I had a ventral hernia, and my stomach was all puffed out. We got back to L.A., and I ran into this guy again, and he still had Numorphan, so I started shooting it. It killed the pain so I could play. With that and some Percodan tablets I made it through the job we had then.
I went to the VA again and somebody else had a look at me. This doctor said I needed an operation. I told Christine, "I'm so scared I can't stand it. I wish I could die." I wanted us to make a pact-we would kill ourselves. The doctor said he had to make a big incision and then pull the flesh and wrap it around my insides to keep them from pushing out. He said it would be very painful and it might not be successful. I checked into the hospital. I was so messed up from the things I'd been doing it took them a month and a half with food and vitamins to build me up so they could operate.
I had the operation. I got pneumonia again. Finally I went home. I laid in bed and Christine gave me medicine. I couldn't lay on either of my sides or on my stomach. Fortunately we had a little TV at the foot of the bed. The guy came around with the Numorphan, and I bought some heroin, too. I got strung out like a dog. Then one day I noticed the little pain again. I looked at my stomach and saw a swelling. There was a little area right in the middle that was puffing out exactly the way it had the last time. I had the TV by the bed, and I left it on all day and all night.
Christine couldn't stand it anymore. She wanted me to go to her mother's house and stay. Her mother was sick, too. She had had an operation at the same time, and Christine wanted to take care of both of us at her mother's. I was using. I couldn't do it. She had to leave. She said, "You're just going to kill yourself! That's all you want to do! I can't watch it anymore!" She cried and called me every name under the sun. She left. I laid in bed and watched television.
In the icebox was a little lunch meat, a little jar of mayonnaise, and half a loaf of bread. I'd take my medicine. This guy would come with the Numorphan. The guy I was copping stuff from, he'd bring a taste over and lay it on me; I got him to go pawn my horn. Christine came back three days later. She burst out crying when she saw me: "Oh God, Art, you look like you're dead. Look at yourself!" She brought a mirror. I looked horrible. She said, "You've got to do something. Either do something or I'll call the police and have them take you away. What about Greg Dykes?"
I had first met Greg in the federal joint. When I saw him again, later, he said that if I ever got really hung up I could give him a call and go to Synanon. I told Christine, "I don't want to go there. People think that everybody that's there is a rat." She said, "Fuck what people think. You know what you are. I can't leave you like this. I'm going to call Synanon or I'm going to call the police." I said, "Alright, call Greg and see what he has to say, but I'm not promising anything." She called him, and she was crying over the phone. Greg asked to talk to me. He said, "Art, what's wrong?" I told him I was just ruined physically: "All I want to do is get loaded and die, but I don't have the nerve to kill myself." He said, "Ohhhh, man. Get down here! Come down and we'll take care of you! Please, man It's your only salvation. I really love you, man. I want to save you. Please come down." I said okay and I hung up. I looked at Christine and said, "Oh God, man, it's the end of my life."
(Don Menza) The Buddy Rich band of 1968 was a magnificent band, probably as good as any band I ever played on, including the '61 Maynard band. It was dynamite, I thought. Buddy had a lot of fresh writers, and there suddenly became an awareness on his part where it wasn't all, well, I shouldn't say that. I was gonna say it had all been show-and he can put on a hell of a show-but he can also play.
We were out on a short tour, we got back to L.A., and an alto player decided he was going to leave, so we started talking about who was going to replace him. I was sorta the straw boss on the band, and Art didn't even enter my mind. I didn't really know him, and he had been off the scene for a while. Jim Trimble called me and said, "What would you think about Art Pepper coming on the band?" I said, "Great! I didn't even know he was, like, here. Where is he?" Art called me, and he didn't have an alto, and he was, like, panicked because he didn't have any bread. I told him, "Look, I have an alto." I was really excited because I remembered seeing him in the Stan Kenton days and buying his records. For me, it was really a thrill to know he was coming on the band.
I've listened to a lot of players. I can see their origins. I can see where they come from. I can hear the Bird in Art, I can hear the Prez in Art, and in the sound I can hear two or three different people, but out of that comes Art Pepper. And when you hear him play, you know it's Art Pepper. Whether he's playing alto or tenor, I can hear a certain thing that still has the Art Pepper stamp on it.
When Art came on the band, he didn't look well. Frankly, I was shocked. I watched him desperately trying to hang on, trying to get better. We had already recorded the Mercy,. Mercy album in United Studios down here, and I remember talking to Buddy and saying, "Hey, man, the band is so hot now. What are you doing? You should record the band live now. You should do the album over again. What you're doing now puts the album away." And sure enough, two days later he comes to me and says, "Tell the cats we're gonna record the whole album over again, live at Caesar's Palace." I'm just glad I didn't have to foot the bill, even if it was my idea, but that was a hot band. Between Al Porcino and Art Pepper ... Art sounded beautiful on the band. He just roared right through it. Then we went up to San Francisco, and I could see very plainly that Art was really hurting. Really hurting. And his spleen ruptured. That's what happened, and he almost died. -- - - -- - - - - - - - - -
Christine, she always talked about helping, but I don't think she did. I tried not to get too close to her. I could see trouble there. I remember her stealing horns on him; all of a sudden he'd be without a horn. I remember coming to town one time and he was all blurry eyed, didn't know where to turn. She had taken his mouthpiece. She had a tenor of his that he couldn't get back. I stayed as far away from her as I could. I don't think it put up a shield between Art and I `cause on the bandstand or on the bus, whenever we had to come into a close contact, it was always a great deal of admiration for each other, and he was very encouraging to me, too. For me, it was a great spiritual thing that happened. But she really, she had that aura about her, where I just said, 'Uh-oh."
Christine was a redhead. At one time she must have been a very statuesque woman, a very beautiful woman. It wasn't there when I saw her. It had all started to deteriorate.
Well, Art would come in, and some nights he'd feel better than other nights, and then finally it was just wipeout city. That's when he went to the hospital. Buddy, as I remember, was really good to Art. There's a great deal of compassion in Buddy Rich, which a lot of people don't believe, but Art can attest to it.
Somebody filled in for him in San Francisco, and we came back to L.A., and it was obvious he wasn't coming back right away, so I managed to get Joe Romano on the band. Then we went on a tour of England. Joe is an extremely physical player, and he's got great eyes. Art does, too, by the way. He really ... Art sat down and looked at that music, you know, and he said his eyes weren't too good, he hadn't been sight reading, and he was gonna need glasses, and this and that. He just read straight through the book like he had memorized it. Anyway, Joe was there. Buddy didn't know who he was and, naturally, Buddy knew who Art Pepper was, so it was kind of a challenge to have to follow that. After a month or two, Buddy loved him, loved the way Joe played.
We got back. We get to New York, and Buddy gets a call from Art. Art's ready to come back on the road. Buddy tells me, "Tell Joe he's got his notice." You've gotta do it to somebody. And I said, "Look, man, you tell Joe. First of all, I feel very excited that Art will be coming back. However, you better check out his physical condition. Can he play? they just sewed his stomach up. And letting Joe go-I would consider it very carefully." So he said, "Well, we'll have Charlie Owens play lead alto." I said, "You better think about that, too. I have to sit in the section. Maybe playing third for Art would be better. So he could hang on to somebody. That's a hard job playing lead alto. There's a lot of huffin' and puffin' gain' on. Here's a cat just comes outta the hospital. Make up your mind, let me know what you want to do, and you tell the cats." So Buddy let Charlie Owens go. Art came to New York and sure enough, boy, he was in baaaad shape. His stomach was bulging. He could hardly blow. He could hardly talk. I think he came out too soon. And if I'm not mistaken, Christine was still with him.
Things weren't getting any better. They got worse instead of better. Two months later I left the band. We were here before Christmas, and I gave a two-week notice, which they totally ignored, and they fired me. Typical road thing, so they wouldn't have to pay me vacation pay. I don't remember how it went down with Art, whether he left before I did or not.
Art's a sweet person. I never heard him talk bad about anybody. And it hurt everybody to see how he was hurting. Sometimes I'd be with him, and we'd be having such a beautiful time, but he'd be drinking. I used to try to get him to cool it, but ... And then, of course, there were the people who came around the band, who knew who he was, who knew what he wanted, and you couldn't keep him away from them. In New York ... It was scary.
I remember vividly Art coming on the band, and I remember the rollercoaster ride he had to take physically and emotionally. That wasn't easy for any of us to watch him go through that because you could see he needed help, and there was no way we could help him. He needed physical help and mental guidance, and Christine wasn't doing either part. She was more concerned with where, how, and how often she could groove.
THERE wasn't anything left in the house but a few clothes. We threw them in the back of the car and drove to Synanon, which was way out in Santa Monica on the beach. I made Christine buy me a fifth of brandy. I could hardly walk. We got there. She went in. Finally, here she comes with three guys from Synanon. One of them looked at me and just shook his head. They helped me up the stairs into the place and told me to sit on this bench. It was a big, old building. It looked like an old-time hotel. I sat down, and everybody was staring at me, and it was altogether different from what I thought it would be. Instead of being dopefiends and people like me, the people there were all young or old square people. I wanted to get out of there. I started to stand up, and they said, "Where are you going?" I said I wanted to get my things. They said, "You stay there. We'll get them." I said, "Oh, no, I want to get them myself." I started to walk out the door, and they just grabbed me and dragged me back to the bench.
You have to have an interview before you can be taken in, to see whether you really want to get in, if you're really hung up, to see if you've got any money. They helped me up the stairs-the place was full of stairs-and we finally got to this room, and I nearly fainted I was so beat. Greg Dykes was in the room. I was so juiced I was seeing double, triple. They asked me if I had any money. I said, "No, I don't have a penny. If I did, I wouldn't be here." Instead of being nice I got belligerent. Somebody said, "Well, we have some rules here, you know. No physical violence. We don't allow any stealing. I started yelling, "What do you mean, stealing? I'm not going to steal from you fuckin' assholes! I don't steal from people who do favors for me! I'm not a fuckin' tramp rat, like you stinkin' motherfuckers are!" They said, "Cool it, man! What's wrong with you?" I said, "Oh, you're a bunch of fuckin' rats, all of you! That's why everybody hates you! That's why the people in prison just despise all of you! Because you're all weaklings and rats! I'm not going to steal from any of you rats! I don't want anything you have!" I raved and raved. Christine was trying to cool me down, and Greg was trying to calm me because he wanted to get me in. He's acting like my attorney or something.
I stood up and threatened them, and I almost fell down. They said, "Well, you're not in good enough shape to come in here. You're going to have to get an okay from a doctor." I said, "What do you mean an okay from a doctor? You said to come out here to the fuckin' place! I drove all the way from Hollywood, and now you're not going to take me, you motherfuckers!" They said, "You have to get an okay from a doctor." They knew about the operations. They told me to go to the Veterans Hospital and find the guy who operated on me and have him sign a paper saying I wouldn't die if they took me in. They told me to go, and I was so happy. I shouted, "Alright, I'll go, you motherfuckers, but if I go and come back and you won't let me in, I'll burn this fuckin' place down! Or if the police come, and I go to jail, I'll know who's responsible and I'll send somebody with a bomb and blow this place off the face of the earth, you yellow-bellied, weak, punk, New York bastards!" Somebody said, "Get him out of here! Don't come back! We don't want you here, motherfucker!" I said, "I'll come back if I want to, you cocksucker! You don't tell me nothin'! I got more goin' for me in my little finger than you have in your whole fuckin' body! Every one of you put together! I'm a fuckin' genius! I'm a king compared to you assholes! I've lived all my life! I wasn't afraid to go to prison! I'm the strongest person you've ever seen in your lives, you lousy, milquetoasted, sop motherfuckers!" Greg was saying, "Oh God, Art, please!" And he says, "He doesn't know what he's saying! He's delerious!" Christine says, "He's delerious! He doesn't know what he's saying!" And I say, "Oh yes I do, you motherfuckers! If you don't take me back-if I want to come back-I'll blow this place off the face of the earth and all you little pipsqueaks with it!"
There were people lined up all over watching us go out the door. They were lined up in the lobby and on the stairs. We got in the car and I said, "I gotta have a drink." Christine had a few dollars so she bought some brandy. It was only a little way from Synanon to the VA Hospital. I said, "Let's go tomorrow. Please!" She said, "No, you're going tonight." We went to the hospital, and by some miracle the doctor that was on duty was the doctor that assisted in the operation I'd had. Christine told him what was happening. She told him I was using heroin and Numorphan and drinking a gallon, at least, of wine a day and taking uppers and sleeping pills. He said, "it's a wonder you're still alive! What's wrong with you?" I said, "I don't know."