by Paul Shaffer
“Very fair.”
When lunch was over and we walked out of the hotel, I kissed my father and said, “Thanks for understanding, Dad.”
“I’m rooting for you, Paul.”
A year.
I had a year to make a living making music.
During my heroic missile base tour, one of my fellow entertainers was a young woman named Avril. She told me that when she got back to Toronto, she wanted to audition for Godspell, the theatrical musical. My girlfriend, Virginia, also wanted to try out. The composer, Stephen Schwartz, was personally listening to singers who hoped to get into the show. Both girls wanted my help; they wanted me to accompany them. I was happy to assist. But before I get to the part of my story where Shaffer meets Schwartz, I need to give you a glimpse into my life as a freelance musician in Toronto, desperate to make it. If not, a large pile of law books awaited me.
Toronto was the farthest point north on the southern chitlin’ circuit. It was a soul town with lots of soul music. Hookers were in abundance. Johns were in abundance. Music lovers, who included both hookers and johns, were in abundance. Musicians were in abundance. Musicians who played the Hammond B3 organ, the soul instrument du jour, were in demand. The pay was low, but the sound was right. I loved the sound, and I didn’t mind playing the raunchy joints. The raunch had flavor. Toronto had been favored by the presence of Jackie Mitoo, a well-known organist in reggae circles. Mitoo was the real deal, a brother from Kingston who put R&B through his fine Jamaican filter. His version of the Stylistics’ “Betcha by Golly Wow” was one of the great revelations of my young life. He played the melody from start to finish with few flourishes. Just a great sound. He sang through the organ. This was, of course, several million miles away from my experience with Munoz. But one didn’t cancel out the other. Both modes—the straight-ahead song and the far-out excursion—got me off.
Playing cover songs in cover bands suited me just fine, and my passion for that particular form of musical expression deepened. I was, after all, playing songs that I didn’t simply like but loved. In fact, it was in Toronto in the early seventies that I developed a credo that has come in handy when, at critical times in my life, confusion threatened to cancel clarity: “What I do best is simply play songs I love.”
To be in a funky bar band in a funky Toronto bar and play the Dells’ “Stay in My Corner” and “Oh, What a Night” or the Dramatics’ “Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get” and “In the Rain” was all I could ask for. And then to top it off with lovely topless dancers undulating right in front of my organ … well, these were stimulating times.
It was during these times that I first heard Wayne Cochran at the El Mocambo, a well-known Toronto rock club. As a kid in Thunder Bay, I was familiar with the Cochran legend, this singer from Florida known as the “white James Brown.” He was said to have two drummers and cotton candy hair piled to the sky. He had a number of regional hits. I had heard “Going Back to Miami.” (And later covered it with the Blues Brothers.)
The show was masterful. It opened with just a three-piece rhythm section—bass, guitar, and drums. No Wayne in sight. It was the bass player who killed me. He carved out a groove that could have made Richard Nixon boogaloo. He was the funkiest bass player I’d ever heard. (Later I’d learn he was the great Jaco Pastorius.) This groove kept grooving. The groove got groovier, and groovier, and so goddamn groovy that people were up and dancing while the horns came marching in from the back of the club. When they reached the stage it was horns up and out blasted a devastating version of Freddie Hubbard’s “Mr. Clean.” Then, on cue, a voice from heaven announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Wayne Cochran and the C. C. Riders!”
I was already on the floor before Wayne came out. When Wayne appeared, Wayne killed. Wayne killed without a voice. His voice was shot, but it didn’t matter. His soul was intact, and his soul made up for his voice. The pitch, the intonation, the enunciation—it all said one thing: I am a showman whose ability to perform overwhelms all liabilities. I will win you over with my soul. I will soul you to death. My soul will prevail.
Wayne’s show was such a smash that the minute he closed I ran to the phone to call Funky Ricky.
“Wayne’s as great as we imagined him to be,” I said. “Even greater.”
“I need every detail,” Ricky demanded. “Don’t leave out a fuckin’ thing.” I didn’t.
Which brings me to the first time I met David Letterman.
As this narrative continues, I’ll put this meeting into some personal and—forgive my sense of self-importance—historical context. For now, it’s enough to say that it was the early eighties, and I was being considered as the bandleader of Letterman’s new post—Johnny Carson late-night talk show on NBC.
When I was ushered in to see Dave, the most affable of men, he asked me about my musical ideas for the show. I thought back to my days playing the topless bars in Toronto and said, “I’m partial to R&B and think it would be great to interpret the vocals instrumentally.”
“Sounds good,” said Dave. “I’ve always seen myself as Wayne Cochran anyway.”
That was about the hippest thing I’d ever heard a talk-show host say.
Ten years earlier, in 1972, Avril and Virginia’s request to have me accompany them for Godspell did not seem to be a life-altering opportunity. But my friends tell me that I’m a helpful kind of fellow, and in this spirit I agreed to play. I worried that the deadline established by my dad was nearing. In these past eleven months, I had worked steadily at clubs and with Munoz, but I wasn’t really making a living. Something had to happen—and soon. I was only getting twenty dollars for this audition. But when it comes to music, I’ve always had the attitude that low-pay or no-pay, it’s always good to play.
When we arrived, we saw that the auditorium was bustling with young performers waiting their turn. The audition line was long. Avril was called early. I went to the upright piano on stage, and Avril took her place before the mic. She sang the hell out of “Bless the Lord,” a song from the show.
Virginia was next. Her number was Dusty Springfield’s “I Only Want to Be with You.”
From the dark void of the empty audience a voice rang out. “Very nice, young lady. Might I have a word with your piano player?”
I walked to the edge of the stage. A well-spoken man, also in his early twenties, approached me. He was well dressed and well mannered.
“I’m Stephen Schwartz,” he said.
“Paul Shaffer.”
“Paul, I like the way you play. You’re a rock pianist, aren’t you?”
“Try to be.”
“Well, you are. And to be honest with you”—here he brought his voice down to a whisper—“my audition pianist doesn’t quite get rock. He’s a typical theatrical pianist with a light touch. I need that percussive feel that you seem to have. He doesn’t understand that this is a rock musical and most of the aspiring singers are coming in with rock songs. How’s your general knowledge of rock songs?”
“Good,” I said. “Excellent.”
“That’s what I thought. Would you be willing to take his place and play for the rest of the auditions?”
“Of course.”
“Just give me a few minutes to dismiss him.”
As we all know, Lana Turner was discovered at Schwab’s drugstore in Hollywood. Billie Holiday in Harlem. Don Rickles was discovered in Miami Beach. Stephen Schwartz discovered me in Toronto. What exactly, though, did Schwartz discover?
A guy who could bang out rock tunes and knew a helluva lot of rock tunes to bang. So when the next singer wanted to sing “Roll Over, Beethoven,” I was right there with him. Didn’t need the music. And when the next gal sang “Respect,” I was down. When a guy wanted “Heart of Gold,” I gave him “Heart of Gold.”
Stephen Schwartz, who had only recently found fame with Godspell, had discovered, at the very least, my talent as an audition pianist.
Toward the end of the afternoon, after I had accompanied at least two dozen
auditioners, a skinny Jewish gal wearing floppy overalls came up to me and with an endearing lisp asked, “Do you know ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah’?”
“Sure,” I said.
Her hair was in pigtails and her smile impish and irresistibly sweet.
I got into the Disney spirit, improvised a quick introduction, and then watched the young woman command the stage with such childlike charm we all realized we were watching a star. She was absolutely adorable; she danced and sang with such obvious sincerity that, when she was through, everyone—even her competitors—burst out into applause. I myself stood up and applauded. This was Gilda Radner.
Of course Gilda made it into the show. And so did Avril. Alas, Virginia did not.
At the conclusion of the long process, Stephen Schwartz came up to me and said, “Good job. How would you like to put together a band and become musical director of the show?”
I was speechless. Awestruck. Delirious.
This was it! Good-bye, law school!
When I told my dad that I had, in fact, gone beyond the topless bars and funky clubs of Yonge Street and had landed a legitimate job in the legitimate theater doing a legitimate musical, Bernie Shaffer, much to his credit, was nothing but proud. He didn’t renege on his deal, and he didn’t warn me that the show might not last.
“That’s wonderful, Paul,” he said. “Your mother and I will be there opening night.”
The assignment, of course, represented an unexpected change. I had come to the Godspell auditions merely to make a few bucks. But I left with a whole new career direction. This wasn’t playing cover tunes on the Hammond B3. Nor was it playing far-out jazz with Tisziji Munoz. This was inserting myself into the cutting-edge trend of the day, rock musicals. That Godspell had a Christian theme mattered not, especially when I heard Jewish Victor Garber win the part of Jesus. He sang like an angel. I felt like an angel had led me to this great gig. This great gig led me to a new circle of friends. And that changed everything.
Chapter 14
“You’ve Seen These, Then?”
With those words, Andrea Martin, perhaps the funniest of all the funny people who appeared in the Toronto Godspell, lifted her blouse and exposed her breasts. Her breasts were perfect, her delivery priceless.
That scene did not unfold in the show itself. It unfolded in the parking lot after she and other members of the cast had dined on spaghetti and cheap wine. In those days, we couldn’t have cared less about the quality of the wine. We were more concerned with the quality of Andrea’s breasts, humor, and indomitable spirit. Like all of us, she was hell bent on making it, and this musical, that we discussed night and day, was the vehicle.
At the same audition that saw Gilda win the part, two other stars emerged. They grew up together in Hamilton, Ontario, where they both graduated from McMaster University.
The first guy was Marty Short, who sang a Sinatra-styled version of “My Funny Valentine” that brought down the house. He was bursting with talent—impish, wildly irreverent, wholly unpredictable, and fueled by more energy than a souped-up Ferrari. At the time, however, he was driving a beat-up Beetle and wearing a John Lennon—style cap.
The second guy was Eugene Levy, who sang “Aquarius,” but with a Perry Como cool. In fact, some time later, when Eugene started doing SCTV skits, he did a parody of “I Love the Night Life,” the high-octane disco ditty by Alicia Bridges, as if done by Como. He’d sing as he reclined on a sofa, his head on a pillow, nearly dozing off as he yawned the lyrics “I love the night life, I love to Bogey …”Marty was subtle as a sledgehammer; Eugene actually was subtle. Both were hilarious.
After sadly breaking up with Virginia, I began living with Mary Ann McDonald, another cast member. Marty and Eugene shared a house at 1063 Avenue Road. Their home became Comedy Central. We’d gather there after the show for postmortem. We’d meet there at week’s end for what Marty called “Friday Night Services”—and Marty isn’t even Jewish. It was a nonstop gag and improv fest. We’d do impromptu skits, playing each other, ruthlessly parodying our own shortcomings. We became polished shtickticians.
Never mind Aquarius, this was the age of Living Theater. Off-the-wall antics were all the rage. Even within the context of Godspell, a retelling of St. Matthew’s gospel, in between acts a cast member could come out and do unrelated and outrageous shtick. Marty, of course, was the king of outrageous shtick. Allow me to jump ahead some thirty years for an example of prime Short shtick.
The Janet Jackson One-Boob Super Bowl was the hottest story of the year. Marty was due to appear on Letterman. He phoned me and said, “Paul, I’ve been thinking about the Janet Jackson thing.”
“Yes, Marty,” I answered.
“Now, you’ve been with Dave for decades. You know him better than anyone. Do you think he’d mind if I came out wearing a pair of shorts?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“And after I sat down, if I allowed just one testicle to pop out, that would be okay?”
“Of course,” I said. “Dave would be delighted.”
When I think back to the Toronto of the seventies, it becomes clear that Marty Short was inadvertently my life coach. He changed my vision of not only what it meant to be funny, but to live funny. Culturally, he was the bridge between my parents’ culture and my own. For example, my parents loved Sinatra. So did Marty. But Marty, through an irony that both mimicked and adored the ring-a-ding-ding Sinatra style, made it okay for me, a rock ’n’ roll kid, to embrace the Sinatra aesthetic. Marty showed me that life could be lived out in comedy sketches. Life might be tragic; catastrophe might be looming; but if we turn our little daily disappointments into funny bits—with setups and punch lines—we can beat back the blues and die laughing. Nothing keeps Marty Short from making you laugh.
Meanwhile, in our little world of Canadian show biz, I was delighted when Gilda threw a surprise party for my twenty-third birthday and gave it a fifties theme because I was known, even then, as a guy who loved the oldies. Gilda wore a poodle skirt and chewed a fat wad of gum, Eugene came as a greaser, and Marty as a nerd with his pockets stuffed with Kleenex. “Why Kleenex?” I asked. “Because in the fifties,” he said, “everyone seemed to be carrying a lot of Kleenex.”
A little later, Marty appeared in a serious play in Hamilton called Fortune and Men’s Eyes. The story involved gay men in jail, which is why Gilda called it “Fortune and Men’s Thighs.” It was an arty drama with all the pretensions of the period.
Nonetheless, Eugene, Gilda, and I dutifully drove down for opening night. Marty had always spoken of Shakespeare’s, his favorite restaurant in Hamilton, and insisted we eat there afterward. As we drove by Shakespeare’s on the way to the theater, though, we saw that it was closed. When we arrived and took our seats, I saw that the actors were onstage and already in character. The atmosphere was solemn. After all, they were imprisoned. Marty was sitting on a bench center stage, assuming a deadly serious attitude. I marched down the aisle and approached him indignantly. “Marty!” I screamed. “Shakespeare’s is closed! Do you hear me?” His head went down as he fought back the laughter; but he couldn’t stop his lower body from shaking and soon lost control. There went the mood. Forget solemnity.
Back at Godspell, when Victor Garber left to shoot the movie version, Don Scardino came in from New York to take his place. Don actually moved into Victor’s apartment. “I’ve sublet Victor’s life,” Don liked to say. Don did well in the role but after a while moved on. Then Eugene, a Jew like Jesus, got the part. The problem, however, involved hair, a big topic at the time. They claimed Eugene’s chest was too hairy and insisted that he shave. Eugene said no. Chances are, Jesus himself was hairy as a bear. Besides, claimed Eugene, one has to maintain one’s sense of dignity. He would not shave. Fortunately, a compromise was forged, and Eugene, as savior of mankind, wore a tank top during matinees so as not to scare the kids. The audience accepted him and Eugene was a hit.
A quick out-of-chronology aside for a glimpse into Eugene’s humor.
Eugene and I were in California. I was staying in L.A. at the Continental Hyatt House, lovingly called the Riot House by the rock stars who helped destroy it. My room overlooked the glamorous city. At the time, Eugene was living in not-so-glamorous Pasadena, and I invited him over. As we stood on the balcony and perused the landscape of glittering lights, I said, “It’s Friday night. They’re having ‘Friday Night Services’ in Toronto. Let’s call the gang.” Once we got our friends on the phone, Eugene began describing the scene in loving detail, rubbing in the fact that they were in Canada while we were in Hollywood. He talked about how Hollywood was overrun with stars. Then he’d say, “Look who just walked in the room. Why, it’s Dick York.” Dick York was one of the stars of Bewitched. Then Eugene added, “I can’t believe it, it’s Dick Sargent. Hey, you replaced Dick York on Bewitched. What are the odds?” But Eugene wasn’t finished yet. “Can this really be happening?” he said. “I’m looking straight into the eyes of Don DeFore.” DeFore played Thorny Thornberry, the ever-jovial neighbor on Ozzie and Harriet.
In the post—Ozzie and Harriet era of hippies and Hair, the producers of Godspell had to make sure the show didn’t lose its edge. Once a choreographer/director was sent up from New York to whip us into shape. He assumed the demeanor of a guru. This, of course, was the era of gurus. He’d meditate; he’d medicate; he’d pontificate; he’d procrastinate; he’d speak of nuanced staging changes and subtle variations in delivering lines. He wore the robes of an ancient teacher. We were all impressed. As it turned out, though, the gentleman was using his guru figure shtick for a singular purpose: to get laid.
“Am I a guru figure?” I asked Eugene Levy.
“No,” said Eugene, “you’re more of a Jack Carter figure.”
“Ah.”
I’m not sure whether the guru figure was successful, but the show was successful enough to run for well over a year.
