Pretty soon I was staying up all night long, writing music in the toilets of our hotel rooms, sitting on the tile floor, sniffing coke.
By the time I got to Chicago, I was really strung out on coke. I asked around at the methadone program there if anyone knew a connection. We had rented a car, so I drove all over the city looking for some way to score. I wound up in an industrial area near a methadone clinic, and I saw a black guy and his old lady in an old, beat car. They were stalled or something. I drove over and introduced myself. I asked them if I could help them out. I said, "You wouldn't know where I could get any coke?" The guy said, "Yeah." They took me to an old boarded-up building in the black ghetto of Chicago. It was filthy, no running water. We shot the coke instead of sniffing it. I got an outfit.
We went to Boston and Dayton and back to New York. Les Koenig came out from L.A. to record me, three nights, live, at the Village Vanguard. On the third night I had a fight with Laurie. On top of the coke I'd been buying huge quantities of extra methadone from another friend in New York. Laurie had stolen some of my money to pay the hotel bill, and I hit her, and she left the room. I knelt down to snort some coke off the little bedside table. It had a glass top. I hadn't slept in days so I passed out with my head on this table and the glass cut my cheek and made an indentation in my face. Laurie came back and woke me up. I looked in the mirror. My eyes were all puffy and I had this mark across my face. I'd had no sleep in days, hadn't been eating. I'd lost about twenty pounds on this trip. None of my clothes fit me. I shot the rest of my coke, and they practically carried me to the Village Vanguard for the final night of recording.
(Hersh Hamel) Art got out of Synanon, and he came around to my house while I was out on the road. He was working at a bakery or something. He had just broken up with Laurie and he was really moanin' the blues to my old lady. My old lady said that he stayed there that night and after the second day it was just too much for her. She started to get real depressed. It was just too heavy for her, because he was moanin' the blues so bad.
Laurie is the most positive woman that he's had. The most able to help, to really help. The others tried with very little success. She's the firmest and also she doesn't mess around with any dope which is good for him: He's got to have somebody that's removed from that. And also she's been able to make him look at himself as no one else has been able to do. That's good for him. Sometimes, I feel, you know, I've thought she seemed a little overprotective. Regardless, my main impression is that she's helped him more than any other woman. I was a little taken aback when I met her. I didn't expect him to have an old lady like that. She was really enthusiastic about the music. She wasn't super cool. More extroverted. More honest, able to show her feelings and not playing the "I'm a jazz musician's wife" scene. I was very happy for him.
I have to say that there was one time that amazed me. Art went to New York or something. Came back. And he looked like he was gonna die. He played at Donte's one night, and he looked like he was sixty years old. Then he played at Donte's about three weeks, a month later, and he looked fifteen years younger than he was. His skin was beautiful. I was amazed. Amazed. I asked him, I says, "What did you do?" "Awwww," he says, "Laurie wouldn't let me out of the house."
I think Art still has the same main problem in his life. He can't accept success. Everytime success starts comin' his way, he starts his destructive behaviour. He just cannot seem to function with things going his way. Things start getting good he puts it in the toilet. I don't think he consciously wants to do that. It's just that he feels a lot of pressure under those circumstances, whatever it is in his psyche that makes him go crazy. He'll start doing well, and people'll start respecting him, and he'll start almost living down this terrible reputation he's had for, what, thirty-five years: big monstrous doper, outta control. He starts to get some success, and then he'll be going around Donte's and the other clubs that he's working asking people if they've got any coke to sell, any dope. He starts doing that number and man, the next thing I hear is, "Art's up to his old stuff again, isn't he?" Or, "That poor guy, man, can't ever get himself straightened out." And that's what I hear. From the other guys.
WE CAME back to L. A. Laurie did what she could, but I was completely out of control. She gave up on me. I was hanging out with the guy I knew from Quentin and with some other guys who lived out in Venice who dealt coke and played music. I'd jam with them, and they'd give me coke. Every minute of the day was spent in getting money, driving to score, and getting loaded. I pawned my horns. I'd sworn I would never do that again.
One day-I don't even know what happened-I'd been up all night, playing out of town, and I drove into town to get my methadone. Then I went to a friend's house and shot some coke and fixed some heroin, and the methadone on top of that, and the no sleep ... I was driving my beautiful new car. In 1976, Les advanced us the money to buy this brand-new red Olds Cutlass Supreme Brougham with all the extras. I decided to turn left. To this day, I have no idea where I was going. I pulled into the left turn lane going too fast, and by the time I saw the cars stopped in front of me, waiting to turn, it was too late. I crashed into them. My head almost went through the windshield. The other people were injured slightly. I got out of the car and looked at this wreck. I was having memory lapses. I thought, "Boy, somebody sure got wiped out." I was walking around among all this glass. An ambulance came and the police, and the next thing I knew I was in a car going to jail.
I spent a week in jail. As it worked out, it cost us fifteen hundred dollars for the lawyer, a fine of about four hundred dollars and three more weekends in jail. One of the things that saved me was a contract I had for another tour of Japan. I think that impressed the judge or the D.A. Since I was on the methadone program, there was no point in putting me on probation. The methadone program can be very strict. I got thirtysix months summary probation.
In April of 1978, I toured Japan for nineteen days with my own group. We did eighteen concerts. It was really hard, and I had very little energy, because I wasn't using coke anymore. I was depressed and tired, but the audiences were wonderful. We played to packed houses. After the concerts, the fans would line up; they had all my albums, and they wanted my autograph.
I did do some heavy drinking in Japan after the concerts. I came back to the U.S. and did a tour of Oregon. I was unbelievably tired, and my memory was failing me. I couldn't remember the words for things. I couldn't remember what tunes we were playing or how long we'd been playing. My fingers were stiff and hard to move. Laurie kept begging me to give it up and go home. I wouldn't do it. I didn't play the last night of the tour. I didn't even know if it was day or night anymore.
Laurie had called the V.A. from Oregon. When we got back to L.A., my counselor from the methadone program came to the house and took me to the hospital. I was fighting against it. I thought Laurie had ratted on me. When I checked in, the head psychiatrist asked me what month it was. I said it was March. It was June. I couldn't remember the name of the President of the United States.
They kept me in the hospital for about two months. I underwent a million tests. They found some brain damage, and they diagnosed anemia, in addition to the Thalassemia Minor I was born with. They gave me lots of food and vitamins and put me on an anti-depressant. By the time they let me go, I was more or less back to normal. Later, Laurie took me to her doctor who looked over my records and said my problems might be a result of my liver disease. I'd wanted to have another operation on my hernia. It's a blow to my ego to have my stomach stick out like that. The doctor at Kaiser said an operation could be fatal. My liver might not be able to handle the anesthetic.
My mother is dead. My father is dead. My daughter's grown up; she's a stranger. I've set up a barrier between us that I'm afraid to cross. I have very few friends, and one of the best of them, Les Koenig, died not long ago.
When my contract with Contemporary expired, several people asked me to do one-shot recordings. I was scared but I did one, Among Friends, and that helped restore my confidence, and then I signed with another company. I did my first album for them a few weeks ago. On it I played "Patricia" again, the ballad I wrote so many years ago. It came out very well. It might be the best thing I've ever recorded.
As for the future-physically, emotionally, I can't work very much. I can't take much pressure, but I do have to survive, and I do still want to play. I do still need to be accepted as an artist. But I want to be more than just a "jazz player" playing. I want to make the people forget the categories and hear what's really happening. I want to make them feel the joy or sadness. I want to make them open up and listen. That's what I've always wanted. I'll do the best I can.
JAZZ: PEPPER RETURNS WITH STYLE by John S. Wilson
... he has developed a clear, full-toned style, glistening with bright, glancing lines and bubbling, dancing phrases that flow easily. There is no suggestion of pushing or frenzy, and yet he projects a fiery intensity that becomes overt only occasionally, when he seizes a phrase and shakes it like a terrier.
Mr. Pepper shows an unusual sensitivity in his use of colors and textures, particularly in a slow, atmospheric piece ("Lost Life"), which carries a brooding air of sorrow that avoids obvious sentimentality. The New York Times, June 23, 1977.
NEWPORT JAZZ: ART PEPPER by Robert Palmer
... Art Pepper's appearance was an unqualified triumph .... the celebrated alto saxophonist ... brought a lively and cohesive group and a precarious but riveting balance of technique and emotional intensity to his set.... The New York Times, June 29, 1977.
IN PRAISE OF ART PEPPER
ART PEPPER: THE WHITENESS OF THE WAIL by Gary Giddins
... His present work is alive with splintered tones, modal arpeggios, furious double timing, and acerbic wit. He continues to play from deep inside.
... He plays like a knowing athlete, trained and poised. The Village Voice, July 4, 1977.
SUDDENLY, ART PEPPER IS RED HOT by John B. Litweiler
... At no time was the extent of Pepper's total mastery clearer than in a particular version of "Straight Life." Pepper had been bummed out by some customers who'd talked through his preceding ballad; he unloaded by choosing an incredibly fast tempo, and then, as his solo progressed, speeding it. He managed to lose each of his accompanists, however briefly, to the absolutely vicious solo, and its most stunning feature was the perfect clarity of every note, even the smallest-valued passing ones. The theme of "Straight Life" is made up of broken phrases, and these served as the model for asymmetic, angular lines in a cathartic fury. Beyond the wealth of invention here, the demarcations of note values, lines, and space was surely an ultimate answer to any possible questions about Pepper's powers.
... Pepper, above all, is an architect of emotion .... [He] has proved the best show of 1977 in jazz .... The Chicago Reader, July 29, 1977.
(Marty Paich) You know, there's honest musicians and there's dishonest musicians. Let me clarify that: An honest musician, to me, plays with his heart and soul and gives you his all, all the time. And then there's the dishonest musician who plays, and he gives you his all, but not all of the time. It's like a race horse. When Art plays, it's all, all the time. I never heard him lay back at any time, and that, to me, is an honest musician. And there aren't too many of them in the entire world.
(Don Menza) There are a lot of pressures on an honest player like Art, pressures of having to create and perform. Some musicians ... Dizzy Gillespie can be a clown, make it look as if it's really easy and fun. However a lot of people don't have that outlet, and when things really get bad on the stage, they don't know how to grab a handle on it, how to hold it together. Dizzy can just loosen up immediately. And then there are people that do the total opposite; there are the Charlie Minguses ... take the bass and break it over the piano player's back, you know? You know what I'm talking about? But Art, I've seen him get super tense and not be able to really say what he wants to say, or say what he means, and I could see his knuckles turning white and see his color drain. And still not be able to cope with it. Maybe that's got something to do with his other problems. He's a super sensitive cat, and that shows in his playing. It's obvious. You listen to him play a ballad or a pretty lyrical song. A certain style is involved in that kind of playing. You can't be a cold-hearted bastard and be able to play that way. It's very obvious the kind of person he is underneath, regardless of what he may have been doing at one time or another. And I don't have on record, I don't know of anybody saying, "He turned around and beat me for this; he beat me for that." Anybody. Everybody feels bad that it hasn't worked out better than it already has for him.
(Shelly Manne) Musicians should really sit down by themselves and realize what a great life they have. They're doing something they want to do. They're being creative. Very few people have an outlet for their creativity. They're getting paid for it, and, when gifted, get paid very well for it. They can travel all over the world, expenses paid. They eat the best food in the world. They have it made, especially when they have talent and are available and working. To destroy that by being irresponsible, unreliable, which are the main reasons that guys end up down the tubes .. .
What the hell. Art's playing because he wants to play. Hopefully, to make a great living. Hopefully, to be accepted by his peers. But he gets to that point, and when he's at that point it destroys him. He's got to turn his head around. He's got to realize that all those people write about him and there's a resurgence of Art Pepper because they love him. That's not a hate relationship. That's a love relationship. They dig what he's doing. They dig what he's been through. They understand what he's been through. And to see him come back and play great, that's what they want. That's why they're paying money at the door to come in. That's why they go to the concerts, write an article in the New Yorker, whatever the hell, about Art. Those are love things. People aren't trying to put pressure on him to destroy him again. He's got to get some psychiatric help if he thinks that. He's got to get his head turned around where he becomes selfconfident about those things. He's Art Pepper.