When I was growing up with my parents, brother, and two sisters in an apartment on Cooper Square in the East Village, my father, the saxophonist Archie Shepp, always worked late, going to bed at four or five in the morning even when he wasn’t performing. His “studio” was separated from our apartment by a creaky hallway. But in the dysfunctional design of tenement buildings, the bathtub was part of that unit, so we sometimes trooped through rehearsals wet and shivering, and I would go to bed listening to him playing with Roswell Rudd, Beaver Harris, and other musicians.