Art and Laurie Pepper Straight Life: The Story of Art Peppr, Da Capo Press: Introduction by Gary Giddens; Discography by Todd Selbert; Afterward by Laurie Pepper (1979), 1994. 1970s, 1969
Gary Giddens, Introduction:
". . .
"Art Pepper was born in 1925, in California, to a merchant seaman and his fifteen-year old wife. He was so sickly his family didn't expect him to survive; when his parents divorced, he was placed in the care of his paternal grandmother . . ." p. vi
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"Pepper had . . . achieved a measure of stardom . . . Benny Carter's band, and for five years (1946-1951), following his stint in the Army, he emerged as the most admired soloist in the Stan Kenton orchestra . . ." p. vii
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"Then, in 1956, he started making the rounds as a sideman. He appeared on numerous sessions led by Shorty Rogers, Chet Baker, Marty Paich, Hoagy Carmichael, John Grass, Mel Torme, Barney Kessel, June Christy, Henry Mancini, Andre Previn, Helen Humes, and others. During the same years, 1956 to 1960, he hooked up with Les Koenig's Contemporary Records, and produced a series of masterful albums.
"It's astonishing to read in Straight Life that Art had to be propped up to play on sessions that became epiphanies of the West Coast jazz movement. Pepper's intonation was clear and balmy (on clarinet and tenor as well as alto), but the texts of his solos were shaded wtih longings. the tensile and deliberated phrasing was a means to a direct and manly emotional expressiveness that was virtually antithetical to the cool posturings of those improving beach boys who tried to recreate California jazz as fun in the midnight sun . . ." p. viii
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"Finally, at the nadir of his life, he retreated to Synanon. The Sixties were in full gear, and he wore an earring and hit the rock joints with his tenor; but his life was empty and even his mother refused him lodging. The description of life at Synanon is as uncompromising as the jail sequences; he is alternately damning and grateful. The best thing to happen to him there was meeting Laurie, who became his wife, lover, mother, babysitter, manager, editor, and co-author.
"Art left Synanon in 1971. Four months later, his father died . . . He started working as a musician again, playing casuals and clinics, touring colleges, sitting in . . . In 1977 . . . in March, he played a concert series in Tokyo with Cal Tjader . . . in June, he toured the East Coast as a leader, playing two dates at the Village Vanguard . . . in September he was busted after an automobile accident . . . Les Koenig died in November. He went back to Japan in February 1978, Galaxy signed him in September and Straight Life [was published] . . . in 1979." p. x
23: Synanon: Games, Raids, the Trip 1969-1971
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"The Stew was the only game that allowed spectators. There was a room set aside for it with twenty chairs for the participants and bleachers so people could watch. It ran twenty-four hours a day, every day . . . You picked up all the information about whatever was happening there, and it was the major entertainment of the place. Jack Hurst, the director and one of the sharpest, funniest game players, would drop into the Stew a lot to play . . . I began to get hooked on the game and I started studying it, but I wanted to be original and have my own style, which I gradually developed . . ." p. 433
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"I started woodshedding down in the basement of the club . . . They had "hooplas" after games, sometimes two or three in an evening . . . There were some excellent professional musicians in Synanon. We had Wendell, a black tenor player, really played well; Marty Meade, "the Troll," a crazy little guy who played good piano and wrote music; Lew Malin, a very exciting drummer, and Lou Loranger, who played bass. We had a Puerto Rican, Jaime Camberlin, who played congas. Later on we got Frank Rehak on trombone; he was on some of Miles' albums . . .
". . . Then Tom Reeves, an old-timer in Synanon, began organizing the musicians and even instituted musical games." p. 434
"In Synanon your mind was completely free of the fears people outside use up their energy worrying about. You didn't have to think about food or rent or doctor bills. You didn't have to worry about what you were going to do when you got old, if you got ugly, if you lost a leg. The first tribe leader I had, Bob Holmes, had kidney trouble. He'd had an operation and the only way he could live was through a dialysis machine. Those machines are hard for people to get the use of, but because he was in Synanon and because of the money and power and influence Synanon has, Bob had access to a dialysis machine each week, as he needed it. If he'd been on the streets, living in some beat shack in Cleveland or Watts, he would have died. So all you had to do was accept these changes and periodic humiliations and you had nothing to worry about."
". . . Every now and then somebody would come in from the oustside to play. Phil Woods dropped by, one of the greatest alto saxophone players living . . ." p. 450
"Then something happened that turned everything around. There was an old guy in Synanon, Reid Kimball, a close friend of Chuck's, and he was dying of emphysema. He had to stop smoking. . . . the kids in Tomales Bay, the fanatical followers, they got together with Chuck and said, "To help you stop we're going to stop smoking."
"At first it was a voluntary thing . . . they could get everything donated except cigarettes. Cigarettes was our biggest expense.
"It didn't stary voluntary long. Soon another general meeting was called and Chuck appeared in person and told us smoking cigarettes would henceforth be as forbidden as the use of drugs and physical violence. After that meeting I . . . took my cigarettes and stashed them . . ." p. 451
". . . I'd sneak away from the Clump and smoke at Santa Monica City College. In Santa Monica they have police helicopters that fly around. I got so panicked after sneaking around for a while that I was sure that the police helicopter was watching me at Santa Monica City College or wherever I was.
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". . . Blackie Levinson . . . [ha]d been in Synanon two or three times while I'd been there, but I knew him from before, from jail . . ." p. 452
"Laurie and I were friends with a couple, life-stylers, who had an apartment in the Clump. They were going back east to visit their families for the holidays and told us we could stay at their place for a whole week while they were gone. Laurie sensed that I was leaving, even though I couldn't tell her. We had a wonderful week together in that apartment and when it was over I gave Blackie a call and told him to come pick me up." p. 453
Chapter 24 The Return of Art Pepper, 1971-1978
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"Bob and Nikki Deal had a proposition to make me. Bob recently opened a health food bakery in Venice, Good Stuff Bread. They lived next door to the bakery; they had an extra room, and they told me if I'd like, I could stay with them, and work with Bob, helping around the bakery, keeping the books . . .
"Bob made a heavy dark brown bread . . . and a carrot cake, a banana cake, and an apple cake all out of whole wheat. . . .p. 456
Afterward
Laurie Pepper, nee Miller:
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"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 Verve in L.A. So Ed and I never saw each other again. For eighteen years. Until one Saturday in 1976 or 1977, Les Konig 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 . . ." p. 486