by Paul Shaffer
“You’re prescribing a format,” said Eric, “and killing the spontaneity.”
“I just want to make sure that B.B. sings,” I explained.
Eric wasn’t happy. Eric didn’t think I understood the blues.
During the actual performance that evening, the song came off brilliantly. Turned out Eric was right. The guys did what they wanted, regardless of the rehearsal. I guess you’d have to say that Eric’s blues are deeper than mine. But I had the pressure of the time.
That same pressure impacted another major musical meeting involving another hero of mine: the immortal Mr. Sammy Davis Jr.
Let me preface my Sammy story by saying that on the wall of my study, among many mementos, my prized possession is a plaque in the shape of the state of Israel. It reads, “An artistic and cultural award presented to Sammy Davis Jr. in Washington, D.C., July 13, 1965, from the Ambassador of Israel.” The plaque was purchased at an auction authorized by Sammy’s estate. I look at it often. It takes me back to that night at the Apollo when I first met the man. He and I participated in the “Motown at the Apollo” television special. Everyone was there—Wilson Pickett, the Four Tops, Smokey Robinson, Luther Vandross—and I was in soul heaven. When Sammy showed up, I introduced myself. “Paul Shaffer,” I said. “I work on the Letterman show.”
Sammy smiled his crooked smile and said, “Groovy, man, I know who you are.”
My heart skipped a beat.
My next experience with Sammy happened on the Letterman show. In the eighties, Dave decided to do a week in Las Vegas. At that time, Cathy—with whom I was still breaking up to make up (and making up to break up)—was working as a talent coordinator for Letterman. That meant she booked the acts. Cathy was great at her job because she’d never take “no” for an answer. Her tenacity was legendary.
Cathy pulled a coup when she got Sammy to agree to fly all night to Vegas right after his performance with the Boston Pops. But there’d be no time for rehearsal, which meant we’d have to play something he already knew well. Cathy gave me Sammy’s hotel number and within minutes I was calling. When he picked up the phone, I said, “Schmuel, it’s Paul Shaffer.”
Schmuel is “Sam” in Yiddish. It’s the way the Rat Pack referred to him, and I was delighted to be using their term of endearment.
“Paul, what’s shaking, baby?”
“I know you’re coming in to Vegas to perform on the show, Schmuel, and I can’t tell you what an honor it is. Just calling to ask what you’d like to sing.”
“You figure it out,” said Schmuel. “I can do anything at all with that band of crooks of yours. Just pick something nutty-mahvelous, baby. And tell all the cats hello.”
“I’ll get back to you with the song,” I said.
“Take your time, baby, it’s all about taking your time.”
But of course I was feeling the pressure of the time. What to play?
Will Lee had two great ideas: “On Broadway” George Benson—style or “For Once in My Life” Stevie Wonder—style. I called back to see which song Schmuel preferred, but this time a woman answered the phone. “This is Altovise Davis,” she said.
“Alto!” I boldly exclaimed. That’s how the Rat Pack referred to her on Carson. “This is Paul Shaffer from Letterman. Is Schmuel there?”
“Schmuel is sleeping, sweetheart,” she said without missing a beat.
“Will you have him call me?”
“Of course.”
But he never did. And every time I called, he was either working or sleeping.
The morning of the show I was feeling some panic. Schmuel was flying in, and we still didn’t know what he wanted to sing. At 10 a.m., the floor manager said I had a backstage call. It was Sammy calling from the plane.
“‘Once in My Life’ will be fine, Paul,” he said. “Key of E going into F.”
“Great!” I was relieved.
I was also eager to work out an arrangement. For our week in Vegas, I was supplementing our four-piece rhythm section with saxist David Sanborn and the Uptown Horns. We whipped up a chart, nursed it, rehearsed it, and put it on tape. That way when Sammy arrived, he could hear it.
Then another backstage call. Sammy’s plane had landed early, and he was on his way over. When I greeted him at the backstage door with a big “Schmuel! We’re thrilled you’re here,” I was a little taken aback. He looked extremely tired and frail. He walked with a cane.
“We have an arrangement, Sam. You can rehearse it with the band.”
“No need, baby. Gotta conserve my energy. I’m just gonna go to my room and shower.”
“I wanna make it easy for you, Schmuel. So I’ll just play you a tape of the arrangement on the boom box. That way you’ll hear what we’ve done and tell me if it’s okay.”
“Man, I know the song.”
“I know, Sam,” I said, “but what if you don’t like the chart?”
“I’ll like it, I’ll like it.”
“But what if the key’s not right?”
“Okay, if you insist.”
I slipped the cassette in the boom box and hit “play.” To my ears, the chart sounded great. Sammy closed his eyes and, in Sammy style, nodded his head up and down to the groove. He smiled.
“It’s swinging, man,” he said, “but think of how much more fun we could have had if I hadn’t heard this tape.”
His words still resonate in my ears; the notion still haunts me. Sammy swung that night, but as he was performing, I couldn’t help thinking that his carefree feeling about time—as opposed to my lifelong notion of the pressure of the time—was coming from a higher spiritual plane. As a musician, I’ve always thought I rushed. I still think I rush. The great players never rush.
It reminds me of that moment when I watched Ray Charles turn to his guitarist, just as the young guy was about to solo, and say, “Take your time, son. Take your time.”
Chapter 34
My Elvis
I place Phil Spector in the highest category of musical icons. His productions are to rock and roll what Wagner is to opera. He does it bigger than anyone. On a list of my cultural idols, Phil is number one. I have enormous and genuine admiration for his genius as a songwriter, producer, and musical visionary. He’s my Elvis.
I even like Spector’s musical idiosyncrasies. For example, he has great passion for recording in mono. For years he gave away lapel buttons that said, “Back to Mono.” His commitment to mono and opposition to stereo was understandable: he didn’t want his famous Wall of Sound deconstructed. He didn’t want the listener to be able to hear any of the individual elements in the Wall. He wanted the mix heard as he himself had designed it. He didn’t want the listener to be able to shift over to the right speaker or the left speaker and hear any details. In short, he wanted to retain the integrity of the Wall. He wanted the Wall to stand as he originally built it.
Not only did I love Spector’s Wall, but I loved the singers and songs he developed. I’ve mentioned my fanatical devotion to Ronnie Spector and the Ronettes. I also loved the Righteous Brothers singing “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” loved Tina Turner singing “River Deep—Mountain High.” I loved the whole smorgasbord of superb Spector schmaltz.
In fact, in 1984 when Ellie Greenwich mounted her musical Leader of the Pack at the Bottom Line, she asked me to play the part of Phil, who produced many of Ellie’s songs.
“I’ve never met Phil,” I said. “I don’t know what he sounds like.”
“Yes, you do,” Ellie reassured me. “Phil is one of those guys who based his hipster lingo on Ahmet Ertegun. Just do Ahmet and you’ll be doing Phil.”
That was easy. I knew Ahmet and loved his hipster lingo. Once, for example, Ahmet had used me on a Laura Branigan session. He was convinced that if Laura covered the Exciters’ “Tell Him,” it would be a hit all over again. The session went well. Marcus Miller was on bass and I played synthesizer. The track was smoking, but Laura never quite found her way through the smoke. Undaunted, Ahmet took us
all to Gallagher’s, the midtown steakhouse, for a postsession dinner. We were joined by another producer who, in order to protect the guilty, shall remain nameless. With absolute abandon, the producer pulled out his vial of cocaine and indulged right there at the table. Ahmet was faintly amused. “If you do this in public with such blatancy,” said Ahmet, “you must be a good producer.”
When Laura ordered oysters, the topic turned to food.
“I love oysters,” I said, “but I can’t eat them anymore. I had a bad one not long ago and got so sick I had to promise God I’d never eat another one again.”
“Shall I tell you something?” said Ahmet. “I recently promised God that I would never do heroin and angel dust together. But it’s such a great high, don’t you think?”
Of course he was fabricating this pose. At the time Ahmet said this, he must have been sixty. Sixty seemed extremely old to me, and I was convinced that his tongue-and-cheek tidbit was the hippest thing I’d ever heard—until I heard Ahmet say something even hipper.
We were backstage at a concert when Ahmet ran into a woman who knew him from the sixties.
“Oh, my dear Ahmet,” said the lady, “last time I saw you, you were seated in a folding chair in the wings of a Led Zeppelin show, fast asleep and snoring quite loudly.”
“What used to make me snore,” said Ahmet, “I don’t do no more.”
No wonder Phil was so enamored of Ahmet.
The first time I saw Phil in person was 1989, the year he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He attended the ceremony with power attorney Marvin Mitchelson. Phil favors the company of power attorneys. I played Phil “Be My Baby,” approximating the Wall as best I could. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again.
A few days later, I was in the studio working on my album Coast to Coast. That album is a story in itself—my compilation of rock/pop/soul songs performed by everyone from Will Smith to Bobby Womack to Dion. I wanted to pay tribute to the key music centers, so every weekend I’d fly off and cut a tune in New Orleans or Chicago, Minneapolis or L.A.
Coast to Coast didn’t rival Michael Jackson’s Thriller in sales, but it did express my musical heart. One song I cowrote with Steve Cropper and Don Covay called “What Is Soul” contained this rhyming couplet:
Soul is Jerry Wexler and Ahmet
The funkier you are, the bigger Cadillac you get
At this particular Coast to Coast session, I was working with Brian Wilson. I had bonded with Brian and his boys when they invited me to the Beach Boys’ 20th Anniversary Concert in Honolulu. It was my first trip back to Hawaii since my near-fatal accident. At first I wasn’t going to go. But then I remembered Jan and Dean’s top-ten hit that Brian had cowritten, “Dead Man’s Curve.” One of the unwritten laws of rock and roll is that every surfer must return to confront Dead Man’s Curve. My Dead Man’s Curve was that highway in Honolulu at the turnoff to the Dole Plantation. I had to go back. The power and pull of surf rock drew me back. The kick of playing with the Beach Boys helped me confront my fear. I was asked to introduce my number.
“As a young lad growing up in the frozen north of Canada,” I told the bikini-clad crowd, “I dreamed of a day such as this. I was a shy and retiring teenager when God suddenly gifted me in a way that brought summer sunlight to my dark winter mood. I learned that the Beach Boys were coming to my hometown of Thunder Bay. I bought my ticket weeks in advance. A good two hours before showtime, I was seated in the front row. These were the original five Beach Boys, no sidemen, no keyboards. When it came time for ‘Surfin’ U.S.A.,’ I was on my feet. But because there were no keyboards, the organ solo went to Carl on guitar. I thought to myself—Paul Shaffer, you could play that organ solo. You know it note for note. Paul Shaffer, you could be a Beach Boy. But, alas, I was not called to the stage that night long ago in Thunder Bay. I couldn’t be a Beach Boy. But on this sun-kissed beach on this sun-kissed island, today I am happy to say that I will play that organ solo. Ladies and gentlemen, today Paul Shaffer is a Beach Boy.”
It was a nice moment. From then on, Brian and I were friends. At this Coast to Coast recording session, though, I encountered a bit of a problem with Dr. Eugene Landy, the clinical psychologist who had attached himself to Brian as his groovy guru/Svengali. Landy also fancied himself a songwriter and had been writing lyrics for Brian’s recent songs. He really wanted a piece of the mixed-genre number for my record called “Metal Beach.” It was a helluva production, with Joe Walsh, Joe Satriani, and Dick Dale on guitars.
“Got these amazing lyrics, Paul,” the good doctor said to me. “And Brian loves them.”
I looked over the words with quiet suspicion. They hinted at psychological subtexts that were beyond me. They didn’t come close to fitting the groove. At the same time, though, Brian was under Dr. Landy’s spell. Brian was following the doctor’s orders.
I needed an idea.
An idea came.
“Sorry, Doc,” I said, “but ‘Metal Beach’ is going to be a surf instrumental. No lyrics.”
Landy looked at me with a certain artistic longing in his eyes.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Positive,” I answered.
It was at this session that the engineer’s assistant told me I had a call.
“You know who it is?” I asked.
“Phil Spector’s assistant.”
I was amazed but skeptical. Was this a joke?
“Mr. Shaffer, I’m calling for Mr. Spector. He would like you to meet him at the Plaza Hotel this evening and wonders if you have any suggestions about going to hear jazz.”
I couldn’t believe it. Phil Spector wanted to hang out.
That night, bonding over big-band jazz, we became friends. That’s when I learned that, as far as raconteurs go, Phil is in a class with Kirshner and Ertegun. He had endless stories about the mono days. He also has great knowledge of music of all kinds, and I was thrilled to go along for the ride.
The ride went on for years. Whenever Phil came to town, we were off to another evening of conversation and music. Sometimes he got music mogul Allen Klein to take us to a Knicks game at Madison Square Garden. Other times were quieter. Once I invited Cathy along when we went to hear the impeccable Peggy Lee.
Peggy was in her twilight years. As she sat on a piano bench in front of the band, she cut quite a figure. Quite a large figure. Her hair was platinum, and her face was framed with severe black glasses. Her voice, though, was as sensitive and lovely as ever. As she performed the sensuous “Fever,” you had to lean in to listen. That’s how quietly she sang.
Unfortunately, Phil, although a devout Peggy Lee fan himself, held a large newfangled mobile phone in the palm of his hand. He couldn’t restrain himself from playing with the keys. The tones from the keys made loud sounds, so loud, in fact, that a gentleman at the next table over gently tapped Cathy on the shoulder. Pointing to Phil, he whispered, “Please tell him to stop making that noise.”
Always the world’s most sensitive and polite person, Cathy thought about the request. She thought about the man’s justifiable irritation; then she thought about Phil’s quirky personality. While she weighed the two conflicting notions, the man repeated his request, “Tell him to stop.”
Cathy had two words for the man:
“I can’t.”
On another occasion, Phil took me to the Rainbow Room to see Keely Smith, the former straight-faced foil for Louis Prima. That’s when we ran into Liza Minnelli. Liza and Phil greeted each other warmly, so warmly that I detected perhaps a history between them. Keely sang beautifully and came to our table after the show, regaling us with Vegas lounge stories, my favorite literary genre. Naturally Liza had stories of her own—of Mother Judy, Dad Vincent, and assorted ex-husbands. But these tales were merely warm-ups for Phil, who kept us all in stitches with his accounts of the rough-and-tumble Brill Building days when rock was young and the world innocent. By then it was 2 a.m. I had to excuse myself and head home.
“Oh no,” said Phil. “It�
��s early. We’re all heading over to P. J. Clarke’s for drinks. The fun’s just begun. You can’t leave.”
I was insistent, but Phil was even more insistent.
“Look,” I finally said, winning the argument with humor, “you’re Phil Spector. You can wake up tomorrow at noon, pick up the phone, learn you’ve made a million dollars on a Crystals’ reissue in England and go back to sleep. That’s your day’s work, Phil. I’ve gotta get up and play the piano.”
He smiled and relented.
Of all the fresh kicks I’ve enjoyed as a musician, the highlight has got to be playing on a Spector session. It happened when Phil wanted to test the waters to see if he could once again make his mark on popular music. He had left his suite at the Waldorf Towers and flown back to his L.A. home. He was ready to record and even recruited his original engineer from the glory days, Larry Levine, and as many of his original wrecking crew of musicians as he could find.
“Paul,” said Phil, “the Wall is going up again. I want you on the session.”
My manager said he was paying everyone triple scale and, except for me, they were all L.A.—based musicians.
“I’ll try and get you travel expenses,” my manager said.
The next day I learned Phil had refused.
“Fuck it. I’ll be there anyway,” I told my manager. “I’d pay him.”
When I got to L.A., I went directly to the studio.
Phil had a plan: he had written a song and was going to fine-tune an arrangement, cut a master, and hire a singer like Linda Ronstadt to put her voice on it. It was Old School thinking: own everything. But the music world had changed radically since the days when Phil, in the role of a Roman emperor, looked over his stable of singers and declared, “You, Darlene Love, sing this one,” or “You, Bob B. Soxx, sing that one.” I’m not sure whether Phil understood that singers had been liberated. I had heard, however, that there had been a time when every Spector session began with the singing of “We Shall Overcome.”
