The lions share of beginning a new story or book is writing the 1st page. As you're typing the 2nd page something kicks in and you come into being.
Henry’s in the tribes Key West bungalow writing. Summer Wynd, Lucia, the Chihuahuas, Che, Mia, and Pedro the woodpecker have gone to Dog Beach to beat the dog days of summer in South Florida.
The girls enjoy turning heads showing off in their thong bikinis, the attention amuses them. Beachgoers think they’re celebrities, which they were. Lucia was a supporting actress in many 70's Cuban films, and Summer Wynd danced with the New York City Ballet.
The chicas are getting loaded, lounging in rented beach chairs under large umbrellas, drinking fresh pineapple juice with shaved iced in plastic cups, spiked with Meyers Rum from a 1/5 Lucia has hidden in her oversized Gucci bag.
The phone rings in Henry’s office, he picks up the handset saying hello, it’s HEADBANGER Magazine editor Dave Spleen who talks quickly, many believe he's a speed freak.
How ya doing big man? It’s hot as blue blazes in New York City, we have the air con running full power in the office. Henry chuckles, saying to Dave who’s known to be cheaper than chips,
you must be shitting bricks, calculating next months electric bill as the meter spins and spins, he answers,
I wanted to buy fans, but my staff threatened to walk out if I didn’t turn the air on. Can you believe it? Christ almighty, you’d think it was their dime! Henry says chuckling,
you wanted to buy fans? Handheld fans? Dave says,
funny man, funny man! By the way, I ran your pal Baghead's story Catfish, it got mixed reviews from our readers. He's got something going on, I can't put my finger on it. The kid's stuff is slow-moving, offbeat, like Faulkner, but naive.
I’ll run a few more of his stories and see what happens. Anyway, I want you to write a bit on a junky jazz musician, you know of any? Henry says,
only dead ones, Dave says the usual,
gotta go, gotta deadline to meet.
Henry was keen on listening to Art Pepper's music while working. Peps's life story is mind-blowing and hip to boot.
Art Pepper was born in 1925, his father Richard was a merchant seaman. One night, ashore in San Pedro, California, he met a 17-year-old, jasmine skinned, Italian gal named Milli Betranadini.
In a hop, skip, and jump, Richard married Milli and she became pregnant with Art.
While Milli was expecting and living with Richard she became bored quickly—staying out late drinking and screwing around. The last thing on her mind was having a kid that would hamper her partying.
Consequently, she downs everything she can to abort poor Art, the hapless fetus in her womb. In his words after the fact,
My mother starved herself and took anything that anybody gave her to miscarry. But to no avail. I was born and, she lost, I won.
Milli taking toxic substances to miscarriage caused Art to be born with rickets and jaundice.
During his early years, his father brought Art back to life dosing him with Italian penicillin— fresh garlic, olive oil, pasta with homemade tomato sauce, and most importantly, giving the kid lots of love
Richard and Milli would constantly get drunk and fight, Richard broke her nose a couple of times. Art was a precocious kid who knew the score in spades. Milli erased all the positives Richard did for Peps, leaving him with the feeling nobody cared, thinking he just wanted to die.
When Art was 10 he lived with his Grandmother and Dad in San Pedro. Richard was a union leader on the docks, he was a good man, later in life Art called him Moses.
During these times, Milli was running around with a 2nd rate country and western singer. Surprisingly, she does a U-turn, deciding she wants Art back.
Peps was born paranoid— toxic from the poisons Milli drank trying to abort him. And, his condition was exasperated by his turbulent family life. In his words,
I kept having fears. If I went to open a closet door I would be scared to death, If I went walking at the night I would see things in the bushes.
At the age of 11, his dad bought him a used alto sax at a pawn shop.
Milli's family was musical, they were Gypsies who played zithers, accordions, and violas.
On August 29, 2002, Madalin Voicu, a well-known member of the Romanian parliament made the following statement on Gypsies—
Our gypsies are stupid. They could at least be crafty but they aren't. They are just primitives and they manage to irritate the entire society which is already watching them closely.
They run through the country and Europe barefoot, slimy and dirty, wearing clothes which are more likely to disgust you than make you feel sorry for them— Begging, soliciting and being disorganized will never bring them any advantages.
Romanian media received his declaration almost ecstatically— it was quoted in most mainstream Romanian newspapers and was considered the political declaration of the week.
Peps's Gypsy genealogy meant music was in his blood. As it is for other Romani descendants— Django Rheinhardt, Carlos Montoya, Albert Lee, and Ronnie Wood, to name a few.
On the other hand, Milli's Gypsy lineage caused her to run in circles, bewildered, as though she was hexed by a Romani medicine woman.
Anyway, in high school, Art studied music with Larry Parks who was like a father to him. The 2 often went out to dinner together after school.
Art was a born musician, learning to play was effortless for him. He would play over his music lessons once before class and know them by heart. Peps played by feel, scores were secondary to him.
By 16 Art was playing sax at night clubs in LA, living with his grandmother while his dad was at sea with the merchant marines.
Pepper didn’t give a tinker’s damn about the hoop-la at Fremont High School in San Pedro. He missed classes because he was jamming till the wee hours in LA jazz clubs.
At 17 Art quit school, accepting a gig with a conventional dance band, The Gus Arnheim Band. Gus should have hung a large banner in the ballrooms where the band played reading—
NO IMPROVISING, KEEP TO THE SHEETS, AND, DON’T FORGET TO CHECK YOUR FEELINGS WITH THE HAT CHECK GIRL AT THE DOOR.
Art disliked Gus's big band because he wasn't allowed to improvise. Soon, he quit the band and was back in LA, jamming in the nightly jazz sessions on Central Avenue.
By 18 Pepper had become a well-known phenomenon in the West Coast jazz scene. Dexter Gordon and Lee Young asked him to play in a quartet they were putting together.
While in the Dexter Gordon Quintet, Dexter turned Art onto Dexedrine, which helped the guys stay up and play late-night gigs.
Eventually, Pepper got a call from Stan Kenton whose crew, The Stan Kenton Band, was the only hip and improvisational all-White band around during the 40s.
In 1948 the band was playing a 17-week gig at the Paramount Theater, backing Vick Damone, in New York City. Art was 23 years old.
2 years later, the Kenton band had a gig at the Civic Opera House in Chicago. Peps stayed in the Croydon Hotel, rooming with band member Stanley Curtis. Art was now a featured soloist in the band and crowd-pleaser, but, in his words,
it was great while it was happening, but when the gig was over I was still alone and scared, hyped on speed and booze.
Peps was about to meet his muse, his love, and life long tormentor.
After the show at the Civic Opera House, he drank in bars till 4 AM, closing time. Back at his hotel room Stanley Curtis was shooting junk with a few others in the Kenton band— Roy King and a singer Sheila Harris.
Peps wondered if they had anything other than heroin, which he was nervous about taking.
The band’s attractive singer Sheila Harris sensing Art was feeling low says,
hang up those jive-ass bennies and get in a cooler groove. Come to the bathroom with me and I’ll show you a new way to go.
Later, Pepper remembered his 1st taste saying,
I was at my wit's end, feeling like I could jump out the 14th-floor window or shoot some junk.
Art new bloody well the cooler groove would become a 1000 pound guerrilla on his back
His roommate Stanley says to Sheila,
for Christ sack don’t get him started on that shit!
Peps and Sheila didn't fix that night, they snorted the shit with a rolled-up dollar bill instead, causing his nose to tingle and his throat burn.
Then as though Jesus had touched Peps with his hand, he says of his first taste,
all the wondering and frustration vanished and I finally found peace.
After Peps took a sniff of boy he was like a shark set free from the tank at Sea World into the ocean.
He buys a sack full of heroin caps for the road, the stash lasts 3 months.
Sniffing boy propelled Peps's sax playing into a new orbit, improvising atypical and original grooves, creating a new sound for the Kenton band.
When he ran out of smack he became junk sick, trying to buffer his nausea with booze, and codeine didn’t work.
The Kenton band was playing a gig in LA. At a late breakfast, Peps asks Blinky, a band member who itched constantly, if he knew where they could score?
The 2 travel by taxi to Watts, where a junky dealer named Sid lived in a small apartment building. Blinky rings Sid's apartment from outside, the door buzzes, they walk inside to room 4 on the 1st floor.
Sid opens the door saying,
booster paradise, come on in, let's get loaded boys.
The 2 sit on a mildewed sofa, the room smells foul, like stale cigarette smoke and citric acid. Sid asks Peps,
where do you fix man? He answers,
I don’t fix! Sid replies,
brotha, you're gonna learn, horning is a waste of money.
Horning means sniffing drugs.
Peps didn’t want to fix, but you used 3 times as much heroin when horning. Art feeling junk sick gives in.
Sid uses a cap of China White, putting the powder into a spoon, adding a few drops of water, and cooking it.
Then, he puts a cotton ball into the spoon,
drawing the cooked juice through it with the hypo.
Blinky ties Art off with a belt at his bicep. Sid then finds a protruding vein on Peps's underarm, fixing him.
After the boost, Art knew it was all over, he says to Blinky, who's sitting on the sofa next to him tweaking after being fixed,
man, there’s nothing like this feeling.
They each buy a bag of caps from Sid, leave his apartment, take a taxi to a drugstore, purchasing syringes, cotton balls, citric acid, and alcohol swabs.
Soon, fixing became Peps's thing, he became streetwise when it came to scoring, fixing alone.
Art’s first collar, one of many, was executed by a narc while he was scoring in a run-down house on Stone Avenue in LA. After buying an ounce of boy, he walks out of the house and the gumshoe jumps him on the street, arresting Peps.
Art like Ray Charles and Keith Richards, both of whom were busted at some point for boosting, believed his addiction was his concern, not the narcs.
Sure Art fixed, but he paid his taxes, supported his family, cut virtuoso jazz albums, was nonviolent, and overall a good citizen.
Pepper was apolitical, but his beliefs were Libertarian, simply put, live, and let live.
And, however folks choose to get high, was their affair, not the narcs or governments.
Peps spends the night in cell 11-D2 in LA County Jail, beginning the process of kicking cold turkey.
The judge hammers him hard, giving him 6 years in San Quentin.
At San Quentin, he shared cell 1 with an old booster buddy he knew on the outside named David. He had kicked by now but he enjoyed everything about using, wanting to fix in jail.
David had some boy wrapped in a balloon stashed in his keister. Later that night the 2 fixed. Peps felt glorious saying,
I love being in Jail.
He continued to use during his stay in San Quentin, scoring from Mexicans mostly.
After serving only a year of his sentence he's paroled. Pepper was in and out of jail throughout his life for drug possession, even turning to petty thievery to support the spiraling cost of his habit at one point.
By the 50s Art left The Stan Kenton Band and performed with his own groups, quartets mostly.
Peps craved the spotlight of performing and recording, but, his talent flowered during the dark hours when he fixed, becoming deeper and more soulful.
He became one of the major movers of the West Coast jazz scene, along with Chet Baker, Shelly Manne, Dexter Gordon, and Clifford Brown, to name a few.
The live performances of The Art Pepper Quartet recorded in the 50s, as well as the recordings at theVillage Vanguard in the 70s and 80s are virtuoso.
The abandon with which he played and lived his life was present in every note he played.
Art Pepper was elected to the Downbeat Magazine Hall of Fame by both the readers and critics poll the same year he died.
Edward Art Pepper died on June 15, 1982, of a stroke, he was 56 years old. In 1979 his popular autobiography, Straight Life, was published. Much of it is about his junk use, the book is torturously honest and not for those with weak knees.
It’s sizzling hot in Oneonta, Alabama, on July 3, 1986.
Bag Head as he’s known in Oneonta because he wears a paper bag on his head when he goes outside is deep asleep in his room at the flophouse, The Palace Hotel.
He’s roused by a knock on the door, It’s Bessie the front desk clerk, a fat girl who giggles a lot and is obsessed with naughty boys as she calls them.
Bag Head opens the door, surprised to see Bessie, thinking she's going to hit him up for rent money. She says in her falsetto voice, playing the sympathy card,
silly boy, I’m so lonely, nobody wants a fat girl. I have 3 eight balls of cocaine, Jack Daniels, and a boom box we can play cassettes on.
Bag Head pitied Bessie, who had a nice face, was sweet as pie, always wore flowered mu-mus, drenched herself in dime-store perfume, and weighed 300 pounds. The word cocaine rings a bell so he invites her in.
They sit on a sofa from Goodwill, his coffee table is made of cinder blocks with a 2x4 piece of plywood on top.
Bessie is carrying a large plastic handbag containing— a small mirror, a Winn Dixie card, high ball glasses, a bottle of Jack Daniels, 3 eight balls of girl, and a small cassette player
The bag man plugs in the portable cassette player, putting in a tape, Bessies' favorite singer, Patsy Cline.
Bessie pours Jack Daniels into high ball glasses with printed images of Niagara Falls on them, clean.
Then, she empties an 8 ball on a mirror spreading out the crystals into lines with her Winn Dixie card.
She politely passes the mirror to the bag man’s side of the table. He asks her,
how can you afford cocaine, Bessie? Giggling as usual she says,
silly goose, you mean you didn't know my Papa owns The Palace Hotel and Swamp Tails Restaurant, downtown. I grew up eating hush puppies, fried shrimp, and cornbread, it made me fat, poor me. If you love me sweety pie I'll join a health club next week. He answers,
Well, cutting out hushpuppies n cornbread would help, but forget about it tonight and let's have a ball!
Bag Head snorts a line using a rolled dollar bill. He experiences a heady release, feeling powerful, like Superman. Then, taking a long swig of Jack Daniels which levels him out. Now it’s Bessie's turn, she snorts a line.
The bag man reckons she’ll giggle nonstop, talk rapid-fire or hyperventilate.
Bessie calmly gets up, placing a cassette in the ghetto box, Robert Palmer’s Double Fun. Standing, she downs all the whiskey in the Niagara Falls glass, then, dancing in the small room, moving exquisitely, swaying back and forth, doing the hula.
Bag Head snorts another line, he feels bigger than life, wanting to bang out swamp axioms on his Smith Corona.
Instead, he gets up and dances with Bessie. She pulls him close, he knows the fat girl’s craving tenderness. She pushes her tongue deep into his mouth, towards the throat, he coughs, feeling what you feel when you put your finger down your throat to the tonsils.
Bessie is going to rip Bag Head to shreds with erupting and long-buried passion.
There’s a knock at the door, it’s a flophouse tenet they call Stumpy, who lost a leg due to diabetes and acute alcoholism, the bag man opens the door and Stumpy says,
tell Miss Bessie there’s a sorry smell comin out of room 407, somethin bad happened, come quick.
A drifter whose handle is Box Car lives in 407. Bessie asks Bag Head,
sweetcakes, go to the front desk and get the hotel emergency key for me will ya? It’s in the drawer under the register.
The bag man hustles downstairs and gets the key for her. They meet at his room and he walks behind her as she lumbers up the narrow, dark, and dirty stairway to the 4th floor.
Standing in front of room 407, she opens the door, it smells rancid. Bag Man pulls his t-shirt over his head, and Bessie covers her face with a handkerchief.
Box Car is laying on his back in bed, dead. His skin is blueish black, his body is bloated, double the usual size, bacteria is causing his body to putrefy. Bessie says to the bag man,
sweets, we better get outta here, it might be a crime scene, maybe Box Car crocked. Go call 911 for me babe.
Bag Head had become Bessie's designated leg man, she could hardly walk up and down the steep steps of The Palace Hotel.
She did like to dance though, and she danced one mean hula.
