by Paul Shaffer
Then here come Danny and John. John does a couple of cartwheels before taking a key out of his pocket and unlocking the handcuffs linking Danny’s wrist to a briefcase. Inside are Danny’s harmonicas. And from there, we’re off and running. The crowd goes crazy. As Steve Martin’s opening act, we almost outdo Steve. We’re a bona fide sensation. Even the sainted Cathy Vasapoli, who has come to L.A. to hear us, is impressed.
“I love Linda Ronstadt and country music best,” she says, “but you might really have something here, Paul.”
The week is a blur of press conferences and interviews. Because of the heat from Animal House, Belushi has rocketed to outer space. His movie is a smash; his band is a smash. Danny is thrilled for his best friend. I’m thrilled. Brillstein is talking about a Blues Brothers movie deal. The Blues Brothers’ album comes out. It’s called Briefcase Full of Blues because Belushi, hearing my Elton John impression on the National Lampoon Goodbye Pop album, thinks I was singing “You got an English tailored suit and a briefcase full of blues” when, in fact, I was singing “briefcase full of loot.” No matter, on the strength of the hit single “Soul Man”—thank you, Steve Cropper; thank you, Duck Dunn—the album goes multi-platinum and starts making lots of loot. Any way you look at it, what once began as a comedy routine in bee costumes has turned into a show-biz phenomenon.
Before I continue the Blues Brothers saga, a quick word about the ethnomusicology of the matter. Blues purists started complaining we weren’t playing pure blues. Cultural critics started carping on us as white boys ripping off black sounds. Some said Aykroyd and Belushi were inauthentic in their roles as bluesmen. Well, here was my attitude:
We were a tribute band. We played the music with unrestrained joy and sincerity. We loved the music. John wasn’t a great singer—and he knew it. John was a good singer. Danny was a good harp player. They revered blues and R&B and, most importantly, through their comic genius, helped keep this stuff alive. The fact that, among others, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and James Brown were only too happy to appear in the Blues Brothers movie testifies to the musical value of the project. Referring to Danny and John, Ray himself told me, “Those are some funny motherfuckers, and they’re helping cats like me get work. God bless ’em.” Amen, Brother Ray.
Between my work on SNL and as musical director of the Blues Brothers, I was flying high—only to be shot down in a way that gave me, usually the happiest of piano players, a bad case of the blues.
Chapter 26
Divided Soul
I loved Belushi and wanted to help him.
I loved Gilda and wanted to help her.
I had a divided soul.
The Blues Brothers was about to be turned into a movie. In between creating SNL skits, Danny was writing a movie for Jake and Elwood. Elwood was named in honor of the man Danny and I considered the most boring personality ever to appear on Canadian television, Elwood Glover. Danny, knee deep in creating a Blues Brothers mythology, once came out of his office to ask a question.
“What’s the most dramatic Catholic imagery imaginable?” he asked.
“The stigmata,” I said.
Thus Sister Mother Stigmata became the nun in the film.
As the script started shaping up, it became clear that the band would play an important part. Reassembling the band would, in fact, provide the spine of the story. Danny wrote a scene for me where, appropriately enough, I was playing piano in a lounge in Chicago. The scene would climax with me, Danny, and John performing the Buckinghams’ “Kind of a Drag.” I looked forward to being in a big Hollywood movie.
Then, on the heels of the success of the Blues Brothers record, Gilda got her own record deal. She approached me to write songs with her and coproduce the album with Bob Tischler. Bob was producer of the National Lampoon Radio Hour. He and I had also worked on the live Blues Brothers record.
Figuring I could successfully shuffle among SNL, the Blues Brothers film, and Gilda, I agreed. I certainly had the energy. Plus, I’d known Gilda since our Godspell days and considered her the greatest female comic since Lucy. Even more important, she was a dear, dear friend.
The Gilda project began. Michael O’Donoghue wrote the hysterical “Let’s Talk Dirty to the Animals.” Gilda and I wrote, among others, “I Love to be Unhappy” and “Honey, Touch Me with My Clothes On,” a look back at those days when extended foreplay was still the number-one indoor sport.
Meanwhile, when Belushi heard about the Gilda record, he pulled me and Tischler aside, whispering, “Don’t do it. Just rest up for the movie. You guys are going to be coproducing the sound track of the film, and Gilda’s going to be a distraction.”
No doubt, John loved Gilda and Gilda loved John, but intense competition exists even among the most loving of comics. For all his sweet-hearted ways, Belushi was a killer competitor.
“Sorry, John,” I said. “I gotta help Gilda. But I’ll be there for you. Count on it.”
What I didn’t count on were the obstacles facing me on Gilda’s record. We cut it live in a studio with an audience. It was great, but needed heavy postproduction work, especially the music. Yet the more we worked on it, the worse it got. Meanwhile, Lorne Michaels, who was exec producing, wanted to hear it. The record wasn’t ready, but nonetheless I had to fly to Lorne’s house in Amagansett, Long Island. Gilda was there, and she and Lorne immediately heard that the album wasn’t there yet. But I was out of time. I had to be in Chicago three days later to start working with Belushi and Danny on the film.
I was caught in between Gilda and Belushi.
Gilda smiled at me with those sweet eyes of hers. “Come on, Paul,” she said. “I really need you on this.”
I thought back to the band. It was a blast. The band was the bomb. But the experience had not been entirely positive. While John loved to heap praise on Duck and Steve and Matt, he ignored me, which was tough on my ego. Often he “forgot” to introduce me to the audience, and that was even tougher. He seldom used my title, “Musical Director.” That was the toughest. Even though he gave me that job, he didn’t think the audience needed to know that a rock band had a musical director. After all, the Stones didn’t have a musical director; neither did Rod Stewart.
Meanwhile, Gilda had been nothing but wonderful to me throughout our long and warm friendship.
“Okay,” I told her and Lorne, “I’ll do it.”
“Great,” said Lorne. “I’ll call Bernie and tell him.”
Bernie Brillstein managed not only Gilda and Lorne, but John as well.
As soon as I got back to the city, I called my lawyer.
“I just pulled out of the Blues Brothers movie,” I told him.
“You can’t, Paul,” he said. “I just did the deal.”
“Well, undo it. I can’t leave Gilda with a half-completed record. I gotta help her out.”
“Why not do both? You go to Chicago for a week while Bob Tischler works with Gilda. Then the week after, you come back and work with Gilda while Bob goes to Chicago.”
“Think that will work?” I asked.
“I know it will.”
“Okay,” I said. “Call Bernie.”
Five minutes later, my lawyer was back on the phone. “Bernie said it’s too late. You’ve already been replaced. Belushi told Bernie, ‘Paul is no longer a Blues Brother. He’ll never be a Blues Brother again.’”
The Blues Brothers went on and did the movie without me. I was crushed. The band I loved belonged to somebody else.
Meanwhile, things got worse. When Lorne played the record for my friend Jerry Wexler, the legendary producer, Wex said, “Hey, you’re about to do Gilda Live! on Broadway anyway. Just record the fuckin’ show and forget these tracks.”
The tracks were forgotten. The tracks were shelved. Lorne produced Gilda Live! as a limited run at the Winter Garden Theater. I ran back and forth from the pit band to the stage, where I played numerous parts, including superschlep Arnie Schneckman to Gilda’s supernerd Lisa Lupner. The highlight was Gilda doi
ng the “Judy Miller Show” where, as a little girl, she’s literally bouncing off the walls.
At one point Gilda said to Lorne, “Paul’s great in the show, but he seems so sad.”
“That’s because Paul used to be in the Blues Brothers band,” Lorne replied. “Now he’s in the Judy Miller Show.”
No matter, the crowds were large and enthusiastic. Lorne was able to secure a film deal for Gilda Live! and I had the pleasure of working for director Mike Nichols. Mike graciously offered me a slot in his actor’s workshop in Connecticut. I toyed with the idea, but it would have meant missing the fifth season of SNL. That was the season that began without Danny, John, and the musicians in the Blues Brothers band. Their movie had gone overtime, and they couldn’t get back to New York. Meanwhile, Howard Shore put together a new SNL band that included soul saxist David Sanborn. Then, a big surprise:
It happened when I was out in Los Angeles for the weekend. I was at the Sunset Marquis Hotel, sunbathing on a Saturday afternoon, when Danny Aykroyd spotted me. He could not have been nicer. “Duck Dunn’s having a barbecue for the band tomorrow,” he said. “You’ve got to come.”
“I’d love that,” I said.
Danny hastened to add, “Belushi will be there.”
I hesitated for an instant. Danny read my mind and said, “John will be glad to see you, man.”
John was. He embraced me as soon as I arrived. And the first thing he wanted to do was to play me the sound track from the movie—the sound track, of course, I had had nothing to do with. As it played, the band did their choreography with John and Danny fronting. They were all so proud of the steps they had learned and wanted my approval. I was touched, but also conflicted and brokenhearted. After all, this was my band, but a band from which I was now excluded. The whole thing was bittersweet.
A few weeks later, though, the sweet overwhelmed the bitter when John asked me to return as musical director of the Blues Brothers for the big upcoming tour. Naturally I was happy to do so. Who doesn’t want to be a Blues Brother?
We toured eight or nine cities and traveled on a twin-engine prop plane provided by Aspen Airlines. The plane was shaky, making all of us mindful of the late greats—Buddy Holly, Big Bopper, and Richie Valens. As we bounced through a ferocious lightning storm between Detroit and Memphis, I suggested that we write a song and give the publishing to our families. “If we crash,” I said, “at least we’ll leave behind an annuity for our loved ones.” Naturally the song was called “Rock Tragedy,” and we took turns writing verses:
Rock Tragedy
All they had to do was spend a couple more G’s Rock Tragedy
Involving several members of the MG’s
Our bassist, Duck Dunn, who of course had been one of the MG’s, contributed these lyrics:
Rock Tragedy
Insurance policies made out to Bernie Brillstein Rock Tragedy
My man, he cleaned up good, but we got creamed
The tour had some rough spots. In Memphis, home of Booker T. and the MG’s and Stax Records, our concert was attended by a crowd that was all white except for David Porter of the great Isaac Hayes/David Porter writing team. To add insult to injury, we didn’t come close to selling out the venue.
The next day, we all went to the hotel pool to chill. Our group included two integrated couples. When the other guests saw a black man with a white woman and a white man with a black woman, they cleared the pool and went up to their rooms. We all got a bad case of the Memphis Blues.
I thought back to happier times with Belushi. One of those times involved an SNL skit in which—forgive my hubris—a certain semi-modest piano player made television history.
I was in a skit playing one of the “Minstrels of New Castle;” it was a medieval dramatization of a famous underground tape of a Troggs rehearsal. The Troggs were the group that my band had opened for back in Thunder Bay. The tape revealed them unsuccessfully trying to explain a simple beat to their drummer. The problem was that their only means of musical communication was to say “fuckin’” this and “fuckin’” that, as in “You had the fuckin’ beat. Now you’ve fuckin’ lost it.” The SNL writers put us in old English costumes and had us re-create the scene. As the bandleader, I played recorder. James Taylor was on mandolin and Bill Murray was the hapless drummer. In place of fuckin’, TV standards required that we say floggin’.
I began by berating Bill. “It’s so floggin’ simple,” I said. “We’re in floggin’ Gaunt Manor, floggin’ Elizabeth of Gaunt is gonna come through the floggin’ door any minute, listen to us play this floggin’ song, and decide if she’ll be our floggin’ patron. Meanwhile, you can’t play four floggin’ notes.”
Before the skit began, writer Al Franken told me, “That floggin’ thing is hysterical. Put in as many floggin’s as you like.”
So I piled it on. When Bill messed up the rhythm again, I said, “Floggin’ listen to me for a floggin’ minute. You just gotta floggin’ pay attention.”
I was deep into the character, brimming with confidence, when I said to Bill, “You threw the fuckin’ thing off.”
Oh fuck.
I realized what I did, but there was no going back. This was live. The skit went on. Belushi came out in drag, playing the part of Eleanor of Gaunt. John was anything but gaunt in the role. He was humongous. He took over Bill’s drum spot and had the audience howling.
When the show was over, I saw Lorne and said, “I fucked up.”
“You should have flogged up,” he said.
“Sorry.” I cringed.
“You just broke down the last barrier. Anyway, no one noticed.”
Laraine Newman, who had also been in the sketch, added, “Thank you, Paul, for making television history.”
Chapter 27
King of Hawaiian Entertainment
In late July, 1981, Cathy and I took a vacation to Hawaii. On our second day there, I almost lost my life in a car crash. I know, though, that there must be a God in heaven. Why? Because on our first day I got to see Don Ho.
Before I get to the scary part of the story, let me start with Mr. Ho.
I’ve always been intrigued by the “King of Hawaiian Entertainment.” When Cathy and I took our seats in the beachside venue on Waikiki Beach and I looked up to see Don seated in his great wicker chair, I was filled with happiness. It didn’t matter that the summer heat was sweltering. I loved how his Hammond home organ was covered with drawings of tiny bubbles rising from a champagne glass. “Tiny Bubbles” was Don’s one big hit. As he sang it, I recalled the days when he had appeared on Johnny Carson or Ed Sullivan. His voice was soft and laconic. Ho was the lounge singer’s lounge singer, the ultimate schmaltzmeister. This guy was Dean Martin on Valium.
With the moon shining above his shoulder, Don looked out over the audience of admiring women. He had the visage of an aging prince with an aged Prince Valiant haircut. His voice had seen better days, but we didn’t care. He was Don Ho, and that was all we needed. That’s all he needed. After singing the first couple of lines of any given song, he didn’t even bother to sing the rest. He didn’t have to. A handsome young male background singer would take over where he left off. Don’s message was Hey, I’m Don Ho; I don’t need to do an entire song. I’m so laid back I can’t even be bothered singing a whole song.
Every song was basically the same. It was “My Hawaiian Home” over and over again.
I didn’t mind. I wanted every song to sound the same. I wanted to be lulled off to never-never land by this tranquilizing mood music. It gave me pause to reflect on my life. Maybe I didn’t want to go back to New York. Maybe New York was too raw, too real, too crazy. I had heard that Jim Nabors had a show on the other side of the island and was doing quite well. Maybe I could have a show. Maybe I could cash in on my Saturday Night Live connection. I could call it “Paul Shaffer’s Saturday Night Live Honolulu Luau.” Carol Burnett, who had moved to Hawaii, could be a guest. Jack Lord would appear. I’d book young Hawaiian talent. Have a weekly limbo
contest. Conduct surfing contests. Bring in the best singers from New York: Jerry Vale, Jimmy Roselli, Vic Damone, and, of course, Julie LaRosa. I’d form an all-ukulele band and never deal with winter again. Memories of my frozen Canadian childhood would melt under the island sun. I’d be happy for the rest of my life.
My sweet reverie was broken, though, when, right in the middle of the show, a woman from the audience got up and walked onstage. No one stopped her. I had never seen this before and couldn’t help but be a little shocked. She was middle-aged, slightly portly, and obviously enchanted by Don. She stood before him for only a second or two when he stopped singing, grabbed her, and brought her face to his. Then he kissed her. I mean, he kissed her! From then on it was a free-for-all, one woman after another marching to the stage to place her mouth on the eagerly awaiting Don. Each kiss was caught on film by Don’s photographer. And each woman was quick to buy the picture—at a premium price, of course.
At the end of the show, when the band exited, Don didn’t move. He remained seated on his wicker throne, while the women who had kissed him lined up with their pictures for him to sign. To maximize Don’s take, the photographer would snap still another picture of the female fan kissing Don once again. That print would be available the next day at the box office at 4:30 p.m.
Meanwhile, Cathy drifted over to the gift stand and bought a Don Ho bobble-head doll.
“Do you think he’d autograph it for me?” she asked.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “He’d autograph a thousand if you brought them to him.”
Cathy got on line, her bobble-head doll in hand. As she approached the man, I leaned in to get a good look. True to form, Don kissed her passionately. I was happy for Cathy.
