Straight Life (53 page)

One of the last times we took acid we went to a place called Sperling's in Santa Monica. A steak house. There was a piano player there, and I jammed with him, and then Christine came up for the next set to sing. Afterwards, we're getting ready to leave, and Christine's looking at me, telling me how marvelous I sounded, and I know she's waiting for me to tell her how she sounded, but I had listened to her while she was singing, really listened for the first time, and it came to me then that she wasn't good at all. Acid makes you incapable of lying. You see things as they are. Christine made the mistake of asking me. She wanted to be praised, too. She asked me and I told her, "Yeah, well, it was alright."

She got very upset, naturally, because she thought she was a singer. Up until that time I'd never said anything. I'd tried to pretend that she was cool and hadn't been in practice or something. This time I said, "You just don't sing in tune. You don't have a nice sound: it isn't vibrant enough; it isn't full enough. I don't really like your phrasing." Everything was bad, and I told her, and she flipped out and called me all kinds of names. She said, "Well, I can't do anything around you! You've just smothered me, musically and artistically! Whatever I do you don't like! You don't think anything a woman does is any good! You think all women are inferior to you! You've just ruined me! All you want is-you want all the praise!" I said, "If I do something well, naturally I enjoy being praised, but only when I do something right. I don't want anybody to praise me when I don't deserve it. I don't rank you because you're a girl or anything. You asked me about your singing. It's alright. You just don't move me that much. You're not really a singer." She said, "Oh, you motherfucker!" I said, "Why do you have to call me that? That's all you know is 'motherfucker.' Don't ask me things! You should know how you sing!" She said, "Well, everybody else says I sing good! All the jazz musicians I've sung with say that I really sing just like a horn and that I'm great!" I said, "Yeah, well, that's because they're putting you on. Maybe they want to ball you or want a ride someplace or want to borrow some money from you. It's bullshit. You don't really sing good."

Christine was very artsy. She painted abstract paintings. She'd go around and search through garbage cans and get old wires and make things out of them. Her father was a construction worker for a long, long time. He was an alcoholic. He died a while before I met her. She had two brothers; one was a dope fiend, a real heavy junkie and an armed robber; her other brother had been to prison for using marijuana but was never a criminal like Joe was.

She was raised in Torrance, a place where there were a lot of gangs. She'd grown up in a hard and violent atmosphere and always had a chip on her shoulder. She was one of the tougher girls around, and she wanted to be a boy, I think, because her dad probably liked the boys. Later she got married to a guy who played piano, just a fun-loving kind of guy, not very intense, so she started taking charge. She started dealing pot and doing the things the man usually does, and he relaxed and let her. That was her pattern and I fell into it, too.

Christine had a lot of violence in her and hatred, and it was hard enough before to restrain myself, but when I got around Christine, who was so much like that, I found myself giving way to it, too. When I was driving the car and somebody would honk at me or do something I didn't like in traffic, I'd stop the car, get out, and holler, "Motherfucker!" and threaten their lives. It's a miracle I didn't get killed. And when I did that, Christine thought I was great because I was so rugged and tough, and she'd rank her ex-old man for being a sissy and a punk. She called everybody sissies and punks.

After this thing happened about her singing, life with Christine really got bad. When we went out together and she'd sing, she'd keep staring at me to get my reaction, with a challenging look; "What's wrong with that? I suppose you don't like that either, you bastard!" It got so I didn't even want to meet her eyes. Sometimes I'd want to fix and I'd run into somebody and make a taste and then she'd come home and flip out at me. Or there would be some girl, say, a girl friend of a friend of hers or his wife, and the girl would come on to me and Christine became very jealous. When we were driving around, and I'd look at the girls walking down the street, she'd glare at me and say, "What're you looking at, you son-of-a-bitch?" She started hitting me in the car.

We were really juicing at this time. We were drinking from the minute we woke up in the morning until we fell out at night. This one night all of a sudden I woke up and there were Christine's eyes in front of mine. I was lying on my back, and I felt a stinging in the side of my neck, and the first thing I heard was "You lousy, stinking motherfucker! I'll kill you, you bastard, you cocksucking motherfucker!" I said, "What's wrong? What are you doing? What are you, crazy?" And she shouted, "Don't say that to me, you bastard! I'm not crazy, you motherfucker! I'll kill you, you bastard!" She was straddling my stomach, she had her left hand around my throat, and she was very strong for a girl. In her right hand she had a knife she always carried with her, a pushbutton knife with a six-inch blade: it was stuck into the side of my neck. Her eyes were just crazy. I don't know how long she'd been sitting there looking at me like that. She yelled, "You son-of-a-bitch! I know you! You've been out balling chicks! You've been out fixing! You don't want me! You're trying to get away from me, you son-of-abitch! I'll kill you first, you bastard! You can't use me and throw me aside! I'll kill you!" I said, "I haven't been doing anything! I haven't been out with any chicks!" She kept glaring at me and cussing me out, and I was afraid of her, she was so insane.

She tightened her hold on my neck and stuck the knife into my throat. I could feet it piercing my skin. With that I smashed my arms out, hit her in the face, grabbed her by the throat, and threw her off me. She came lunging at me, and I grabbed her arm and got the knife out of her hand. I held her and I said, "Boy, what's wrong with you? Are you insane? This is too fuckin' much!" She said, "I'll kill you, you son-of-a-bitch, if you keep messing with me like that! You're not going to go out with any other chicks after all I've done for you, you bastard!" I said, "I'm not going out with any other chicks! I don't want any other chicks! Would you act like a human being?" Then she got emotional. She started crying: "You don't love me! You don't care for me! You don't like the way I sing! All you want to do is take my money! I've done everything for you! You wouldn't have a horn if it wasn't for me." I kept telling her, "I do love you. Everything's cool. Your singing's alright, man. I appreciate everything."

This went on and on. Sometimes she'd be painting. I'd go for a walk and be gone for a while and come back and she'd wig out and punch me in the stomach or the ribs. The thing with the knife-she did that two or three times. I was afraid to do anything to her because I was afraid to get started on a woman. I was afraid I'd kill her or any of them if I ever got started on them.

After I got everything straightened out with the parole department, we moved back to Hollywood. Finally I got a call one day. It was a trombone player-I forget his name. He asked me what I was doing and I told him I was just blowing around town. He asked how would I like to take a gig with a big band. I said, "Whose band?" "Buddy Rich." He said, "We need a lead alto." I told him, "I haven't been playing alto. I don't even own an alto." But he said, "We can get you one. I think Don Menza, who plays tenor in the band, has an alto. Maybe he'll let you use his till you can get one of your own." I said, "I don't know if I can play after all this time. I haven't played it in a long time." He said, "Yeah, you can play it. I know you can make it. It'll give you a chance to get back into the music business and start making some money. Get your reputation back. Get back where you belong." I said, "I don't know. I've lost my confidence." He said, "Think it over for the rest of the day, and I'll find out from Don if you can use his alto. I'll call you back this evening." I hung up the phone. Buddy's band was a hard band to play with, very demanding. I didn't know if I could do it.

Christine was all happy at first. But then she took my not wanting to go with the band ... She said, "If you're worried about me, you don't have to worry about me. Just go ahead and go if you're ashamed of me." I said, "What are you talking about? I'm not ashamed of you!" She said, "You just used me until you got a chance to do something." I said, "No, I didn't. If I go with the band, you'll go with me. We'll have a ball."

It seems I've always been with women who have been a drag. I've almost always been in a position where I really didn't care for them. I wasn't the one who did the choosing. Diane chased me all over the place. Christine's brother gave me her phone number and then she said why don't you stay here and that was it. I didn't see a girl and go out and get her because I liked her. The only time that had happened was with Patti. I was thinking in my mind, "What will I do this time to get away from her? Will I go to prison? Will I die? Will she kill me?" I said, "Of course I'll take you with me. We'll have a ball." And I felt sorry for her. She'd never had anything nice, any of the good life. Maybe it would help her, soften her up. I told her, "We'll have a lot of fun. You'll travel with me, and being with Buddy's band we'll be respected. And instead of drinking wine we'll drink good brandy. We can buy nice clothes." She said, "That would be wonderful! Are you sure you want me?" I said, "Yes, I want you."

(Hersh Hamel) Christine was sorta masculine, a little bit. A little rough. Rough talking, rough looking. A little bit too much tryin' to be one of the musicians, tryin' to play that role. Christine was involved in a lot of heavy traumatic scenes even before she met Art. I was a little spooked out by her. There never was any closeness between Christine and me, and it was hard to get through to Art with Christine there. She was like an invisible wall. She was such a strange chick. I wish I could put it into words. She was very protective of Art-whether it was protective or whether it was overbearing-and Art needed somebody. It was a strange relationship, not like any other relationships I'd seen him have. She's a very sick girl, very sick, mentally. She was not in reality. She made her own reality, and Art made his own reality.

(Ann Christos) I introduced Art to acid. He and Christine were living in a little apartment underneath mine in Manhattan Beach. He loved acid. He loved the grotesqueness, because that's what he saw. Acid's always been frightening to me, but Art enjoyed it, and Christine did, too, although she got very jealous. She got jealous of me and started to rank me verbally one time. And Art shut her up.

Christine was tall and willowy, and she had pretty green eyes, light skin, red hair, a nose with a sharp tilt on the end. She'd smile, but it wouldn't be happy. Her eyes were kind of dead. We never really ever had a rapport. She always considered me a threat for some reason. Diane never did.

I don't know what kind of person Christine was. I don't know her. I'll tell you what. We all got high on acid one time and Art said, "Let's go into Venice. There's a blind piano player in a club over there." We went to the club and Christine wanted to sing. And Christine can't sing. Art told her, which made her want to sing all the more. She was, what would you call it, challenging Art. Musically. Her ear wasn't bad, but it wasn't right. One of those things. She got up and sang, and it was terrible, and we were leaving, and I got awfully paranoid. Art was introducing me as "Mamby," their maid. I said, "Art, I don't think I can walk out of here! I'm too frightened!" Art took my hand and led me out of this mass of worms and people, that club, you know. He took over and led me out. And Christine got nasty, just nasty, that he did this for me, showed me a kindness. All I can remember is that she's nasty. That's all I can say about her.

(Jerry Maher) I saw Art again in '67. I was living in Orange County with my ex-old lady, Lynn, and one afternoon, out of the clear blue sky, got a call, and it was Art. He was callin' from the Manne Hole. I don't even know where he got my number. He said, "Why don't you come on out?" So I took Lynn and this Chinese broad, Virginia, and went out there that night. Art had Tommy Flanagan on piano, Will Bradley, junior, on drums. After the last set we all went up to Art's pad. He was livin' with Christine at the time, not too far from the Manne Hole. He was drinkin' brandy; I was drinkin' VO. I had a little stuff. I was chippyin' at the time. He asked me if I had any, and I told him no, I wasn't usin', because I knew he'd want some.

It was a weird little pad. It was sorta like a maze you had to go through to get into this one little room. Art went in there to change his clothes and he said, "Jerry, come here a minute, man." I walked in there, and he told me, "Check this!" He opened his shirt, and there were three big, huge gouge marks down his side. You could tell by the thickness and width of the scab on `em that they were deep gouges, and I said, "Jesus Christ, brother, what happened to you?" He said, "It's that bitch, man! That bitch, she's violent!" I looked at him and asked him, "Can you whip her?" And he says, "Just barely, man." Hahahaha! "And I think she throws those!"

Christine was just a big, typical Hollywood, superhip, nothin' bitch. Stereotype. "Hey, baby, what's goin' on?" I never liked her brother either. I saw him the same way. I heard later he turned into a stool pigeon or somethin'.

20

On the Road with
Buddy Rich's Band

1968-1969

I WAS FRIGHTENED. And I was tired, really tired. I didn't want to do anything at all. I realized that all the time I'd been using dope I hadn't had to face anything because once you give yourself up to that life there's no decisions to be made: you just have to score, and you have the drive to score because you're sick, and if you get arrested you go to prison and there's nothing you can do about it. All I wanted now was to relax and stay home. I didn't want to perform. I didn't want to put myself in a position where I might fail. I was tired, and I wanted to spend the rest of my life just sitting someplace. I used to think that if I could only have someone take care of me, it would be wonderful just to stay in some house. As long as I had the rent paid and a few dollars for some food, a TV or a radio so I could listen to the ball games-that's all I would want forever. Then I got this call to go with Buddy Rich. I was given an offer, and there was no way, in all honesty, I could refuse it. Maybe if I'd been alone I could have said I had some kind of disease, that I went to the hospital for a checkup and they found out I had cancer or that I had TB and couldn't blow. I could have come up with something. But I was with Christine, and I felt obligated to make the money, you know. She had worked-delivering automobile parts, driving a little pickup truck, borrowing money so we could eat and pay the rent. I felt I had to repay her.

Buddy Rich's band was a very modern band. The ar rangements were hard to read and loud, and they played a jazzrock thing. Buddy Rich, I'd heard, was really a taskmaster and temperamental, and if you goofed at all he would hear it and rank you, ridicule you in front of everybody, which is something I've never been able to take. And I had -a reputation-being a junkie, being in prison. Those were things Buddy didn't like. I was putting myself in a lion's den.

The phone rang and Christine said, "It's for you." I'd been afraid for many years to answer the phone; a lot of times I'd just let it ring. It was Don Menza. I'd heard of him. He's a great young tenor player with a fantastic technique. He's one of the new breed of musicians, a musician in every aspect. He writes arrangements, reads well, can jam, can do anything. He even makes mouthpieces and repairs horns. He says, "I hear you don't have an alto. That's unbelievable, man. That's like Bird not having an alto. I sure wish you'd come on the band. I've got an alto; it's in good shape; I've looked it over; I blew it just a little while ago. You're welcome to use it until you can get one. I'm leaving for Vegas in a few minutes. I have to be there a day early. I'll take it with me. When you get to rehearsal it'll be there."

We were going to play Caesar's Palace in Vegas. They got me a ticket that was paid for by the band and another for Christine that came out of an advance. They gave me another advance so I could rent a room in a motel. We got on the plane and there we were-one day riding around in our little car drinking gallons of Red Mountain and the next on a plane on our way to Las Vegas. We went to the motel and checked in, and there's a swimming pool, and the room's air-conditioned, and Christine's all excited. We've got two hours before the rehearsal. Christine says, "Isn't this wonderful! I knew you'd make it! Now these motherfuckers'll really hear somebody play!" I said, "I'm not so sure." She said, "Fuck 'em. You'll blow their minds. You're the greatest player in the world!" I said, "Did you see a liquor store on the way here?" She said, "Oh, man' you can't have a drink now, can you?" I said, "Well, I've gotta have a drink." She said, "I noticed one about a block away."

We walked to this liquor store. It was burning hot outside. You could see the heat rising off the street. I bought a fifth of brandy, we walked back to the room, I poured out a couple of big drinks, and Christine said, "Here's to success."

The rehearsal was at Caesar's Palace, a beautiful place with a huge fountain. I walked in with another guy from the band. I looked around. I didn't even know Don Menza. The guy who was with me pointed him out. I walked over to him-a redhaired genius with no weaknesses, completely out of my league. He said, "Hi. There it is in the bag over there." I had my mouthpiece in my pocket, a Meyer mouthpiece. I'd saved it, fortunately, because with your own mouthpiece you have half the battle won. I took the horn out, put the reed on the mouthpiece, the mouthpiece on the horn, fastened the neck strap, and I was saying to myself, "Oh God, please play right." I tried it, and it played very, very good, and my fingers felt good on it. I looked up, and Buddy Rich had come in. He had somebody else who was going to play for him; he was just going to watch the rehearsal. Buddy's a little guy about fifty years old, one of the greatest drummers that ever lived, a monster on the drums, and a real arrogant little guy. Everybody's scared of him. I sat down. Don Menza was rehearsing the band. He called out a number. I looked at the music and it looked like Japanese. I told myself, "Am I kidding? I've spent five years with Stan Kenton. I've played the studios. I've been with all kinds of groups and done all kinds of things. Why can't I calm down?" The tune was beat off, and we started.

I guess it was just starting to play, getting into that familiar setting with the sound happening all around me. I began to lose my fear. I read through the thing without any mistakes, and I sounded good. Don gave me a little nod and a little smile. The guy playing third alto, Carlisle Owens, the only black cat in the band, he smiled at me, and the baritone player really liked me, I could tell.

Christine was sitting in the back, and she was really thrilled. She'd never been in such proximity to all this greatness. We played another tune and another, and I was afraid to look at Buddy, but I finally glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was staring at me, and I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Finally the end came, and Buddy walked up. He said, "How are you doing, Art? Did you meet all the guys? This is Art Pepper. We've got Art Pepper and we've got Al Porcino." That was his first day on the band, too (we'd been friends for years-he's one of the greatest lead trumpet players in the world). Buddy said, "Welcome to the band. Good luck." Underneath my arms was all wet, I'd been so nervous. We finished the rehearsal, and the trombone player told us what time we'd start that night. We had to get there early to have a rehearsal with Tony Bennett, who we were backing. I tried on some uniforms, found one that fit okay, and so I was a member of the band and I had won again. I felt good because instead of running I had faced it and made it. And something else happened that day that helped restore my confidence. I was playing alto again instead of tenor. I was playing like myself again.

When I was a kid I played clarinet, and my first influence was Artie Shaw. I heard him play on records and on the radio, and I thought he played beautifully, with a wonderful sound and a great technique. Then I saw a picture of him. He was going with or married to a movie star. She was beautiful. He seemed very glamorous to me and I thought, "Wow!" and I saw an opening for me at nine, ten years old. I thought, "Wow, there it is!" And I never doubted for a second that I could be as great as Artie Shaw.

I kept buying records. I remember I got "Annie Laurie" by Jimmy Lunceford's band; it was so swinging. In that band at the time was Joe Thomas, the tenor player. He had a full sound; he kind of moaned through his horn; he growled; he moved me. Playing alto was Willie Smith, and I liked the way he led the section. That saxophone section was the best I've every heard, even up to now. Later on I had occasion to hear the band in person at the Trianon ballroom: they were more devastating than they were on record. And I was standing in front of the band, listening to them, when all of a sudden this beautiful black chick came up. Dorothy Dandridge. She had furs on, and she stood there listening to the band and looking at Joe Thomas, and after they finished their set everybody fell all over her, and she went to Joe Thomas and started rapping with him. It was so glamorous. I loved not only the music, I loved the whole idea.

I liked a lot of people. I loved Johnny Hodges in Duke Ellington's band, the way he played ballads, and in that band was Ben Webster, who had a rich, full tone like Joe Thomas's but more subtle. Joe Thomas was a shouter; Ben Webster was more soulful. Then I heard Louis Jordan on alto: he knocked me out. I liked Benny Goodman. I liked Charlie Barnet, and then all the dixieland people-Wingy Manone and, oh, that guy that played cornet, "Livery Stable Blues," what was his name? I liked Roy Eldridge and, naturally, when I got with Benny Carter, I liked him, but I never attempted to play like any of these people. Never. I'd see little books-Solos by So-and-so, taken off the records-and every now and then I'd buy one and try it, but it just wasn't me, and it had no meaning to me at all, playing what was written. All these people influenced me, subconsciously, but I didn't feel like any of them and I didn't play like any of them. I'd go to sessions and hear other people playing and think, "Oh, that guy sounds like Willie Smith; that guy sounds like Johnny Hodges." And I used to think, "Well, maybe I don't play good. Maybe I'm on the wrong track." Just before I was drafted I heard Lester Young-he was with Basie's band-and, boy, I said, "That's the one!" But he played tenor and I played alto. I dug the things he did, but I didn't want to ape him. I ran into Zoot Sims; he knew all of Prez's solos and could sound just like him, and he'd hold the horn up at a fortyfive-degree angle, just like Prez did. I thought, "Why don't I sound like anybody else? What's wrong with me?" Finally, I got with Stan Kenton's band, and then people started telling me, "Man, you sure sound great!" I'd ask, "What do you mean?" I'd want to know why. They'd say, "Man, I can tell it's you." And I thought, "Well, that's what it is. I wasn't wrong after all."

I got drafted. I went overseas and played there, and everybody liked me. I came home three years later and just assumed everything was the same as it was when I left. I'm not home more than a few days when this friend comes over and he says, "Man, have you heard Bird or Diz?" I said, "Bird or Diz who?" "Have you heard bebop?" "Be-bop?" I hadn't heard a word, I swear to God. I was feeling good. I'd been playing in England, built up a style of my own.

He put on a record, Sonny Stitt and Dizzy Gillespie. On one side was "Salt Peanuts" and on the other was "Oop Bop Sh'Bam..." Ahahaha! "...A Klug Ya Mop!" They played these charts-"Salt Peanuts" was so fast ... Jimmy Lunceford used to have a tune called "White Heat" that was real, real fast, beyond comprehension at the time. These guys played faster than that, and they really played. Not only were they fast, technically, but it all had meaning, and they swung! They were playing notes in the chords that I'd never heard before. It was more intricate, more bluesy, more swinging, more everything. They had gone from one decade to another, one culture to another. Straight up! I heard it and I thought, "Oh, Jesus Christ! What am I going to do?" I heard this Sonny Stitt just roaring, flying over the keys, swinging, shouting. It moved me so much-and it scared me to death.

The guy said, "Well, what do you think of that?" I said, "Yeah, well." I had to protect myself so I said, "Yeah, but, boy, it's so ... They never relax. When are they going to settle back and groove? Where's the warmth and the feeling? Their tones . . ." I tried everything. Anything to justify my own position. He played a thing by Dizzy and Charlie Parker, and I heard Charlie Parker, and I really didn't like his tone. It sounded coarse to me. I finally had something to hang on to. I said, "I don't dig his tone." My friend said, "Well, what about Dizzy?" I had to admit, "Yeah, he's got a nice tone. It's a little thin though."

He'left. I got ill. What was I going to do now? I decided the only thing I could do was just practice and play and play and develop my own thing. The tenor was always the more popular instrument. It used to be there was never a solo written in a stock band arrangement for alto. It was all tenor solos-that was the "jazz saxophone." Charlie Parker made the alto popular, and I thought, "Well, that's good. That's good." I noticed that all the tenor players had switched to alto, and they all sounded just like Charlie Parker.

Books came out. Bird's solo on this, Bird's solo on that. They'd copy these things off the records and practice by the hour Bird's solos and his licks. Everybody sounded like him with the same ugly sound. Guys I'd heard before who had had beautiful tones now, all of a sudden, had ugly tones like Bird. Out of tune. Squalling. Squawking. I didn't want to play that way at all, but I realized that I had to upgrade my playing and I had to really learn chords and scales. So I didn't copy anyone. I didn't practice much, but I went out and blew and blew and blew. Then I rejoined Kenton, and I sounded only like me.

Bird had a great ear for changes, a great blues sense, great technical ability. He was able to play real fast, and his lines were beautiful. Everything was thought out and made sense. I never used to like his tone, but that's personal. A tone is like a person's voice. Now when I listen to him I love the whole thing, tone and all. He was a genius. But when I heard Coltrane!