Straight Life: The Story of Art Pepper by Art Pepper & Laurie Pepper

Author:Art Pepper & Laurie Pepper [Pepper, Art & Pepper, Laurie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Saxophonists, History & Criticism, Jazz musicians, Saxophonists - United States, Jazz, Jazz musicians - United States, General, United States, Music, Pepper; Art, Biography & Autobiography, Genres & Styles, Composers & Musicians, Biography
ISBN: 9780306805585
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Published: 1994-03-20T21:00:00+00:00

15

San Quentin

1961

FOUR WEEKS after seeing my name appear on the list I was on the "Grey Goose." That's that horrible, horrible grey bus you see going by with prisoners in it. They put you in white flying suits with elastic around the ankles. They put handcuffs on you and run leg irons all the way through the bus, and you've got two guards with rifles, and there you go. And all these guys were, like, "Heeeey, baby, heeeey, jack, uuuuuhh, is Louie still up there? That suckah. Boy, when he see me drive up there again he'll say, 'Boy, there's that suckah again, man!' " The only people besides me that seemed dazed or surprised were a couple of murderers, killed their wives or something. They called my name, put these clothes on me, I got on the bus, and we headed north.

We stopped at Soledad and they put us in a wing for people that stay overnight. There's a school there and a lot of shops-welding, machine, electric shops. They classify people as to age and priors and some of the younger people go to Soledad because they feel there's still a chance for them to be trained, so when they get out they can be successful in something. The people in Soledad aren't branded as hardened criminals but they are; they're just on the way up.

They have tunnels through the cell blocks. We walked through one of them to the mess hall. There were a bunch of guys hanging out in the tunnel, and it all reminded me of being a jazz soloist in Stan Kenton's band because you've got these flying suits on and you're going to San Quentin and that makes you more of a criminal than the people that are there. It gives you status. The guys look up to you because that's their world.

They kept us segregated in the mess hall. We had guards guarding us, but guys would make signs to us or nod, things like that, so we strutted. It's your last little moment of glory before you get to San Quentin because there's no glory there. So you strut and look mean. We ate and we spent the night. Guys would come to the cell, sneak into the block: "Hey, So-and-so says to say hello. Need some cigarettes? Anything you want?" All of a sudden you find yourself in a world where everybody takes care of you. The convicts take care of you because they like you. The people that have it feel good sharing it with someone-if you're right. That's the only criteria. If you're right, not a rat. If you're a regular; if you're righteous people; if you haven't hurt anyone; if you haven't been rank to people; if you haven't balled some guy's old lady when he went away. The word filters through.

A couple of cats snuck up to my cell. It happened that they'd got some smack in, but they couldn't get at it. They were hoping we'd be there in the morning.

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