or ask Art to make transitional sentences and then read it all back into the tape recorder, making sure I could "talk" the changed material with ease and that it reflected Art's speech patterns and rhythms. I'd make him listen. I'd ask him, "Does this sound like you?" After I typed out the edited story-or philosophical observation-I would have to decide whether it really belonged in the book, and, if it did, where it belonged.

  Many chapters fell together naturally. Others had to be built, with difficulty, out of lots of bits and pieces elicited over months. The chapter called STEALING chronicles a spiritual disintegration I had to work hard to understand and convey. It began to take shape when Art told me the tale of the armed robbery it ends with. That story troubled me terribly.

  I made him tell it several times and then spent days and weeks nagging him about it, asking and rephrasing questions, explaining why I had to ask them. It was tortuous work for him to try to answer them, and it took time to really look at that day and then dredge up the ideas, influences, pressures, and acts that brought him to it. We both did our jobs so well that that remains my favorite chapter.

  STRAIGHT LIFE was semi-complete by 1977, when Les Koenig called and said a fan was visiting in town and was really anxious to meet Art. Art was extremely reclusive; he said no, but Les told me the fan worked for the New Yorker. "Oh!" Says I, "Well! Send him right over!"

  Todd Selbert sold advertising space at the New Yorker, and he was one of those fans who knew more about Art's career than Art did. Not surprisingly, Art warmed to him. Especially after Todd brought out of his briefcase a careful little grey paperback that he himself had published, a discography of all recordings Art had made. Art's Virgo-bookkeeper sensibilities were touched by the meticulous work that had gone into it. "Why did you do this?" he asked. "For the hell of it," Todd said.

  We told Todd about our book, and he asked if he could take it back to New York with him. He took it to an editor at one publishing house who sent him to Ken Stuart at Schir- mer/Macmillan. Ken is a funny, wise, smart guy. He loved the book for all the right reasons and was ready to publish it. Why did I do what I next did? I don't remember. I sent it to every other publisher in New York. They didn't want it. We signed with Schirmer in August, 1978, and I asked for two years in which to complete the manuscript. We had to bring it up to date. I had to do the interviews.

  I had shown the manuscript to a number of people while I was trying to sell it to someone other than Schirmer, and one woman friend suggested I interview some of the characters in the book. It had completely slipped my mind that this was supposed to be The Children of Sanchez. The oral histories of some of the characters in it were essential. And it became clear, too, that because Art's point of view was frequently so extreme, I needed other people's voices to balance hire-or just to bear witness. During the next year, I searched for the people, interviewed them, and edited the interviews. I interviewed all of them in person except for Alan Dean who turned up in Australia. He was kind enough to send spoken answers to my questions on a cassette.

  As we neared publication, I got concerned with accuracy and started doing (sometimes purposeless, obsessive) research. I found out that Art was right about the kinds of rifles the San Quentin guards were issued during his stays there; I learned the spellings of some arcane and/or obsolete pharmaceuticals, and picked up a lot of Chicano slang. I dug through all the old down beats at UCLA and copied articles having to do with Art. I managed to get a look at a copy of Art's rap sheet. That was invaluable. Using the rap sheet and Todd's discography, I was able to get very clear about when things must have happened and to put them in their right order.

  Ken told me, years later, that after the book was finished, The Powers That Be at Schirmer wanted him to cut the book to half its length. He didn't do that. He sent it to an outside editor who cut almost nothing of Art's part. She cut most of the other people's interviews down a bit. I agreed with most of her changes; I was editing, myself, right down to the wire. Ken never touched the book except, once, to restore something I had cut.

  The book came out a year early. Art was, by then, with Fantasy Records, and their PR person, Terri Hinte, persuaded Macmillan to hire a New York PR guy who put us on the road. At the end of 1979 we were doing radio talk shows, TV morning shows, and being interviewed by press people all over the country.

  Art was as happy and as focussed as I had ever known him to be. He was hell to travel with. Complaining constantly about any discomfort, he could be as droopily unhappy and unhelpful as a small child. But almost every interview reenergized him-because he was talking about real things that went on in his world and in his soul. He hated most social interaction, with its cold-hearted small talk. He loved the Synanon game because it was a truth game. He played his own game with these journalists. Most were willing participants, the rest could be manipulated into intimacy (or else into being an audience-a close thing, for Art, to intimacy). Sometimes they'd be moved to confess to him. He loved to talk about himself, but he could be all ears for your secrets. And of course he was unshockable.

  Instead of picking up his daily methadone at local clinics (where he'd run into other addicts and lead them or be led astray-as on the '77 East Coast tour) we carried it with us, and I doled it out, a daily bottle at a time, from a handsome, costly, locked leather case I'd bought in New York. We both adored pretty, expensive things, and I guessed correctly that Art wouldn't risk damaging the case by trying to pick the lock unless he was desperate, and there was no reason for him to get desperate. He was getting coke mailed to him at our hotels from a connection in L.A.

  I was handling the money and the drugs. After Art's last hospitalization, I decided that that was the way it would have to be. Art, on the prowl, got into too much trouble. He'd been scratching around with ex-cons in bad neighborhoods, disappearing for days, buying grams and half grams, and ingesting any unpredictable get-high substances these people had handy. And he wasn't going to stop. He was sure he hadn't long to live, and he was determined to spend what time he had left loaded. It seemed likely, the way he was operating, that he'd soon be busted again-and go to prison. I had no criminal record. And I had old friends who knew upscale dealers. One day I went out and came back with an ounce of the best cocaine he'd ever had. Art made an immediate and joyous commitment to the new program. Inevitably, it wasn't
long before I was snorting cocaine too.

  I'd gone into Synanon in '68 because my life was chaos and I was suicidal as a result of using pills, pot, and alcohol. In 1979, I'd been clean for eleven years. Then one day, while I was repainting the bathroom, Art suggested that a sniff of coke would make the work go faster. I'd never tried it before. Within the next week or so I'd not only repainted the bathroom, I'd put new linoleum on the floor, built shelves, made window curtains, repainted my office and the kitchen, wallpapered Art's room, and recarpeted the whole house. By my self. With probably half an ounce of coke. And built a trellis around the front porch and planted bougainvillea to climb it in front of this dilapidated shack we were renting in Van Nuys.

  Over the next months and years I continued to use cocaine. It wasn't always fun. Frequently it was nerve-wrack- ingly, teeth-gnashingly just awful, but whenever it was around, I still had to use it, and it was around most of the time because it was Art's fuel. I started drinking in order to come down. I gained weight, lost health, lost dignity. Many people we knew during the next few years used coke, too, and I believe I was sufficiently sneaky to make most of the ones who didn't use it think I didn't use it either. No one, except Art, seemed to notice that I was an addict. And Art liked me getting high with him, especially since, when we only had a little, or we were traveling and had to make it last, all the coke was his. Not long after Art died I cleaned up for good.

  So I was using coke on the book tour. I was energetic and efficient, keeping us moving, confirmed, and on time. Right around then Straight Life, the album, was released.

  The record company Art refers to in the last chapter of the book was Fantasy Records (Art recorded on their Galaxy label). The album he talks about was Art Pepper Today. It was a wonderful album and very successful, voted the best jazz album of the year in France, really popular in Japan, it even sold well here. They had recorded and released a second album, Straight Life, to coincide with the book tour. That album is one of my very favorites, and it did well, too.

  When Fantasy signed Art early in '79, it seemed like a miracle to me. Since Les's death, I'd been trying, with no luck, to find Art a label. And he desperately longed for the security of a recording contract and the sense that some company would be his home. He needed a Daddy. He found one in Ralph Kaffel, the President of Fantasy. Ralph was actually seven years younger than Art. That didn't matter. Ralph was perfect. He's calm and enigmatic, has a beard and just a trace of an accent (he's Russian). He's witty and very, very smart, softspoken, unpretentious, a little eccentric. He was everything Art admired in a man: He was a gentleman. And he obviously liked Art or why would he sign him?

  This is how it happened: In June of '78, I had brought Art back from the Oregon tour during which he'd suffered some kind of a physical "episode." He was aphasic. He was confused, frightened, resentful, incredibly lethargic. I put him in the V.A. Hospital. I was working as a temp, and during weekends and evenings I was doing all the interviews I used in STRAIGHT LIFE-which had been bought by Macmillan. I visited Art every day. I brought him his clarinet but he wouldn't even try to play it. It was at this time that I first heard from Fantasy. Their main office was and is in Berkeley, but at that time they had a small L.A. office, and they employed a fellow named Bob Kirstein. Bob called me in the middle of this and asked if Art would be interested in signing with Galaxy, Fantasy's jazz label. I'd never heard of them. I told Bob the truth. I said that Art was hospitalized and didn't even know his own name. I didn't know whether he'd get better or how much better he'd get or whether he'd ever play again. A C.A.T. scan had turned up some brain damage, but they weren't sure of the nature of it.

  Bob was very laid back. "Well," he said, "just please keep in touch with us and let us know how he's doing; we'd really like to sign him." A week later Bob called again. How is he? A week later, ditto. I mean, these people wouldn't leave us alone. And Art slowly got better. In July Art and I went to see Bob in Fantasy's L.A. office. Art was still kind of out of it, but we'd carefully discussed the terms of the contract before we went, mostly standard stuff. We'd been warned Ralph Kaffel would have to approve everything. We sat down, and I told Bob what we wanted. He listened. When I finished Art spoke up for the first time. He said, "And a non-recoupable bonus of $10,000 for signing." I nearly fell off my chair.

  I like to think I kept a straight face. Bob nodded. That night he called us and said that Ralph had agreed. In August we flew up to Berkeley. Art said they wanted to make sure that he could walk and talk. We chatted with Ralph who took us on a tour of the studios. He informed us that Ed Michel, working freelance under Orrin Keepnews, head of A&R, would be Art's producer. I objected.

  During the summer of 1959, when I was in my teens, I worked at an L.A. coffee house called The Ash Grove. I sold records in a shop in the club. Ed Michel was the house rhythm section. He played the bass for the folkies who didn't bring their own bands. Ed was dating one of the waitresses, and he and I became good pals. When he wasn't working we'd spend hours talking and philosophizing. He was wise and old. I think he was 21. I went off to college and Ed went to work for Pacific Jazz and then for Verve in L.A. He worked for an American based company in Europe. So Ed and I never saw each other again. For eighteen years. Until one Saturday in 1976 or '77, Les Koenig called to say that he would be coming by Donte's, an L.A. jazz club, to hear Art play. That was rare. He was bringing two friends, both record producers. John Snyder and Ed Michel. Ed Michel! Does he play the bass? Same guy. The evening was fine; Art played wonderfully. He played some ballad, and Les, not given much to praise let alone hyperbole, remarked that Art was probably the greatest ballad player living. John agreed. Ed said, "Oh, I don't know...."

  Once, during the book tour, when I asked Art after an interview why he seemed to have taken such an obvious dislike to the interviewer, he gave me this classic reply: "He wasn't reverent enough." Well, Ed Michel has never been reverent enough-toward anyone, about anything. Even though I still had warm feelings for him from the past, I didn't think he deserved to produce Art's albums. I told Ralph I didn't think he was the best person for the job.

  Ralph smiled. He said, "Well, let's go and talk to him. I think you'll like him." We talked to him. Ed can be really charming when he feels like it. He felt like it. Art liked him well enough. I was reconciled. Ed became Art's producer and was the shrewd and patient guiding force behind some of the best work Art ever did.

  (Ed told me later that when Ralph informed him he was signing Art, Ed said, "What do you want to do that for? He's a great player, but he's nuts. Why do you want all that trouble?" I asked Ed what Ralph said to that. Ed said Ralph smiled.)

  These were some of the key creative relationships of Art's last years. John Snyder promoted and sponsored the '77 East Coast tour which put Art back on the scene. And the magnificent Contemporary recordings of Art at the Village Vanguard were made possible largely through his efforts. He also produced what turned out to be four of Art's great late recordings (So In Love, Artworks, The New York Album and Stardust). Ed Michel produced most (but not all) of the rest of them. Ralph Kaffel gave Art the support and security he required. Another creative relationship was the one Art had with George Cables.

  Les had brought George in to play piano for Art's The Trip album and for the one that followed it, No Limit, in 1977. After that Art worked with George, locally, whenever he could, and in 1979, I managed to hire George away from Freddie Hubbard for our third and so-far biggest tour of Japan. (Three terrific albums eventually came out of that tour, Landscape, Besame Mucho, and Tokyo Encore). Art loved the way George played and compared him to his all-time favorite pianist, Wynton Kelly. I have a series of snapshots of Art listening to George solo in a nightclub. First, listening raptly, eyes closed. Then staring with amazed delight. Then, gesturing to the audience, "Did you hear that? Isn't he incredible?" George is probably also one of the sweetest people on earth. He's a decorous man, but he's an affectionate man. Art was always afraid to touch people, but he lov
ed to be hugged, patted, and pushed by those open and generous people, like George, who are able to do that sort of thing. George has an empathetic, tender heart, and it comes out in his music, and Art responded to him on every level. In those years George was irresponsible and late, late all the time. It didn't matter. Art was overjoyed to see him when he showed. One of my nicknames for George was "Monsignor," and George told me that, in fact, when he was young he'd planned to be a preacher. George is just good. And George is black, and that was really important to Art.

  The scrap of poetry at the beginning of STRAIGHT LIFE comes from one of Ezra Pound's translations-of a poem called "Exile's Letter." The whole poem seemed apropos to me, because in Art's view he had been exiled, by color, from his own world, the world of jazz.

  He was hanging out, actually working on Central Avenue from age fourteen. He was accepted and admired in a world he loved. Then he was suddenly rejected by that world. That's how he saw it, at age 18, when he experienced racism for the first time in North Carolina. He spent most of the rest of his life in a state of chronic paranoia, only it wasn't always paranoia (as I first believed) because the bad vibes he got from many black musicians-sarcasms, slights, willful incomprehension, onstage shenanigans-were not usually imaginary (and were not a response to anything he, personally, had done). And he was incredibly sensitive to that stuff. Always expecting it. As he said in STRAIGHT LIFE, "people don't like you, pretty soon you don't like them." Pretty soon he got bitter, suspicious, and nasty. And then prison just exacerbated everything.