Authors: Glenn O'Brien
“Nat and Nadine” were staying with “Andy Kirk” and that morning over breakfast we split twenty-eight hundred dollars. With all this bread I’m now really “Mr. New York”. I moved to “Sugar Hill” took a kitchenette on “Hamilton Terrace”. All the professional and good doing people were in that block. I invited “Dizzy” and “Web” by and reached under my bed and shocked them with a suitcase full of money.
M
Y
NAME
was going around. All the high powered broads were “shooting” on me. I’d let them think they were going to con me out of my bread until I had made it with them. I’d ran through about “ten” before the word got out that “Babs ain’t gonna spend nothing, but the evening”. “Lucky Thompson” left “Lionel Hampton” and moved in with me and two weeks later “Trummy Young” who was ducking the cops for non-support moved in. The old “West Indian” landlady tried
to give me trouble for having two extra people, but with my money I just gave her an extra “ten”. Trummy got out to “Hawaii” in a couple of weeks and “Lucky” got a gig in “New Haven” and took me on it.
We had a ball in “New Haven”. There were a lot of “Portugese” chicks and beautiful little untouched “colored” orchids. I had been watching “Billy Eckstine”, and I began to realize that to make long bread one needed to be a singer and look pretty for the girls. I started my singing career up there with “Lucky” and when we came back after three months, I was cool with about twenty tunes.
In May of “46” I started rehearsing my first group. It was “Babs Three Bips and A Bop”. I had “Tad Dameron”, whod already made a name as a great arranger for “Basie” on piano and vocal. “Pee Wee Tinney” guitarist and vocal and “Art Phipps” bass and vocal. I had me a set of drums made so I could stand up and play them out front. We rehearsed at “Helen Humes” pad in the basement of the “Douglas Hotel” everyday for a month. I copped a gig at “Minton’s” and one night “Alfred Lions” came in to dig us. He said we gassed him, but we were too far out for the people. We closed at “Minton’s” and went back to rehearsing. Tad had to cut out and travel with “Basie” so I replaced him with “Bobby Tucker”, who was idle because “Lady Day” had gotten busted.
“Nat” came in town and this time he gave me two open dates. I told my guys not to worry that I would send them fifteen dollars a week while I made this money with “Nat”. I booked two places. “The Convention Hall” in “Atlantic City” and the “Newark Armory”. Nat gave me three thousand for expense bread so for six weeks I was shuttling between “Newark” and “Atlantic City”. I was a big man. Chicks in both towns were mine for the asking if I promised to introduce them to “Nat”.
“Convention Hall” could hold fifteen thousand people and at six o’clock the night of the dance, I got a call from “Nat” that they were “stormed in” in “Milwaukee” and no planes were leaving. I kept my hopes up until eight o’clock then decided to go to the hall and watch all the money we could have had. It was a beautiful August night and
since it was going to be his first appearance, I watched eight thousand people come and then turn around.
The hall and expenses were a two thousand dollar ($2,000) loss and the next night in “Newark” we only made three thousand ($3,000) profit so it was six weeks of running practically for nothing. “Nat” took two thousand to get even and gave me all the other grand so I could get me some uniforms for the guys and chalked it up to
“Cest La Vie”. . .
Nothing exciting happened for the next seven months—just rehearsing and hoping. I had one thing in my favor. All the guys in the group, except me, were living at home with their folks and didn’t need nothing more than cigarette money and carfare. Early in 1947, I persuaded “Al Lions” to give me a record date. I added “Rudy Williams” on alto for soloing and we cut our first date.
The tunes were “OOP-POP-A-DA”. “PAY DEM DUES” “LOP POW” and “WEIRD LULLABY”. “OOP-POP” was an instant hit around New York and the metropolitan area. “Freddie Robbins” a disc-jockey, of note at the time, played it every night for a couple of months.
At that time “Bluenote” was a very small record company and had been doing a mail order business in dixieland jazz. The result was our record wasn’t heard outside the radius of “Freddie’s” station unless they ordered it. Our jobs picked up around New York and we were booked into the “Onyx” club with “Billie Eckstine”. “Metronome” picked us the number one vocal group in the country.
We worked all the clubs along the street during the next few months and it was during a rehearsal at the “Onyx” one afternoon when “Dizzy” came in and said his big band was auditioning for “Victor”. He said he’d played a lot of tunes but hadn’t moved the big brass. I told him to do “OOP-POP”. Dizzy went back and did it for the big brass and they signed him immediately.
We left town to play an engagement at a lounge on the north side of “Chicago”. When we arrived at the club, the manager counted us and said we had one too many.
I showed my contract which read “Babs and His Three Bips and Bop” which came to five people. He told us to go straight to the dressing room in the rear. The dressing room turned out to be a storage room for empty bottles and we had no mirrors, chairs, or anything to hang our clothes on. While we were changing, we could hear the solo colored pianist playing “The Nigger” and the white man played five up, “The Nigger” won the money and was scared to pick it up. We all looked at each other knowing this was going to be a drag. As we were going to the bandstand, the customers were yelling “Alright niggers get hot.”
During our first set behind their long bar, we could see gangsters and police officers trading money and were called twenty-five “black bastards”. All the big name jazz groups were playing this room and I wondered had they received this sort of treatment or had they been just waiting for us. Back in the “storage” room I asked all the guys did they want to quit and since nobody had any dependents, everybody agreed to split. I went up to the boss’s office and asked for my transportation.
My contract read I was to receive it upon arrival. He told me “Nigger, can’t you see I’m playing cards? I’ll give it to you tomorrow.” I went back and told the fellows what was happening, and that we were in trouble. I had a thirty-two pistol and my bass man had a thirty-eight. We knew we couldn’t carry the instruments and protect ourselves too, so we decided to leave them. We’d only gotten about ten feet when the boss and two of his cronies confronted us. I told him we were leaving. He said “look you black bastards, all the big names play here and they don’t mind being called a few Niggers”. I told him they were getting two and three grand a week, but for seven fifty we wasn’t going to take it. We both reached for our heat at the same time and I told him even if he got me, I’d get him. You’d be surprised to know that even a big gangster is humble looking down a thirty-two. I led my men out while the bass player covered us from the rear and made it back to the south side.
We were stranded in Chicago, so the next morning I went to see
the president of the “Colored” local. He was the first of several “Uncle Tom” officials I was to encounter later in life. The white boss had already called him and gave him his orders. He berated me about being late and flirting with white women, etc. I knew I wasn’t going to get any cooperation from him so I called the New York office of my local.
When I recorded “PAY DEM DUES” the union officials thought I meant “union dues” so I was held in regard at that time. I spoke to the president and told him of our plight. They wired us three hundred to pay hotel bills and get back. We were almost finished packing when the “spade” delegate showed up at our hotel. He said “why would you call the national office, I told you I would look into the matter.” I told him “Look my man,” my Men are out here stranded and we can’t wait while letters take two or three months to be argued before the boards. We’ll do our talking from New York.” (Bye!)
As we were waiting for a cab, “Dinah Washington” rolled up with her entourage. After conversing with her, she explained she wouldn’t be needing her station wagon for a while and if I drove it back to New York, we could save our train fare. I accepted her offer and we cut out in style with wheels.
I Paid My Dues: Good Times, No Bread, A Story of Jazz
, 1967
Many jazz musicians wrote autobiographies, but there is none quite like Art Pepper’s brutally truthful
Straight Life.
I can’t think of anyone, musician or not, who has written a better description of the experience of heroin use, its veiled allure and rigorous dues. Here Pepper describes his eureka moment with the catalyst of his highest highs and lowest lows. Pepper’s music was beautiful, bright and lyrical, breezy, almost the opposite of his life. It’s fascinating to complete the picture with the hard downside of his history.
W
HEN
I
came home Patti was staying with my dad and my stepmother, Thelma. And when I came to the door my daughter, Patricia, was there; she was walking and talking. She didn’t respond to me: she was afraid of me. I resented her and I was jealous of her feelings for my dad. Naturally, she’d been with them so she didn’t feel about me the way I wanted her to, and that started the whole thing off on the wrong foot.
I was bitter about the army and bitter about them making me have a kid I didn’t want, bitter about being taken away when everything was going so good. I was drinking heavily and started using more pot and more pills, and I scuffled around and did a casual here and there or a couple of nights in some club, but nothing happened and I was getting more and more despondent when finally, by some miracle, Stan Kenton gave me a call.
S
TAN
K
ENTON
was incredible. He reminded me a lot of my dad, Germanic, with the blonde, straight hair. He was taller than my dad;
I think Stan was about six, three, slender, clothes hung on him beautifully. He had long fingers, a long, hawklike nose, and a very penetrating gaze. He seemed to look through you. It was hard to look him in the eye, and most people would look away and become uncomfortable in his presence. And, just like my dad, he had a presence. When he spoke people listened. He was a beautiful speaker and he had the capacity to communicate with any audience and to adapt to any group of people. We would play in some little town in Kansas and he’d talk to the people and capture them completely. We’d be in Carnegie Hall and he’d capture that crowd with another approach. We’d be at the Kavakos in Washington, D.C., a jazz club filled with the black pimp type cats and the hustling broads and the dope fiends—and he’d capture them. He would observe, study the people, and win them.
One time we did “City of Glass” at the Civic Opera House in Chicago. It was written by Bob Graettinger, a revolutionary composition, an incredibly hard musical exercise; it was a miracle we got through it. Bob conducted it, a tall, thin guy, about six, four: he looked like a living skeleton conducting, like a dead man with sunken eyes, a musical zombie. He took us through it, and he finished, and he turned around to the people, and he nodded, and the people didn’t do
nothin’.
The place was packed; we’d played the shit out of this thing and now there wasn’t a sound. They didn’t know what to do. We didn’t know what to do. I’m looking at Stan and I’m thinking, “Well, what’s going to happen now? What’s he going to do
now
?” Stan looked at the audience. I saw his mind, you could see it turning, and all of a sudden he
leaped
out onto the middle of the stage, gestured at us to rise, swung his body around again to the audience, and bam! They started clapping, and they clapped and clapped and clapped, and then they stood up with an ovation that lasted for maybe five minutes. He did it all himself. Stan did it with his little maneuver.
Once when I was interviewed for
down beat
they asked me about Stan, and I told the interviewer, “If Stan had entered the field of religion he would have been greater than Billy Graham.” And Stan didn’t like it. But he didn’t understand it. Maybe he thought I was putting
him down; maybe he thought I was belittling religion and ranking him for being a phony, but that wasn’t my intention. I was talking about his strength. He was the strongest man I ever met.
I traveled with the band: Shelly Manne was playing drums; Conte Candoli was playing trumpet; Bud Shank was in the sax section; June Christy was singing; Laurindo Almeida was playing guitar; and I was featured with the band. We played a lot of different places, and I was getting a name, a following. At first Patti came along with me, so it was fun, but one day in New York, while we were working at the Paramount Theater, Patti got a telegram from my father saying that Patricia was sick. I don’t remember what she had. I didn’t even pay attention to it, I was so angry. To me it was as if Patricia had gotten sick purposely to rank things for me. So Patti left, and that was it. For all intents and purposes that was the end of our marriage. Patti started feeling it was her duty to stay with Patricia.
It was impossible to take Patricia with us. We tried to take her once to Salt Lake City. We drove instead of traveling on the bus. I bought a car, but all the oil ran out of the car, and we got stranded, and then Patricia got sick. It was impossible. It was too impossible. The mileage we had to cover was too demanding. They both went home, and I sold the car, and that was the last time Patti was on the road with me.
I really became bitter then because I was so lonely and I couldn’t stand not having a woman. There were chicks following the band that were very groovy, that really dug me; they’d send notes and hit on me and wait for me after the job, but I’d rarely have anything to do with them because I felt so guilty when I did.
I
N
1948 we were playing the Paramount Theater again in New York. Vic Damone was the single attraction. Sometimes we’d play seven shows a day, and there were a bunch of young girls who used to come around to all the performances. One day after a show, four of these girls came backstage and left a note. They wanted to meet me. I went to the stage door and said hello to them. I brought them into the dressing room and talked to them; they were sixteen, seventeen.
They said they wanted to form an Art Pepper Fan Club. Would I mind? I thought they were joking at first, but they were serious, so I told them no, I wouldn’t mind, that I’d be flattered. But I couldn’t understand what a fan club would entail.