
James Francken, a former assistant editor at the LRB, works at the Daily Telegraph.
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Vol. 24 No. 10 · 23 May 2002
pages 19-20 | 3037 words

All Monte Carlo
James Francken
- On the Yard by Malcolm Braly
NYRB, 438 pp, £8.99, March 2002, ISBN 0 940322 96 X
Born with a silver spoon, Malcolm Braly became a mouthpiece for the no-hopers and might-have-beens in America’s prisons. He was inside for almost twenty years and finished On the Yard (1967) in the final few months of his stretch. It was an unlikely career for a novelist, though Braly, who took a dim view of his success, never seemed surprised, certain that his fate had been forecast from the start. His father ran a West Coast automobile agency in the 1920s, a blue-chip business that folded with the Crash. Braly was five years old; in no time he was fingered as a sneak, a show-off and a thief. False Starts (1976), Braly’s remarkably moderate and candid memoir, never hymns his childhood unhappiness: his parents left, first his mother, soon after his sister was born, then his father, and Braly ended up in a Catholic boarding-school north of Seattle. Together with a cluster of friends, he began to steal. The boys collected milk and soda bottles from the dump to turn in for deposits, but when the supply of empties dried up, they nicked bottles from neighbourhood garages, then progressed to back porches and finally made it into a kitchen, taking milk from the icebox and tipping it down the sink. ‘At a certain age most boys steal,’ Braly admits: ‘most also stop. I didn’t.’
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Letters
Vol. 24 No. 12 · 27 June 2002
From Frank Phillips
James Francken's survey of US prison writings in his review of Malcolm Braly's On the Yard (LRB, 23 May) might have mentioned Art Pepper's 1979 autobiography, Straight Life. An exemplary version of LA Noir, it deserves a wider readership than one limited to the jazz community. Pepper was one of the finest alto players of the postwar period, though as a West Coaster he was undervalued. In 1961 he was convicted for possessing half an ounce of heroin and received a punitive two to ten years. Astonishingly, the authorities decided he should serve his sentence in San Quentin. His book includes a gruelling account of US prison life in the 1960s, written from the standpoint of a sensitive and intelligent musician but also someone whom half a lifetime of hustling had equipped with the brutal survival skills to cope in such an environment. Pepper's ability to function in and report back from such a harsh terrain – his temperamental mix of artist and hustler – brings to mind Orwell's remark that it took a man like the 'half-civilised' Kipling to produce a literary picture of British India 'because he was just coarse enough to be able to exist and keep his mouth shut in clubs and regimental messes'.
Frank Phillips
Reading
Vol. 24 No. 14 · 25 July 2002
From A. Mackenzie Peers
Frank Phillips (Letters, 27 June) shouldn't be surprised that Art Pepper was sentenced to serve his time for possessing heroin in San Quentin, considering the number of times he fell foul of the law and his knack for antagonising the district attorney. In any case, San Quentin did have one advantage for a jazz musician – its prison orchestra. As a youth in Vancouver I used to listen to their regular radio programme, the theme tune for which was the ballad 'Time on My Hands'.
A. Mackenzie Peers
Limeuil, France