Straight Life - Art Pepper [271]
But I believe Art's last years were a period of reconciliation for him. The tension never ended, but during those years it seemed a lot of black musicians became kinder, more tolerant, and Art was always exceedingly grateful-and my tongue is not in my cheek. He was cynical, but when he found genuine acceptance he was so grateful. A typical example of the kind of bad/good thing that happened: In 1980 Art was playing a prestigious European concert in a major concert hall as part of an all-star lineup. Each soloist got one featured performance piece. Art chose to do "Over the Rainbow." He was accompanied by an all black rhythm section, a very well known pianist, and a bassist and a drummer who were fairly famous. Art, during that time, always played "Rainbow" with a long a capella intro, a kind of wild, passionate, personal statement, and then, unlike most jazz players, he explored not just the song's melody and structure but its emotional content as well, so he kept the tempo slow, never sped it for variety or pyrotechnics. He loved ballads so much. He revered and envied the great singers who sang them. He couldn't make his voice hum an identifiable phrase, so he used his horn to speak and sing these beautiful songs. And he played each one, each time, as if his life depended on it. On this important evening, he carefully told the band what he wanted. He told the pianist, "Don't play an introduction. I'll start out alone and signal when I start the melody." He told the drummer, "No double-time, just brushes." They preceded him to the stage and sat down. Art was introduced and walked on. But before he could reach the mike, the pianist lifted his hands and dived into an introduction. Maybe he forgot the instructions. Maybe he resented them. Art's previous experience told him that it was sabotage and racially motivated. In the middle of the song, the drummer, very obviously bored with just brushes, got up and left the stage during Art's solo. Just walked off. After a few minutes, he wandered back on with a glass of water in his hand, casually sat down and picked up his brushes. It wasn't a long song. How thirsty could he have been? Art got mad. He always played great mad. He played great that night. He got a long, long, standing ovation. At the end of the show, all the stars were lined up on stage, and each took a bow. Art got an absolute roar of love from the crowd, and as the guys came walking off (I saw and heard this), Freddie Hubbard put his arm around Art's shoulder and said, "Man, you got the biggest hand of all of us." The drummer overheard and said, "Yeah, why was that?" Freddie said, "Because he's the greatest alto saxophone player in the world, that's why."
When we were at the Nice festival the second time, in '81, one of the booths at the festival had jazz photographs for sale. Art stopped to look at the pictures. He asked the girl in the booth, "No white jazz musicians? You don't have pictures of any white musicians?" She giggled and stared at him. I said, "Art, she's French. She doesn't understand you." He said, "She understands. No white guys?" The girl blushed, shook her head, and said, clearly, no, they had only black musicians. She giggled again, and Art laughed with her, resigned, but not bitter. The band we were touring with then was the Art Pepper Quartet, George Cables, David Williams, and Carl Burnett: three black guys with whom Art had found accord. With George, especially, there was intimacy