Straight Life

by Art Pepper; Laurie Pepper

  But I believe Art's last years were a period of reconciliation for him. The tension never ended, but during those years it seemed a lot of black musicians became kinder, more tolerant, and Art was always exceedingly grateful-and my tongue is not in my cheek. He was cynical, but when he found genuine acceptance he was so grateful. A typical example of the kind of bad/good thing that happened: In 1980 Art was playing a prestigious European concert in a major concert hall as part of an all-star lineup. Each soloist got one featured performance piece. Art chose to do "Over the Rainbow." He was accompanied by an all black rhythm section, a very well known pianist, and a bassist and a drummer who were fairly famous. Art, during that time, always played "Rainbow" with a long a capella intro, a kind of wild, passionate, personal statement, and then, unlike most jazz players, he explored not just the song's melody and structure but its emotional content as well, so he kept the tempo slow, never sped it for variety or pyrotechnics. He loved ballads so much. He revered and envied the great singers who sang them. He couldn't make his voice hum an identifiable phrase, so he used his horn to speak and sing these beautiful songs. And he played each one, each time, as if his life depended on it. On this important evening, he carefully told the band what he wanted. He told the pianist, "Don't play an introduction. I'll start out alone and signal when I start the melody." He told the drummer, "No double-time, just brushes." They preceded him to the stage and sat down. Art was introduced and walked on. But before he could reach the mike, the pianist lifted his hands and dived into an introduction. Maybe he forgot the instructions. Maybe he resented them. Art's previous experience told him that it was sabotage and racially motivated. In the middle of the song, the drummer, very obviously bored with just brushes, got up and left the stage during Art's solo. Just walked off. After a few minutes, he wandered back on with a glass of water in his hand, casually sat down and picked up his brushes. It wasn't a long song. How thirsty could he have been? Art got mad. He always played great mad. He played great that night. He got a long, long, standing ovation. At the end of the show, all the stars were lined up on stage, and each took a bow. Art got an absolute roar of love from the crowd, and as the guys came walking off (I saw and heard this), Freddie Hubbard put his arm around Art's shoulder and said, "Man, you got the biggest hand of all of us." The drummer overheard and said, "Yeah, why was that?" Freddie said, "Because he's the greatest alto saxophone player in the world, that's why."

  When we were at the Nice festival the second time, in '81, one of the booths at the festival had jazz photographs for sale. Art stopped to look at the pictures. He asked the girl in the booth, "No white jazz musicians? You don't have pictures of any white musicians?" She giggled and stared at him. I said, "Art, she's French. She doesn't understand you." He said, "She understands. No white guys?" The girl blushed, shook her head, and said, clearly, no, they had only black musicians. She giggled again, and Art laughed with her, resigned, but not bitter. The band we were touring with then was the Art Pepper Quartet, George Cables, David Williams, and Carl Burnett: three black guys with whom Art had found accord. With George, especially, there was intimacy and love. Although it wasn't exactly Central Avenue. One time, when Art was explaining to George how he wanted a tune to sound he kept using a phrase he often used-it meant funky-he said, "down home." George got irritated, and he finally said, "What do you mean, 'down home,' man? I'm from Brooklyn!"

  George, Carl, David, Ed Michel, the greatly talented Bulgarian, Milcho Leviev, Art's alternative pianist during those years-these were good friends. But there were bad friends, too. As far as I was concerned, the bad friends were the fans who wanted to be near Art no matter what, and who gave Art bad drugs-in order to spend time with him. They couldn't be reasoned with, wouldn't be discouraged or driven away. They messed him up. And then they got to tell people that they knew Art Pepper, and, "Boy, he's really messed up." Bad drugs were alcohol (he had very little liver left that wasn't cirrhotic), powerful downers, uppers that burned up his body and his brain, and Valium. Valium: First it made him dopey and forgetful, then, as an afterthought, it rendered him psychotic. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but it seemed to happen the same way every time. He'd take some Valium and then, six to eight hours later, he'd decide that he'd lost a gram of coke and that he had to find it. He'd ransack the house, turning out every single drawer and closet, every container, taking things apart, dismantling the beds, all the furniture, pulling up the carpeting (he did that once in a motel when we were on the road). I could promise, I could deliver, more coke. It didn't matter-he had to find that particular gram. I never touched Valium. Years earlier I'd learned that its hangover depression made me want to kill myself. Art never learned, and these people always gave it to him. "It was only Valium," they'd say. The not-so-bad drugs were small amounts of cocaine, which he was using anyway, and marijuana (which affected his sightreading ability. He stopped being able to read music, even his own charts, when he smoked).

  Don't get me wrong, Art liked these people who wanted to turn him on. He looked for them, manipulated them, got annoyed at me when I insulted them, said, "Awwww, baby you shouldn't say that. You'll hurt his feelings. He means well."

  One of the worst of these bad friends was a woman whose apartment was a drug salon for stars. She didn't sell, she bestowed-and surrounded herself with talent. At her house Art got flattery, bad drugs, and too much pharmaceutical cocaine. Art thought it was a shame to waste such good stuff, so he got a needle from one of her friends and took it home and shot the coke, and shot it and shot it. He wound up in the hospital with an infected arm. She went to see him there and brought him more cocaine. She brought some to the house when he came home (she arrived in a Cadillac with a driver and a bodyguard), and I wouldn't let her in, and she wouldn't leave our front yard. I finally called Art's best friend who came over and threw her, bodily, out. He's a little guy, but he tossed her over our four foot fence with such energy and menace he scared the bodyguard. The woman never came back.

  Chris Fisherman was the little guy. He was plumpish, curly haired, about Art's age, and he was probably Art's oldest friend. Chris had been a teenager dealing drugs on Central Avenue while Art had been playing in the clubs and afterhours spots. Chris had had a long, interesting career, in and out of prison (on his bookshelf I found a copy of Mickey Cohen's autobiography inscribed, "To my brother, Chris"), and he and Art had had infrequent friendly contact. He had cleaned up and he came into our lives. He'd settled in West L.A., and, though Art preferred to hole up at home when he wasn't working, he was willing to go out from time to time-to Chris's house where they talked and talked about the people they'd known and the adventures they'd had. Chris locked up his liquor cabinet and doled out, Art complained, a stingy little line of coke an hour. If that. Art would try to manipulate more cocaine. He'd try to manipulate Chris into scoring some heroin for him. It's likely that Chris hinted that maybe he would actually get some heroin for him sometime, but Chris was unmanipulatable. It was a game Chris played that kept Art hopeful and harmlessly engaged.

  Chris is a man of many parts. On another occasion Art got stopped for a traffic violation. The police searched the car. They found something. Art was jailed, arraigned, and sent home with a court date. Our lawyer was out of town. Chris told Art to go to court, and, if "things" didn't work out, he said, "Ask for a postponement." Chris said, "I'll meet you there." Art went to court and found Chris dressed in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase. Chris got Art's case number from the bailiff and read the paperwork.

  Chris told me, "It said something about `paraphernalia.' I read further and it said, 'a straw containing cocaine residue.' I went to the D.A.'s office. She was a gorgeous woman-tall, blonde, with the face of an angel. I said, `Don't make me make you look ridiculous.' She said, 'What do you mean?' I asked her, 'Have you read this thing on Pepper?' She said, 'No, not really.' She was very nice. I told her what she had was a case that was built on a straw. She laughed. She read the paperwork. She said, 'There's got to be mor
e to it than this.' I said, 'Mr. Pepper's a famous musician. He's got obligations. He's got two big tours coming up. Don't make him wait around for something this stupid.' She read the report again. She said, 'You're right. Okay. It's off the docket.' I hurried back into the courtroom, grabbed Art's arm and said, 'Let's go.' Art said, 'What's happening?' I said, 'I'll tell you later, man. Let's just go! )1

  Chris told me, "I never actually said I was a lawyer."

  We did have a couple of tours coming up, and Chris came along for the ride. After STRAIGHT LIFE, we were able to get a booking agent and in May of 1980, we went to Boston, D.C., Atlanta, Houston, and some other places that I can't remember. The band was Milcho Leviev, Bob Magnusson on bass, and Carl Burnett. In June, Chris came with us on our first real European tour. Art and I had been to London and Birmingham for a few days for a festival a year earlier; Art had been a last-minute replacement for Phil Woods. This time we went for about a month with Milcho, Tony Dumas, and Carl. We did two weeks at Ronnie Scott's in London where Art recorded a fine album for Mole jazz under Milcho's name. (For that date Art wrote and recorded a slow blues we named for Chris, "Blues For the Fisherman." It was saluted by a British critic as "The twelve bars of the decade.") The band did festivals and clubs all over the Continent. Chris's function seemed to be to show us how much fun we could have. He managed to meet and introduce us to the most interesting people, and he found and took us all out to the best and most interesting restaurants.

  Chris got busted three days after we returned home from Europe. The charge was "conspiracy to distribute narcotics." He was held on 1.5 million dollars bail. When the bail was reduced he was able to get out while he fought his case, but he spent the last year of Art's life (and seven years after that) in prison-where we visited him as often as we could. He swore he was innocent, and Art never reproached him with failing to give him a taste.

  During the rest of 1980, and during '81 and '82, we toured almost nonstop. We covered the U.S., Canada, Japan, Europe, and Australia. Art loved the look of Europe. The baroque-er the better. And he shared with me a deep appreciation of decay. A journalist once asked him what was his favorite city. He named Paris. And when the journalist asked why, Art said, "Because you can get anything you want there." He got a little bit of heroin there. Just a little. He sniffed it, wrote a song, and then took me for a walk on the Champs Elysees at 5 AM. Of course the next night when he had to perform in Holland after an all-day trip spent sniffing that same stuff, it wasn't so romantic. I was pouring coffee down his throat and throwing cold water on his face right up to stage time. Once in front of an audience, though, he came to life and performed beautifully. He never missed a gig and was late only once during the whole time we were touring.

  Art, onstage, during those years, was a riot. He'd gotten used to talking; after STRAIGHT LIFE it was even expected. Sometimes, when he was low, his verbal riffs were harsh and bitter, but mostly they were comical. He'd always admired good comics. He was very conscious of things like timing and delivery. He had a great ear for intonation. He didn't tell jokes, he told stories; he described people and things. When we were touring with Milcho (who'd defected from Bulgaria under in teresting but ultimately boring circumstances), Art would tell the audience how Milcho escaped from behind the Iron Curtain. He told the story night after night, and it got wilder and more fantastic with each telling until he had Milcho tunneling under the English channel with a knife in his teeth, killing and eating old women and little children. So he could be Free. To play Jazz. The crowds loved it. Milcho took it well, only begging Art to leave out the part about the children. One night in Boston, Art's ankles were so swollen, he had to go onstage in his socks. That night he talked about his ankles. He talked about his grandmother's ankles. It was hilarious. (I have it on tape, but its essence can't be reproduced on paper, because it isn't just the words that crack you up and touch you, it's the pauses and the the edges on the words. Also, Art gave you the feeling that he didn't know what he was going to say next. Usually, he didn't. So when the words came out, and came out funny, you shared the surprise with him, and that was part of the kick.) When he finished talking that night, he'd described his grandmother's knees, and he had the audience in hysterics. And when he turned to the band to kick off the next tune, he found Milcho collapsed on the piano, and Bob on the floor weeping with laughter.

  Art didn't get into too much trouble on the road. He didn't have the time or the energy. But if we were at home for a few weeks, he did. He tossed the house a number of times, and he wound up in the hospital, for a short stay, after shooting cocaine, at least once more. But he also wrote new charts and rehearsed them.

  When we travelled in the U.S. and Canada, I worked hard. I did all the negotiations with band members, and, through the booking agent, with the promoters. I made the travel arrangements; I devised itineraries which took full advantage of excursion rates-much to the dismay of Art and the guys, who got sick of changing planes in Denver so that we could save money. I rented vans, when necessary, and I drove us. I dealt, as well as I could, with local promoters, with bad sound systems and bad pianos. Trips in Europe and Japan were easier. The promoter supplied a roadie or two and made most of the arrangements. My main responsibility abroad became just Art, keeping him rested, fairly sober, and fed. He rarely went out to eat, found it too exhausting. He was content to live on candy bars and airport sweets. I toted a boy-scout mess kit, and brought hot meals to him in our hotel rooms which had no room-service, from nearby restaurants which had no facilities for preparing food "to go."

  Art gave me complete autonomy, and, though he always complained, he never criticized anything I did. And all the work and hassle were so patently worth it at the moment when he made his music-in a concert hall or club or recording studio. Because what Art was doing was important. I'm not alone in what I feel about what he did. I've read reviews and letters from fans that said pretty much the same thing. Real art is important. When he played what he felt, Art played what we all feel, and because he was an artist, he showed us that was beautiful. The artist dignifies himself and us and makes us think that, maybe, all that lives is holy. When Art played, it was a sacrament. It felt like church to me. I've heard musicians who worked with him say, "He made me play way over my head." He made them better than they were. He made me better than I was. He also adored me, respected and praised me, awed me, fascinated and educated me, and kept me entertained. He was the wittiest and most perceptive person I've ever known. He gave me himself, as completely as he could, to love and care for. And he gave me a very interesting job.

  I learned how to do my job from experience and from two terrific women. During the hellish '77 New York experience, Keiko Jones (Mrs. Elvin) lectured me nightly in the kitchen of the Village Vanguard. She told me how to act, how to dress, and how much power to take: All of it. She told me to take control of the money. Later, Jill Goodwin, Phil Woods's partner, gave me practical tips on touring: If it's costing you this much, you have to make this much. Carl Burnett, our drummer, a seasoned traveller with many bands, was always a source of calm and of good advice and information. And I learned about the business of music from two marvelous men, both lawyers, Jimmy Tolbert (who kept Art from going to jail in Chapter 24), and Al Schlesinger, who did us countless kindnesses. Before he died, Les Koenig showed me how to affiliate Art with BMI as a writer, so that he could finally collect performance royalties on all the songs he'd written. By the time Art signed with Fantasy, Art and I were publishing the songs he wrote, and he was collecting 100% of mechanical royalties on them.

  In July of 1980, we met young Don McGlynn, just out of U.S.C. film school. He wanted to make a documentary about Art, and we agreed. He raised $30,000 and made a 48-minute film. Art Pepper: Notes from a jazz Survivor seems to me a good, intelligently (and cleverly) made, honest film. It won some awards and gave Art great satisfaction.

  But the biggest event, for Art, of his last years, after STRAIGHT LIFE, was the ballad album, Winter Moon.
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  Our contract with Fantasy was supposed to guarantee Art a ballad album with strings. As it turned out, the contract didn't include that stipulation, but Ralph Kaffel, with some urging from his Japanese licensee, decided to underwrite a ballad album anyway.

  Ed Michel was living in an idyllic little country town in Northern California. Art and I drove up and stayed there for a week in the only motel. Every day we drove to Ed's house and listened to successive installments of a great big compilation of good ballads-almost all performed by vocalists-which Ed had put together for Art to listen to and choose from.

  For the first couple of days, during the listening sessions, Art kept nodding out. I don't know why. He swore he wasn't taking anything besides his methadone and coke. Maybe he was just staying up too late sniffing while I slept. Ed got annoyed. He'd done all this work and here was Art, on the nod. Ed finally made some too tactful remark about what drugs Art was or wasn't using. Art took offense. There was a quarrel. I tried to make peace. Back at the motel, Art sat down and drafted a contract for Ed to sign. He wanted Ed to guarantee that he wouldn't say a word to Ralph about Art using drugs. As he prepared it, he asked me to help him with the wording of it: "Is Ed the `defendant' and am I the 'plaintiff,' or is it vice versa?"

  Art went out to the roadside phone booth, called Ed, and read the contract to him. Ed said he wouldn't say anything to Ralph, but he refused to sign any formal agreement without first consulting his attorney. "Art bought that," Ed told me, laughing, years later. "That made sense to him." Art was impressed by Ed's caution and reassured on the subject of Ed's silence, and the next day they solemnly shook hands. Art, mysteriously, woke up and selected the tunes he wanted to play.