We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives

by Paul Shaffer

  Chapter 15

  “Where Are We Now?” …

  … I ask the cabdriver.

  “New York City, where the hell do you think we are?”

  I’ve just flown into LaGuardia Airport. At 6 a.m. I caught the first morning flight from Toronto. Now it’s 8 a.m. and the yellow cab, with me in the back gawking like a gringo, emerges from a tunnel and starts weaving its way through the canyons of steel.

  I’m beside myself with excitement. I’m overcaffeinated and overtired. Last night I played Godspell, just as I’ve played it for the past eleven months, eight shows a week with four on the weekend. The band consists of only four members—myself and a bassist, drummer, and guitarist. Because Schwartz’s score is so keyboard based, the weight is on me to bang it out and keep it moving. I have tremendous love for the show. I love the songs and the spirit and the fact that it allows me to demonstrate my technical prowess. I have it down cold and never tire of performing it.

  (Even today, thirty-seven years later, whenever Marty Short and I get together, I go to the piano, he stands behind me, and, for the next hour, we perform every single song in that blessed show. When our wives put us away in the old-age home, Marty and I will be performing Godspell there on a nightly basis.)

  The show rekindles my energy. Last night, for example, after the curtain went down, I ran to a late-night gig with Munoz in Yorkville. And if that weren’t enough, at 2 a.m. I hooked up with Lenny Breau, the remarkable jazz guitarist, for an after-hours jam. I didn’t play with Tisziji or Lenny for money, but because my soul craved their inspiration. My body craved sleep, but after barely an hour of shut-eye, it had to head for the airport. Stephen Schwartz had sent me a ticket for a quick trip to New York City so I could play piano on the recording session for the sound track of the Godspell movie.

  Nothing this big has ever happened to me before. This is not only my first trip to New York, it will also be my first time in a recording studio.

  “This is my first time here,” I tell the cabbie.

  “No kidding,” he replies.

  He turns up his radio. “Walking in the Rain with the One I Love” comes on. This is Barry White’s girl-group masterpiece with Love Unlimited. The soaring strings seem to contain all the romantic adventure of the city that awaits me. The song becomes the sound track to my trip.

  Twenty minutes later, I notice that this cab ride is taking an awfully long time. It doesn’t occur to me that the cabbie has taken me for a mark.

  “Where are we now?” I ask.

  “Spanish Harlem.”

  “Spanish Harlem!”

  I look out the window and see my first brownstone. I think of the lyrics about that red rose up in Spanish Harlem—it is a special one, it’s never seen the sun. I see that beneath the brownstone there are steps leading down to a basement apartment. This architectural configuration thrills me. It’s been in every New York detective show I’ve ever seen. I imagine that this is the very apartment that houses the rose. She reclines on a bed of cool cotton sheets and wears a sweet fragrance that I can detect, even in this passing cab.

  “Where are we now?” I ask.

  “The Bronx.”

  The Bronx! I crane my neck to get a glimpse of the roofs. I hear the Drifters telling me that on the roof’s the only place they know where you just have to wish to make it so.

  Fifteen minutes later, I ask, “Where are we now?”

  “Park Avenue.”

  Park Avenue! There’s the Waldorf Astoria! I remember hearing stories about Cole Porter living in the Waldorf Towers and composing “Down in the Depths of the 90th Floor” on the grand piano of his penthouse suite.

  The cab keeps moving until I see that the neon lights are bright and feel the magic in the air. I don’t have to ask where we are. We’re boogalooing down Broadway! My heart is hammering. We stop at a red light and I glimpse the address: 1619 Broadway. Dear God, 1619 Broadway is the Brill Building, the place where virtually every great song of my childhood was written. I want to jump out of the cab and run into the building, looking for Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, Doc Pomus, and Morty Shuman. “Doc!” I want to shout, “I’m here.” “Morty!” I want to scream, “I’ve made it to New York!”

  By the time we pull up to Bill’s Rehearsal Studio in mid-town, the cab tab is fifty dollars, a fortune for me. I don’t care. I don’t regret having been taken for a ride—not when it’s been the ride of my life. As I grab my bags, “Walking in the Rain with the One I Love” comes on the cab’s radio again.

  Inside, the first cat I see unpacking his gear is Ricky “Bongo Boy” Shutter, whose big drums were the defining sound of the Godspell cast album.

  “We’ve heard of you, Paul Shaffer,” he says. “Schwartz says that you’re the guy who’s tearing it up in Toronto.”

  Can I be hearing right? Has an authentic New York City musician actually heard of me?

  Stephen comes in and greets me warmly. Then it’s down to work. Because I’ve played the show hundreds of times, I am filled with confidence. The rehearsal goes well.

  Lunch break.

  Walking out of the studio with the guys, I look across the street and see the Cheetah, a famous club advertising upcoming appearances by Eddie Palmieri, Machito, and Tito Puente. Suddenly the city is pulsating with the baion beat of the Drifters singing “There Goes My Baby.”

  We eat at Thanos, a Greek restaurant, where I immediately notice the black-and-white signed celebrity photographs on the wall. My parents have told me that the Stage Deli has such photos, but now I ask myself: Are there so many stars in New York City that every single restaurant has its very own collection of signed celeb pictures?

  I just can’t stop staring. I look up and see Pia Zadora. Next to Pia is Gwen Verdon. Next to Gwen is Jerry Orbach. (A lifetime later, I will be the toastmaster at a Richard Belzer roast with Orbach on the dais. “Nice teeth, Jerry,” I’ll say. “But you know, these days they can actually make ’em look like real teeth.”) Next to Jerry is Stubby Kaye. (My dad loved him in Guys and Dolls.) Next to Stubby is Pat Henry. (My dad told me that when Pat opened for Sinatra with his stand-up routine, he’d put an alarm clock on a stool and say, “I’m setting it for twenty minutes. That’s all the time Frank gives me.”) Next to Stubby are the Platters, the doo-wop masters who sang “With This Ring,” “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” and “The Great Pretender.”

  When the food arrives, I’m too excited to eat.

  After another three hours of rehearsal, Schwartz says, “Paul, I’ve arranged for you to use our producers’ office tonight. There’s a piano there where you can practice as long as you like.” He’s referring to my need to rehearse a long section where I’m to play fast-paced silent-movie-style piano.

  Still going strong, I take a cab to the City Squire Hotel, where I check in, change, shower, and head out to the producers’ office. It’s at 1650 Broadway, the other legendary building where the great tunesmiths worked. I recall that 1650 was the address of Aldon Music, the publishing firm owned by Don Kirshner, the music mogul in whose tiny cubicles Carole King and Gerry Goffin, Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, Neil Sedaka and Howie Greenfield all toiled, creating the sound track of my childhood. I walk down the hallowed hallways as if I’m in a cathedral. I find the producers’ office, sit at an in-tune baby grand, and practice till midnight.

  On the way back to the hotel, I stop at a newsstand and buy the Village Voice, where I see that the Ronettes will be appearing tomorrow night at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Unbelievable! I’ll be there.

  Sometime around 1 a.m. I fall asleep, arpeggios rising and falling in my head.

  Next morning I look at the slip of paper with the address of the recording studio. It says, “A&R 799” with the address “799 Seventh Avenue.” I hail a cab, get in, and announce my destination, bristling with excitement. The cabdriver nods, drives a half block, and stops. He points back to a building with the huge number “799” looming over the door. Without my knowing it, Stephen had booked me into
a hotel right across the street from the studio. I give the cabbie a buck and get out, feeling like a schmuck.

  The studio is cavernous. This is the very room where Elton John cut his live album 11-17-70. It is therefore sacred ground. I look around and see two hot-line phones on the wall. The first goes directly to Wolf’s Deli, where hot pastramis and corned beefs can be ordered any hour of the night or day; the second direct line goes to Radio Registry, the premier booking service for New York studio musicians. In a few years I will be a Radio Registry subscriber. My life will revolve around Radio Registry. For now, it is enough to know that I am in a land where such a service exists.

  The session goes well. On some numbers, Stephen Schwartz is on one keyboard while I’m on another. We match our playing to images on a giant theater-sized movie screen. If you screw up, no problem. Stop the tape, go back, “punch in,” and do it again. I have never experienced anything like this before.

  Lunch is at a coffee shop around the corner. Yet even in this, the most inconspicuous of eateries, there are fabulous celeb photos on the walls. There is George Maharis, who, of course, shot to fame on Route 66. There is also a photo of a smiling Jack Paar with his handwritten salutation, “Harry, no one does ham and eggs better. I kid you not. Jack.”

  (Jump ahead two decades: I am married to the sainted Cathy. We are living in the burbs outside New York City. Victoria, our first child, is an infant. Paar and his wife Miriam live nearby. We strike up a friendship. Marty Short is coming to town and must meet Paar. I have a backyard barbecue and, before the Paars arrive, Marty teaches me Paar’s theme song from The Tonight Show. During the party, Paar puts Victoria on his lap and interviews her in his inimitable fashion. “How do you like your formula, sweetheart?” he asks. “Is this your preferred brand or do you have other favorites?” “Jack,” I say, “tell Victoria, ‘I kid you not.’” “Victoria,” says Paar, “‘I kid you not.’” I’m thrilled.)

  Later in the afternoon Jack speaks about his famous feud with Ed Sullivan over guest star fees. Jack explains, “The only thing that reconciled us was Ed’s ability to secure tickets for my daughter Randy to see the Beatles.” Marty and I know this story but act as though we’re hearing it for the first time. At the end of the evening, just as Jack and Miriam are leaving, I go to the piano and play his theme song. The music stops Jack in his tracks. He tries to speak but can’t. I see tears in his eyes. I kid you not.

  At the end of the sound track recording session for Godspell, Stephen is satisfied. I’ve given him what he’s wanted. I’ve passed another test. Some of the guys are going out for drinks and invite me along. I beg off, hurry outside, and grab a cab for the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Time is tight, and I desperately want to be there for the first song. Will they open with “Be My Baby” or “Walking in the Rain”? I tell the driver I’ll give him an especially generous tip if he gets me there in time. He manages to dance through the traffic, zip over the Brooklyn Bridge, and arrive five minutes before the show’s set to start. I tip him extravagantly. I run up to the box office, but the box office is closed. I misread the ad in the Voice. The Ronettes won’t be here till next week. Next week I’m back in Toronto, where I never stop daydreaming of New York.

  Portrait of the pianist as a young man.

  Bernard and Shirley Shaffer. I am nothing but the sum of their parts.

  Paul, Marty, and Eugene—Three Canadian Musketeers.

  Don Kirshner to Paul: “Forget about contracts.”

  Greg and Paul—torn from the pages of Tiger Beat.

  Another Saturday night: the original SNL band. Top row, from left: Lou Del Gatto, Cheryl Hardwick, Howard Shore. Middle row, from left: Eliot Randall, Burt Jones, PS, Bob Cranshaw, Daoud Shawr. First row, from left: Lou Marini, Mauricio Smith, Alan Rubin, Howard Johnson, Tom Malone.

  Paul and Gilda.

  Belushi and Paul—Belushi as a Stones security guard, Shaffer as Kirshner; from an SNL sketch that never aired. (With Jane Curtin and Bill Murray, faces turned, at left.)

  Paul, Jerry Lewis, and Belz in Vegas.

  From left: Sid McGinnis, Steve Jordan, PS, Eric Clapton, Will Lee. “Eric,” I said, “I have the pressure of the time.”

  Fats, Paul, Ray, and Jerry Lee—”Fats and Friends,” New Orleans.

  Ahmet, Yoko, Jann, Suzan Evans, and Paul at the opening of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, September 2 1995.

  Paul and Phil Spector go back to Mono.

  “Nice tie, Bob.”

  “Steveland, don’t let the Olympiads become an illusion.” (At left: B. B. King.)

  Aykroyd—dancin’, dancin’, dancin’, he’s a dancin’ machine!

  Iraq—Biff, Dave, and Paul. Note the crossed sabers; note my terrified smile.

  Paul Shaffer and the CBS Orchestra, the best band in the land. From left: Al Chez, Anton Fig, Felicia Collins, Will Lee, Tom “Bones” Malone, Sid McGinnis, Bruce Kapler.

  The enchanting Cathy.

  Family is everything. Paul, Will, Cathy, and Victoria.

  I can’t forget the final words spoken to me by Schwartz before I headed out of the studio after that long day of recording:

  “Paul,” he said. “One way or another, I’ll find a way to bring you here. You belong in New York. This is your town.”

  But how long would I have to wait? How would I ever find the patience? And would Schwartz really make good on his promise? Or had he made this same promise to dozens of musicians and then forgotten all about them?

  How was I to know?

  And in the meantime, how could I do anything but scheme, plot, and pray my way back to the big city where people never slept and the music never stopped?

  Chapter 16

  Blame Canada

  Why Canada?

  Why are so many brilliant comics Canadian? What are the subtle reasons for this phenomenon? My suggestion is this:

  Canada is cold as hell. That means we stay inside and watch Canadian television. Watching Canadian television means watching the proceedings of the Canadian Parliament. Watching the Canadian Parliament means hearing the right honorable gentleman from Nova Scotia arguing about fishing rights. Later in the evening you’ll be entertained by The Plouffe Family, in which the dad, Théophile Plouffe, a former provincial cycling champion, must come to terms with being a plumber.

  Watching Canadian television makes sane children crazy. The only alternative, of course, is American television. So if you take the factor of the freezing cold that keeps us inside and combine it with the less than thrilling nature of Canadian TV, you wind up with a nation hungry for truly funny comedy. Thus American comedy, no matter how goofy, is embraced wholeheartedly. We watch it, we study it, and then we watch it again.

  There is, of course, the larger issue of Canadian culture. We have a British sensibility. Yet the paradox is this: that sensibility is not British enough to provide the chic urbanity of, say, London; yet it is British enough to cast a pall of boredom over our great nation. Far be it from me, however, to cast Canada in anything but a positive light. On a clear night in Thunder Bay, to venture outside and view the northernmost mountains of the Canadian Shield in all their breathtaking beauty—the rugged birch, the towering evergreens—is indeed an aesthetic experience of the highest order. If you like that kind of thing.

  After experiencing the subzero evening, however, many of us ran back indoors and turned on the tube. That’s where we escaped a culture and climate that chilled our blood and froze our spirit. It is for this reason that we not only became connoisseurs of American comedy, we actually invaded the United States, becoming participants—and in some cases innovators—in the high (or, depending upon your point of view, low) comedic art practiced by our neighbors to the south.

  With your kind indulgence, I’d now like to offer something I call the Shafferian Theory of Selling Back Your Own Shit.

  I came to the theory through music. In the sixties, England sold America’s music back to America. Take the Rolling Stones—they loved American blues
, absorbed American blues, repackaged American blues, and sold it back to America. Americans called it the British Invasion. But if it was an invasion, Britain was using musical weapons forged in the U.S.A.

  In similar fashion, Canada sold American comedy back to America in repackaged form. Just as the English learned how to play blues from America, the Canadians learned how to be funny from America. Thus the Shafferian Theory.

  When Canadian comedy careerists landed on U.S. soil, they had an edge. Many had toiled in the field of television production based on the English template. The CBC, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, was modeled on the BBC, our British counterpart that saw the producer/director as a single job function. Put simply, you learned to do it all. So when Canadian pros like Chris Bearde and Alan Blye landed in Hollywood, they were already whiz kids who were able to take over and run shows like The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour. Other Canadians were equally active: Frank Peppiatt with Hee Haw and Dwight Hemion with Steve Allen’s Tonight Show. Later, Lorne Michaels, a Toronto-born graduate of the CBC’s rigorous boot camp, would make the biggest mark of all.

  The Sell-Back-Your-Own-Shit Theory applies to performers as well as to producers/directors. When Second City, the famed improvisational comedy group from Chicago, opened its Canadian branch in Toronto in 1973, at the very same time we were knee deep in Godspell, they sent up two comedians, Brian Doyle-Murray and Joe Flaherty. Their job was to recruit and train. Second City, of course, was renowned. We knew their alumni list. They had trained, among others, Alan Arkin, Avery Schreiber, Joan Rivers, David Steinberg, and Robert Klein. Naturally Brian and Joe picked up the buzz surrounding Godspell. When Brian and I became fast friends, he was quick to tell me about his brother Billy back in Chicago, whom he said had fashioned the funniest takeoff on Allen and Rossi in the history of takeoffs. He also mentioned another Chicagoan named Belushi who was tearing it up with Lemmings, the National Lampoon musical in New York.