Who Was He?
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From the Memoir: Sophisticated people of my generation knew the names of important jazz musicians. In 1968, when I met him, Art Pepper’s name was still known to jazz fans. He was a saxophone player of great physical beauty who had a unique and distinctively lyrical and poignant sound, a melodic style, and a solid, soulful sense of swing.
He’d followed a spectacular beginning in his teens (placing second only to Charlie Parker in jazz polls) with a lifetime of addiction and criminal behavior. Though he’d managed to make a number of acclaimed recordings, there were also nuthouse incarcerations and years of prison on drug charges. When he got to Synanon, he was 44. He had nearly died from the damage he’d done to his body. His spleen had ruptured. And after surgery to stop the bleeding and remove his spleen, his belly herniated and the hernia was inoperable. He had advanced cirrhosis. He’d been told to stop drinking but, suicidal, post surgery, he’d lain in bed while a friend hocked his things and brought him drugs and brandy. His girlfriend finally took him to the psychiatric ward of the VA hospital where they dried him out. She wouldn’t take him back. So his mother’s boyfriend drove him down to Synanon. An old friend, a trumpet player, was living there, and he’d been calling Art, pressing him to come and save himself.
He’d followed a spectacular beginning in his teens (placing second only to Charlie Parker in jazz polls) with a lifetime of addiction and criminal behavior. Though he’d managed to make a number of acclaimed recordings, there were also nuthouse incarcerations and years of prison on drug charges. When he got to Synanon, he was 44. He had nearly died from the damage he’d done to his body. His spleen had ruptured. And after surgery to stop the bleeding and remove his spleen, his belly herniated and the hernia was inoperable. He had advanced cirrhosis. He’d been told to stop drinking but, suicidal, post surgery, he’d lain in bed while a friend hocked his things and brought him drugs and brandy. His girlfriend finally took him to the psychiatric ward of the VA hospital where they dried him out. She wouldn’t take him back. So his mother’s boyfriend drove him down to Synanon. An old friend, a trumpet player, was living there, and he’d been calling Art, pressing him to come and save himself.