Straight Life - Art Pepper [274]
Art, onstage, during those years, was a riot. He'd gotten used to talking; after STRAIGHT LIFE it was even expected. Sometimes, when he was low, his verbal riffs were harsh and bitter, but mostly they were comical. He'd always admired good comics. He was very conscious of things like timing and delivery. He had a great ear for intonation. He didn't tell jokes, he told stories; he described people and things. When we were touring with Milcho (who'd defected from Bulgaria under in teresting but ultimately boring circumstances), Art would tell the audience how Milcho escaped from behind the Iron Curtain. He told the story night after night, and it got wilder and more fantastic with each telling until he had Milcho tunneling under the English channel with a knife in his teeth, killing and eating old women and little children. So he could be Free. To play Jazz. The crowds loved it. Milcho took it well, only begging Art to leave out the part about the children. One night in Boston, Art's ankles were so swollen, he had to go onstage in his socks. That night he talked about his ankles. He talked about his grandmother's ankles. It was hilarious. (I have it on tape, but its essence can't be reproduced on paper, because it isn't just the words that crack you up and touch you, it's the pauses and the the edges on the words. Also, Art gave you the feeling that he didn't know what he was going to say next. Usually, he didn't. So when the words came out, and came out funny, you shared the surprise with him, and that was part of the kick.) When he finished talking that night, he'd described his grandmother's knees, and he had the audience in hysterics. And when he turned to the band to kick off the next tune, he found Milcho collapsed on the piano, and Bob on the floor weeping with laughter.
Art didn't get into too much trouble on the road. He didn't have the time or the energy. But if we were at home for a few weeks, he did. He tossed the house a number of times, and he wound up in the hospital, for a short stay, after shooting cocaine, at least once more. But he also wrote new charts and rehearsed them.
When we travelled in the U.S. and Canada, I worked hard. I did all the negotiations with band members, and, through the booking agent, with the promoters. I made the travel arrangements; I devised itineraries which took full advantage of excursion rates-much to the dismay of Art and the guys, who got sick of changing planes in Denver so that we could save money. I rented vans, when necessary, and I drove us. I dealt, as well as I could, with local promoters, with bad sound systems and bad pianos. Trips in Europe and Japan were easier. The promoter supplied a roadie or two and made most of the arrangements. My main responsibility abroad became just Art, keeping him rested, fairly sober, and fed. He rarely went out to eat, found it too exhausting. He was content to live on candy bars and airport sweets. I toted a boy-scout mess kit, and brought hot meals to him in our hotel rooms which had no room-service, from nearby restaurants which had no facilities for preparing food "to go."
Art gave me complete autonomy, and, though he always complained, he never criticized anything I did. And all the work and hassle were so patently worth it at the moment when he made his music-in a concert hall or club or recording studio. Because what Art was doing was important. I'm not alone in what I feel about what he did. I've read reviews and letters from fans that said pretty much the same thing. Real art is important. When he played what he felt, Art played what we all feel, and because he was an artist, he showed us that was beautiful. The artist dignifies himself and us and makes us think that, maybe, all that lives is holy. When Art played, it was a sacrament. It felt like church to me. I've heard musicians who worked with him say, "He made me play way over my head."