by Paul Shaffer
“Lemme be honest with you, Paul. When I’m in the hotel room at night, I flip on the show only to catch a glimpse of Larry ‘Bud.’ I’ve never really keyed in on you. But tonight, man, I saw that you know what you’re doing. If I had realized this could have been something, I would have given more.”
I looked at my watch. It was 2 a.m. Bob Dylan may have crucified me on Friday, but here, on Sunday morning, my soul was resurrected.
Over time, I’ve lost track of Dylan’s movements in the spiritual continuum. I myself have remained consistent. I’m Jewish, I’m happy. I love the tradition. Like my favorite ball player, Sandy Koufax, I don’t play on Yom Kippur, the holiest time of the Jewish year, the sacred Day of Atonement. Some of my musician friends, though, have had challenges surrounding this issue.
My buddy, the great trumpeter Lew Soloff, was playing with Blood, Sweat and Tears in Europe. He was actually walking on stage when a fellow band member happened to say, “Hey, Lew, I thought you were Jewish. Don’t you know today’s Yom Kippur?” Lew hadn’t consulted his calendar and was caught in a quandary. It was one minute to showtime. He made a snap decision. “I’ll play,” he said, “but I won’t improvise.”
Another great trumpeter, Alan Rubin from Saturday Night Live and the Blues Brothers Band, once met me at the Fifth Avenue Synagogue on Yom Kippur eve—Kol Nidre night.
“Good yom tov, Alan,” I said, “you’re beaming.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” he said. “I just came from Caesar’s Retreat.”
“The massage parlor?” I asked.
“The whorehouse,” he said. “Man, I was on. I made love to that chick.”
With a voice that invoked the ages, the cantor sang, “Kol Nidre…v’esorei…”
Two years later, I was reading the New York Daily News when I noticed that Caesar’s Retreat had been closed down and was the object of a grand jury inquiry. Records had been seized. Alan Rubin called to say that his name had been listed among the patrons and he was due to testify. I wished him luck. After his big day, I called him.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“Well, Paul, they put me on the stand. The attorney was tough. He grilled me.”
“What’d he say?”
“‘Mr. Rubin, do you recall patronizing an establishment by the name of Caesar’s Retreat?’”
“‘Yes sir, I do,’ I said. ‘It was innocent fun.’”
“‘I understand that, Mr. Rubin, but why, sir, were you at this particular place at this particular time?’”
“‘Well, it was Yom Kippur eve, and I wanted to make sure I had something to atone for.’”
In my case, I have much to atone for. In order to understand that process fully, we must go back to the beginning.
Chapter 2
Two Jews’ Blues
Welcome to the Orthodox synagogue of my childhood, Shaarey Shomayim, a name that means “Gates of Heaven.” I’m glad you could make it for this Tuesday evening affair. It’ll be a short and simple recital given by two star bar mitzvah students who both happen to play the piano.
First up, Paul Shaffer.
Paul may be shy, but he’s clearly a prodigy. He plays his Mozart sonatina with clarity and precision.
Next up, Paul’s rival, Marvin Slobotsky. Paul expects Marvin to play a classical piece in the Mozartian mode. But Marvin surprises Paul. Marvin surprises everyone. Marvin breaks into “Jealousy,” a flashy number made popular by that irrepressible Cuban, Xavier Cugat. Marvin plays the piece with a confidence that dazzles. Hearing it, you envision some macho male dancer dragging his scantily clad partner across the floor in a daring Apache dance. Slobotsky captures this extreme melodrama and, under his nimble fingers, brings the story to life. His rendition of “Jealousy” is a tour de force. As the congregants cheer wildly, Paul can’t help but join them, even as he himself is consumed with jealousy.
Before leaving, Paul overhears his mother’s friend Yetti Helper whisper to her husband, Mendy, “That Marvin…he’s our own Liberace.”
For weeks Paul is resigned to the freezing-cold fact: He can never match Slobotsky.
But then comes a revelation. It comes, as do so many others, via the Ed Sullivan Show.
Paul and his folks are watching together as they do every Sunday night. Dad likes to point out the performers who are wearing good toupees and those who aren’t. On this particular night, Tony Bennett sings “I Left My Heart In San Francisco.”
“Rugsville!” exclaims Dad. “But it’s a good wig and a great singer.”
Next up—the piano playing duo of Ferrante & Teicher.
“Bad toupees,” says Dad, “and schmaltzy piano players.”
Dad’s right. Ferrante & Teicher are bizarre-looking in their matching horn-rimmed glasses and matching wigs. They play in a Hollywood-meets-the-classics mode, very Mantovani. Their calling card—“The Grand Twins of the Twin Grands”—is certainly schmaltzy. So is their opening number, a Viennese waltz that, played in their four-handed style, has Paul yawning. But their second selection catches Paul’s attention. It’s “Exodus,” the theme song from the movie of the same name. They infuse the composition with a kind of heroism that appeals to Paul and, even more importantly, will surely appeal to the members of Shaarey Shomayim. It’s schmaltz for sure, but good schmaltz. Moreover, Ferrante & Teicher’s interpretation is highly evocative. It paints a picture of the Promised Land.
Paul is determined to paint that picture himself. In the movie, Paul Newman, the handsomest Jew since the beginning of time, is a Jewish freedom fighter. Leon Uris, the guy who wrote the book, is America’s favorite Jewish novelist. In fact, Exodus is Jewish Hollywood to the max. Jews all over the world are embracing it. It doesn’t matter that two of its stars—Eva Marie Saint and Sal Mineo—are not of Paul’s spiritual persuasion; they’ve worked something out.
In short, Exodus is a great movie and “Exodus” is an equally great song. Paul has his vehicle.
Once the Sullivan show is over, Paul runs to the piano and begins to figure out “Exodus” by ear. It takes a while, but he masters the chords and Hebraic harmonies. He infuses the composition with the very heroism that fueled its creation. Paul views the theme as not merely the triumph of the Jewish people, but his own future triumph over Marvin Slobotsky.
Several weeks later, when the congregation is gathered for another musical evening, Paul is prepared. Marvin opens the recital with a repeat performance of “Jealousy.” Paul expected as much. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Marvin gives another dazzling performance.
Paul is thinking, okay, now it’s my turn.
Paul’s parents are sitting in the front row. Marvin Slobotsky is seated but a few feet from them. Paul feels his stare. Paul feels his glare. Fellow congregants occupy the remaining thirty-five or forty folding chairs.
Paul lifts his hands, attacks the keys, and goes to town. He has practiced this piece a thousand times and he owns it. It is his. He takes no prisoners, shows no mercy, puts into it every ounce of every emotion felt by every Jew since Father Abraham got the party started.
The result?
Tears streaming down his mother’s face.
A proud smile on his father’s face.
A hardened grimace on Marvin Slobotsky’s face.
A satisfied Cheshire-cat smile on Paul’s face.
Everyone standing and cheering.
And best of all, Yetti Helper’s words to his mother: “That Paul of yours…he’s our own George Gershwin.”
Chapter 3
B3
A month passed—a month, I confess, during which I felt a sense of superiority. After all, I had bested the best.
It was Wednesday afternoon and I had just completed my bar mitzvah lesson. I was leaving the classroom when I heard a startling sound coming from that same social hall where Marvin Slobotsky and I had locked horns. I heard an elongated note that approximated a human cry. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around, and went to find the source of the sound.
&n
bsp; Marvin Slobotsky was playing an instrument that I immediately recognized. It was the Hammond B3 electric organ that belonged to Miss Noni Cooper, a well-known figure in our town. I had first encountered Noni in the ballroom of the Royal Edward Hotel, an establishment frequented by the city’s professional class. The place had the look of England after the collapse of the empire. Every year that’s where my parents would take me, their only child, to celebrate New Year’s Day. It was tradition. Noni’s organ performance was also tradition, as was the presence of her poodle, Princess Anne, named, of course, for the daughter of our beloved monarch, Elizabeth II. The princess poodle would sleep soundly as Noni played waltzes by Strauss and dusty old pop tunes from long ago: “Come Back to Sorrento,” “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life,” “Beyond the Blue Horizon.” At a certain point Mr. John McCullough, a handsome gentleman in a blue holiday tux, would step up and offer his version of “Moon River.” I liked the sound of Noni’s Hammond B3, skating rink reverb and all. And I have to admit that John milked “Moon River” pretty good.
But Slobotsky wasn’t playing this Hammond B3; he was rocking it hard. In his hands, the two-keyboard organ sounded like an entire band, with sounds—deep moans and startling cries—that had an emotional punch that was very un-Noni.
“Paul, you’ve got a good ear,” said Marvin condescendingly. “How can I make the upper keyboard sound like the lower one?”
With that, I sat beside him and began to tinker along, adjusting stops and drawbars, playing a lick, learning as I was doing.
“Listen to this,” Marvin said. “Here’s a sound that works great for Del Shannon’s stuff.”
I’d never heard of Del Shannon, but when Marvin launched into “Runaway” I recognized the song from the radio. Together we figured out the instrument—how to operate the stops and wooden pedals—and while he played the top keyboard, I played the bottom. Hours later, we were still jamming hard.
That night I was late for dinner, and Dad wanted to know where I’d been.
“In synagogue,” I said.
“Doing what?”
“Rocking out on the Hammond B3.”
“Your mother cooked a hot meal that’s now cold, and you’re rocking out on an electric organ?”
“I love it,” I said. “The thing can almost talk.”
“Forget talk,” he said. “Eat! And don’t be late again.”
A couple of nights later, I was flipping through Dad’s LPs. Al Hibbler. Oscar Peterson. Sarah Vaughan. Billy Eckstine. Ray Charles.
I pulled out the Ray Charles album called Genius Plus Soul Equals Jazz.
I dropped the record on the turntable and put the needle on “I’ve Got News for You.” And there was that sound again. It was the Hammond B3 and Ray had it humming.
Naturally I immediately wanted a Hammond B3 of my own. In spite of their support of my music, my parents said this large, cumbersome, and expensive instrument was out of the question.
“But how am I ever going to learn it?” I asked.
My mother happened to have a friend with a Hammond. Her name was Yvonne Sherman. She was of the Christian persuasion, an upper-class lady with a house filled with antique mirrors, gold crosses, and fussy furniture.
Every time I went to Mrs. Sherman’s, she invited me to sit at her organ. My mom requested that I play “Satin Doll.” Dutifully, I did so. But when the Ellington ditty was over, I turned to the songs nearest and dearest to my own heart: “Any Day Now” by Chuck Jackson; “Happy Organ” by Dave “Baby” Cortez; the Four Seasons’ “Save It for Me”—with its lovely organ solo—and the Seasons’ “Candy Girl.”
I viewed the organ metaphorically. It represented the universe in its entirety. The various drawbars were built to create the series of harmonic overtones. Manipulate them correctly and create harmony. Manage them poorly and cause discord. Such is life.
The organ wasn’t there simply to be learned; it had to be understood. It was a mystery with many voices, many moods, many modes of expression.
“You’re really spending a lot of time on that instrument,” said Dad.
“I can’t stay away from it,” I explained.
“Nothing wrong with that, son. All the greats played the organ. Fats Waller. Count Basie. And of course Jimmy Smith.” I mentioned Ray Charles.
“No one plays it better than Ray,” added Dad. “Ray’s reason enough to keep playing the organ. Not that you’ll be running into Ray Charles anytime soon, but if you ever do, you’ll have something to show him.”
Chapter 4
Running into Ray Charles
I leap ahead some fifteen years.
November 1977. In a few weeks I’d be turning twenty-eight.
Through the grace of God, I’d made my exodus from Thunder Bay. (Further details to follow.) It was the second season of Saturday Night Live, the hottest, edgiest comedy show to hit TV in decades. The cast—Aykroyd, Belushi, Jane, Garrett, Gilda, Laraine, and Billy Murray—was all abuzz because Ray Charles was not only appearing as a musical guest, but hosting as well.
Interesting: Lorne Michaels’s original idea was to have Ray fill the musical slot only. When Ray heard the offer, he said, “That’s cool, but why can’t I be the host?” “There are a lot of lines to learn,” his manager told him, “and you won’t be able to read the cue cards.” “There are a lot of notes on the piano,” Ray told his manager, “but I’ve managed to memorize them. I think I can learn a few jokes.” Lorne agreed and flew Ray to New York for the gig.
Howard Shore was musical director and I was the piano player. I’d later enjoy a bigger role on the show, but during these early days I was your grateful and humble sideman. My humility was rewarded when Howard asked me if I would play Hammond B3 behind the first verse of Ray singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.” Would I!
Would Gilbert work with Sullivan?
Would Sammy sub for Sinatra?
Would Dean play straight for Jerry?
What a moment!
What a dream come true!
What incredible pressure!
What irony!
It was Ray, of course, whose blues-soaked approach to keyboards served as my model. I loved others: I loved Ray’s protégé Billy Preston, whose Sly Stone—produced album, The Wildest Organ in Town, I studied like the Bible; I loved Jimmy Smith, whose rendition of “The Cat” had all us would-be hipsters howling with delight; I loved the great Booker T. Jones of the MGs and the great Felix Cavaliere of the Rascals, two monster musicians whose licks I copped with great diligence. But Ray was different. Ray was the Genius.
Thus my motivation had never been keener. Nor had my nerves ever been more on edge. Our first encounter was the rehearsal onstage in 8H, the famous studio from which the show was broadcast. I arrived early to make certain the Hammond was up and running. The other band members, nearly as excited as I, filed in—our fearless leader Howard Shore, tuba player and baritone saxist Howard Johnson, and the rest. We waited a couple of minutes, chatting nervously about what it was going to be like to play with Ray. This was as up close and personal as it gets.
Led by his valet, Ray walked quickly to the stage. He was all business. He had with him members of his original small band from the 1950s, whose legendary status among musicians loomed nearly as large as Ray’s.
Ray was in charge. He wanted to run through the opening number, “I Can See Clearly Now,” perhaps his answer to his manager’s skepticism about his inability to host. Seconds after the band began to play, Ray stopped us and said to Howard Johnson, “You’re playing your tuba too high.”
We began again.
Ray stopped us again.
“Still too high,” Ray barked.
He snapped his head as he spoke, clapping his hands to stress his point. My performance anxiety, elevated to begin with, rose even higher when I saw how Ray dealt with my friend Howard. It took three tries before the Genius was finally pleased.
Next, my big moment. “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”
The ope
ning featured organ behind Ray’s vocal. That meant I’d have a chance to improvise. The thought was equally thrilling and terrifying.
Ray counted off. The band was off and running, but I wasn’t. I could hardly play, and when I did, the result was lame. Blues licks were my specialty—blues licks I had learned by studying Ray—but now, at this moment of truth, my blues licks sucked. I knew it. The band knew it. Ray knew it. Ray stopped the band.
“Organ!” Ray barked. “Play with some soul.”
My heart dropped to the floor. Dead silence among my bandmates. Time stopped. Then Howard Johnson, a great and valiant black man, spoke up in my defense. “He’s got it, Ray,” said Howard. “Let’s just start again.”
This time, in a split second, I reached far down into my soul, so far that I went all the way back to my dad’s Ray Charles albums. I found the riffs and I delivered them. The Genius didn’t smile, but he also didn’t stop the band to criticize me. When we finished the entire song, the Genius turned toward me and said, “Yeah, that’s more like it.”
It was nothing like the congregation of Shaarey Shomayim giving me a standing ovation after I played “Exodus.” It was better. Man, it was a whole lot better.
Chapter 5
With Your Kind Indulgence …
Let me introduce the beautiful couple that brought me into the world. I loved them both dearly.
How about it for my mother, everybody.
Mom was Shirley Eleanor Wood Shaffer, a native of Toronto and a gal of great dignity and class who dreamed of living in Paris’s 16th arrondissement or Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Mom was an antique collector. She was all about her delicate Crown Derby china, her love of Toulouse-Lautrec, and her fondness for a nice sipping sherry. She was an oil painter, a Bohemian du Maurier smoker, an exquisite host, and a doting mother.
Among my earliest memories is Mom at the piano. She had great style and poise; her touch was light; and when she played Gershwin and Chopin, I’d sit on the floor and lean my head against the piano leg, the sounds seeping into my little soul. At age six, she started me on piano lessons and I immediately began playing by ear. I worked out the black-notes-only William Tell Overture and was soon copying practically everything I heard on the radio. Once I started playing, Mom stopped. It was as though her work was done. She never touched the piano again.
