We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives

by Paul Shaffer

  “‘It’s Raining Men.’”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  When I got to Paul’s place, he elaborated. “The boys will love it. They’re the ones who are gonna bring Donna back, but we gotta hit ’em where they live.”

  He had the whole lyric concept; he really just needed someone to put music to it. I hammered out a tune and cut a demo. By the time we were done, I thought, Gee, this is pretty good.

  But fate moved against us. Between the conception and execution of this song, Miss Summer had been born again. Needless to say, she wasn’t keen on recording a ditty that had her howling “Rip off the roof and stay in bed.” That was bad enough. But she really took exception to the chorus with its “Hallelujah, it’s raining men, amen!” Thus she passed on the song, calling it blasphemous, condemning Paul to eternal hell-fire, and sending him a Gideon Bible. True story.

  Paul knew he had a hit and recorded it anyway. He even planned to debut the song live in Central Park on Gay Pride Day. Now usually I wouldn’t play any of my work for my girlfriend Cathy, who was my toughest critic. She was also unaware that the ego of the artiste is extremely fragile. But this song was different. Maybe it was because Paul was an Oscar winner, maybe it was because the demo was great, but I decided to take a chance and play it for her anyway.

  As soon as Cathy heard the chorus, she rolled her eyes and said, “Eccch! What were you guys thinking? This sucks!”

  I was crushed, but Paul Jabara was indomitable. He called me up and exclaimed, “You simply must come hear ‘It’s Raining Men!’ in the park. He went on to explain the scenario. “I’ve got this killer gal named Zenobia to sing lead and a bunch of girls from Studio 54 who will be wearing yellow rain slickers with red bathing suits underneath. I got a whole stage production. Gay Pride Day won’t know what hit it.”

  “Paul,” I said, “I could be wrong, but isn’t Gay Pride Day normally a bunch of militant lesbians standing around shouting that they’re here, they’re queer, and everybody better get used to it? I don’t know if it’s the right crowd.”

  “Nonsense,” Paul replied. “It’ll be huge.”

  Cathy was incredulous. “Not only did you ignore what I said about that lousy song,” she told me, “but now you wanna go to a gay rally in Central Park? Let me tell you something: if anyone takes a picture of you at Gay Pride Day and it appears in a magazine, you’ll be sorry.”

  Now I’m no homophobe. Neither is Cathy. But back then, things weren’t as they are today. Maybe she had a point. So it was with a heavy heart that I told Paul I couldn’t make it. I wished him luck.

  Several weeks later, Gay Pride Day rolled around. Cathy and I had been sore at each other that morning. What else was new? We weren’t speaking, but we had a reservation for bike rentals in Central Park. We went anyway.

  There we were. Riding bikes, not talking, and having a miserable time. Toward the end of the day, I looked at my watch and remembered Jabara’s thing. Hey, it was about to start. Begrudgingly, Cathy agreed to ride over to the bluffs, where we could see the festivities taking place on the Great Lawn. We had a panoramic view.

  Sure enough, there was a big butch lesbian onstage chanting, “We are everywhere…we will BE everywhere,” all to thundering applause.

  I had been right.

  “And now ladies and gentlemen,” the lady concluded, “Paul Jabara with a song you’re all going to be loving this summer.” Zenobia came out and started the opening verse:

  Humidity is rising… barometer’s gettin’ low…

  That was the cue for the backup dancers. Except the number hadn’t been rehearsed and the girls were out of step. One of ’em couldn’t wait to get out of her yellow rain slicker to show off her tiny red bikini. Another slipped and fell on her booty. The whole thing was a giant mess.

  But Zenobia kept singing:

  For the first time in history, it’s gonna start raining men…

  Then the big build to the chorus:

  It’s raining men! Hallelujah! It’s raining men! Amen!

  On cue, a giant tanned-and-greased muscleman came out in a black speedo, grinding his pelvis to beat the band.

  By then, the crowd had started to boo and hiss. No one was amused.

  God bless Paul Jabara; he’d completely misread his own audience.

  And there I was, astride my rented bike, next to my angry girlfriend, up on the bluffs, watching the whole sordid affair. This was the only song I’d ever written! People were booing!

  I turned to Cathy and said, “This is the most bizarre thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  She turned to me and exclaimed, “Well, I TOLD you the song sucked when you wrote it!”

  With that, she rode off without another word, leaving me to shout after her:

  “Why do you have to hurt me on Gay Pride Day?!”

  “It’s Raining Men” went on to be a huge hit, recorded and rerecorded by the likes of the Weather Girls, Geri Halliwell, the London Gay Men’s Chorus, and my main whatever, the unambiguously talented RuPaul.

  Cathy has since softened her attitude toward the song… especially since it continues to pay our phone bill.

  During our dating days back in the eighties, Cathy loved to surprise me. One day she said, “Paul, how’d you like to have dinner with Chas Chandler?”

  “Chas Chandler? The bass player for the Animals! This guy discovered Jimi Hendrix! I’m there.”

  I don’t know how Cathy did it, but two days later I’m sitting across from Chas over spaghetti carbonara at La Strada East. This cat had stories to tell. Me, I had nothing but questions.

  “How’d you come up with that bass line on ‘We Gotta Get Out of This Place’?” I asked.

  “Actually, Paul,” said Chas, a portly Brit from Newcastle, “me bass was out of tune. What sounds intentional was nuthin’ but a bloody accident.”

  “Who did you listen to growing up?” I wanted to know.

  “I loved the Shirelles, man, and that bird with the Chantels that sang ‘Maybe.’”

  “That’s Arlene Smith. I’ve got a video of her that would kill you. She’s on The History of Girl Groups. It’s filled with those Brill Building stories that always end the same—‘And then the British Invasion wiped us out. We couldn’t compete.’”

  “Hey, mate, I’ve got to see that fockin’ show.”

  That’s all I needed to hear. We went back to my suite at the Gramercy, where I slipped in the tape. Chas was especially fixated by Don Kirshner’s interview on Spector.

  “Phily was an artist,” said Don. “We’d cut three sides for $1,500—no problem. Phily would go in the studio—one song, four grand.”

  “Stop the bloomin’ tape,” Chas exclaimed. “That’s why those Brill Building blokes lost their way. Do you know how much it cost us to make ‘House of the Rising Son’?”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen fockin’ dollars. With enough left for pints all around. British Invasion, my arse.”

  Chapter 33

  The Gig of Gigs

  Being Letterman’s bandleader is the gig of gigs, especially for a piano player who once survived by working topless bars. Every night’s different. Every night’s a challenge. And of course every night means working with Dave, whose pitch-perfect wit keeps us all in tune. I’m forever grateful for such wonderful work.

  But if any gig could rival the excitement of being on nightly TV with Dave, it might be the annual Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction.

  It all began when Ahmet Ertegun thought I’d be the right musical director for the induction function. Ahmet had taken a shine to me when I first worked for him on Robert Plant’s Honeydrippers’ record. He appreciated my adaptability.

  “You and your band can back up anyone and everyone, Paul,” said Ahmet. “You have the right flexibility and the right feel. The gig is yours.”

  The problem was that the first Rock and Roll Hall of Fame dinner, to be held at the Waldorf Astoria in New York, was scheduled for the same day as a Let
terman anniversary special. If the special had been slated for our normal taping time—mid-afternoon—I’d have no problem running across town and making the dinner. But Dave’s idea was to have the entire show taped on an airplane heading for Miami. Then, always the most generous of bosses, Dave would treat everyone to a weekend of sun and fun in Miami Beach.

  The only solution was for me and the band to turn around and fly back to New York the second we landed in Miami. Because Dave was supportive of my participation with the Hall, he offered to pay half the cost of a private jet. When Ahmet’s co-chair of the Hall, Rolling Stone founder and publisher Jann Wenner, said they’d pay the other half, we were set. All this sounds cool except for one thing: I was convinced that the little jet carrying us back to New York would crash and burn. In my fevered imagination, it seemed inevitable. Ours would be the next big rock and roll air disaster. A private plane heading for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Please, you couldn’t ask for a hipper disaster. I thought I was destined to be remembered with the Big Bopper, Buddy Holly, and Ritchie Valens. Otis Redding and the Bar-Kays had been on such a flight. So had Jim Croce.

  In an act of musical perversity, every time we went to commercial on that Letterman anniversary broadcast, my band and I played a song by an artist who had gone down in flames. Commercial one: “Chantilly Lace.” Commercial two: “That’ll Be the Day.” Commercial three: “La Bamba.” Station break: “Dock of the Bay.” Commercial four: “Soul Finger.” Commercial five: “Bad Bad Leroy Brown.” I was petrified during both flights, but the music saw us through. We returned safely to New York and made it to the Waldorf on time.

  From then on, I’m happy to say that my band has performed at virtually every induction dinner. The gig has been a blessing and a blast. The Hall got me even further inside the secret life of rock and roll. It also added to my repertoire of rock and roll stories.

  Many of the stories came out of the jams. As years went on, I’d become famous—or infamous—for arranging legendary jams.

  That first year all of us were hesitant to ask the legends we were inducting—including Chuck Berry, Ray Charles, Jerry Lee Lewis, James Brown, and Fats Domino—to perform. After all, they were there to be honored, not to sing for their supper. However, at evening’s end a monstrous totally spontaneous jam session exploded out of a photo op, and the cats ran for their instruments. Before we knew it, Chuck Berry was on the floor, his neck resting on the audio monitor, doing a reverse hump as he banged out “Roll Over, Beethoven,” while Jerry Lee bashed the high keyboard counterpoint. That gave me the courage to ask John Fogerty to roll out “Proud Mary” and Steve Winwood to give up “Gimme Some Lovin’,” two tunes by two singers who had not sung those songs in years.

  That jam was a dream, others near nightmares. One such occasion resulted in my getting on Eric Clapton’s shit list. This, as you can imagine, is a source of considerable pain for me.

  Let me begin the Shaffer/Clapton saga in the eighties, when Eric sat in with my band on Letterman. He was the first major musician to do so. This was important because it opened the door for other stars to do the same. In other words, if God thinks Shaffer’s band is good enough, God’s disciples will follow.

  Next time Clapton was in New York, he invited me to hang out with him and his pal Phil Collins, another lovely chap. Suddenly I was tight with the Brits and loving every minute of it. Eric was even giving me etiquette advice about an upcoming state dinner in Canada where I was to meet Prince Charles and Princess Diana.

  “The Royals are very strict about protocol,” said Clapton. “Whatever you do, don’t speak to the Prince and Princess until they speak to you.”

  The big moment arrived. I was in a reception line with a number of dignitaries. Brian Mulroney, Prime Minister of Canada, was slowly making his way down the line with the Prince and Princess at his side, introducing each of the guests to the Royals. When they finally got to me, things did not go well. I saw a blank stare on Mulroney’s face; he had no idea who I was. I thought of Clapton’s instruction—don’t speak till you’re spoken to—but no one was saying anything. Time stopped. At that moment, I bravely decided to break with royal protocol. I said to Prince Charles, “Hello, Your Highness. My name is Paul Shaffer, and I’m the bandleader of Late Night with David Letterman in New York.”

  “Really?” the Prince intoned. “How late?”

  “Well,” I answered, almost apologetically, “we start at half past midnight.”

  “Oh,” the Prince said with a chuckle, “count me out.” He then continued on his princely way. Meanwhile, the poor Princess looked so sad, I let her pass without saying a word. I think she was grateful.

  Then in 1999, Clapton and I were both participants in the Save the Music Concert on the White House lawn. I was musical director, and a host of stars, including Al Green, Garth Brooks, and B.B. King, were on the bill. Bill and Hillary were in attendance.

  During rehearsal, I tried to set up some format for the song that Eric and B.B. would be playing together. I did that because, left to their own devices, neither one of them would take the first solo. They had too much respect for one another. The result would be an uncomfortable silence.

  I suggested that B.B. sing the first verse and that Eric take the first solo.

  “Paul,” said Eric, “this is the blues. We don’t need to plan things out. Just let it develop.”

  “I understand, and you’re absolutely right,” I said. But as James Brown had told me, I had the pressure of the time.

  “We need some kind of road map, Eric,” I suggested.

  He looked at me like I was an enemy of the blues.

  “Have it your way,” he said, but he wasn’t happy.

  Nonetheless, the performance was stellar.

  The president was especially pleased. He’s a blues lover to the core. After the concert, he came over to have his picture taken with the horn section. He was standing right next to me when, for some reason, I felt obligated to let loose with a wisecrack.

  “Mr. President,” I said, “if you had come on Letterman instead of Arsenio Hall’s show to play your sax, I’m sure you would have won anyway.”

  Clinton’s face fell and he said, in dead earnest, “I wish I had been asked.”

  Oh shit, I thought to myself, I’ve pissed off the leader of the free world!

  To compensate for my blunder, I mailed the president a box of Rico reeds for his sax. “Pres,” I wrote, “check these out.” When he sent me a handwritten letter of appreciation, I realized that the leader of the free world probably had more important things on his mind than a misplaced quip from a piano player.

  Meanwhile, my tenuous relationship with Clapton wasn’t getting any better. Our next encounter came at the Concert for New York, the benefit after 9/11, for which I also served as musical director. Paul McCartney organized the event, which included everyone from Bon Jovi to Jay-Z to the Who and Mick and Keith. There was also the comic relief of Billy Crystal, Jimmy Fallon, and Adam Sandler as Opera Man bashing Osama bin Laden. Meanwhile, in an attempt to keep the show moving and the stars happy, I was operating on overdrive.

  David Bowie opened. I’m a fan. I also believe, having heard both their voices, that Bowie and Anthony Newley are the same person. As Belzer says, “Did you ever see them together?” Just saying.

  For his opening song, Bowie planned to sing live to a prerecorded instrumental backing. My tech had been instructed to hit “play” on the playback machine when Bowie gave the cue. When he did so, the machine stuttered, and Bowie was out there without the music he needed. It wasn’t pretty. Pro that he is, Bowie covered up admirably and afterward, feeling sick—he had food poisoning—went straight to his dressing room.

  I followed him to offer my sincere apologies. But as I was rushing to Bowie’s room, Eric Clapton popped out of another room. Superstars were popping out everywhere.

  “Paul,” said Eric, “I must talk to you right away about the song I’m to play.”

  “Sorry, Eric,”
I said, “I can’t talk right now. I need to see Bowie.”

  “Bowie’s already played,” said Eric. “I haven’t.” I felt the pressure of the time. “Eric,” I said, “just give me a sec.”

  I found a sick Bowie in his dressing room, and I apologized profusely. Ever the gentleman, Bowie graciously let it slide.

  Speaking of apologies, I once had to make a colossal one to Bowie’s twin, Newley. This happened on Letterman when Anthony had agreed to sing with my band. As the song progressed, I inadvertently modulated way higher than I was supposed to. To reach his final note, poor Anthony nearly busted a gut, but made it. As he went offstage, I heard this horrific howl: “FUUUUUCK!”

  I had to apologize, and I did. “You always hurt the one you love,” I wrote in a deeply contrite letter. Newley wrote back: “My final note was so stratospheric, dear Mr. Shaffer, that dogs in Alaska are still holding their ears in pain.”

  Back at the Concert for New York, Eric and I had our meeting. He then went onstage and killed with Buddy Guy. But alas, I don’t think the evening brought Eric Clapton and myself any closer together.

  Some years later I would play for Eric in another context. This was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame dinner during which Clapton and B.B. King were inducting the same Buddy Guy. This time I knew not to interfere with Eric’s flow. But when Joel Gallen, the producer/director of the show, took me aside, I got a little sidetracked. “Paul,” he said, “this may be one of the last times that these three giants play together. It’s got to be classic. Make sure that B.B. sings one chorus, just like Eric and Buddy.”

  The rehearsal was slated for mid-afternoon. It was a typically crowded schedule. In addition to Buddy, the other inductees were U2, Percy Sledge, the O’Jays, and the Pretenders. Many acts, many songs. I was harried. When it was time for B.B., Eric, and Buddy to play, against my better judgment I began to explain how I thought it should go.

  “Please, Paul,” said Eric, “this is the blues. Just let it develop.”

  Oh, God, I realized, I’ve alienated “God” again. I backed off. But as the song “developed,” B.B. didn’t sing. Remembering the producer’s edict, I stopped the band and said to the three guitarists, “Guys, I think we need to get the format straight. I’d love for B.B. to sing the first chorus.”