We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives

by Paul Shaffer

  And then we were sunk. A plane accident at the Toronto airport grounded all flights, including the one for the Zombies. Five hours before the show, they were stuck in Canada with no way out. I was in a panic, and when I mentioned this to Letterman, Dave felt my pain. “Give me a minute,” he said. “I have an idea.” Next thing I knew, Dave had arranged for the group to fly in from a private airport on a private jet. As hard as I tried to pay for it myself, my boss wouldn’t take a dime.

  The show was halfway over at B.B. King’s when I was able to tell the audience, “The Zombies have landed! They will be here!”

  And, boy, were they ever! Rock and roll fanatics are still talking about the evening, especially the grand finale when we did an all-star version of Mike Smith’s great classic “Glad All Over.”

  After all this, I wanted to see Mike. I wanted to hand him a copy of the DVD of the concert. I decided to fly over to England and present it to him personally. I did it because I figured that, after putting on that benefit, I’d earned the right to a trip overseas and a visit with my hero.

  I landed in London and took the train to the hospital an hour north of the city. Mike was in good spirits. Miami Steve Van Zandt had given him an electric wheelchair. He had enough motion in his hand to manipulate the controls. His breathing was labored—he was on a ventilator during the evening hours—but he could make himself understood. He greeted me warmly. I said I had come to give him a copy of the DVD.

  “Can we watch it together, Paul?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  We sat and watched the entire show, which had begun at 11 p.m. and didn’t conclude till 4 in the morning. Tears streamed down Mike’s face. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “You don’t have to.”

  “Would you mind coming back tomorrow so we can watch it again?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Turned out that Mike and I, seated side by side, watched the DVD three days in a row. Two years passed.

  By now it was 2008, and the Dave Clark Five were going to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I was especially touched that I would get to play Mike’s greatest hits. Mike was set to attend.

  Ten days before the induction dinner, though, Mike Smith died. That evening, when we sang “Glad All Over,” we felt his beautiful spirit all over us. I felt grateful to have known him as a friend.

  Dave Letterman, of course, has also been a great friend. When I learned that he required a quintuple bypass, I immediately called the chief rabbi of the state of Israel to make a m’shabeirach, a special prayer for the sick.

  “Is he Jewish?” asked the rabbi.

  “No,” I said, “but he’s in show business.”

  “Close enough,” said the rabbi. “I’m praying as we speak.”

  The prayer worked, and Dave came through like a champ.

  During this same period, another prayer of mine was answered. I got a street named after me in Thunder Bay. I felt like, as Jesse Jackson would say, “I am somebody.” I even went as far as to announce the honor on the air.

  “Dave,” I said one night, “at this very moment, you can move on up to Thunder Bay and boogaloo down Paul Shaffer Drive.”

  “What? They named a street after you? I’m outraged! I don’t even have an alleyway in Indianapolis.”

  “Dave, you deserve a boulevard.”

  “A boulevard, hell… I want the entire interstate beltway around Indianapolis.”

  “What would they call it?”

  “Well, they could call it ‘The Dave,’ as in ’take the Dave, it’ll cut your time in half.’”

  “I like it.”

  “Or, how about the ‘Letterman Bypass’?”

  “That’s it,” I said. “I’m calling the governor.”

  Chapter 44

  The Grinch Who Ruined Christmas

  This happened only a few years ago. I relate the story now not only to give you a glimpse of what a day in my Letterman life is like, but to document what is musically, year in and year out, my most satisfying moment—the holiday show when I get to conduct the great Darlene Love singing “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).”

  On this particular December morning, a snowstorm has hit the suburbs where I start off my day. My car’s stuck and requires pushing by me and three of my neighbors. I feel like I’m back in the frozen hell of my Canadian childhood. It’s murder getting it out, and when we finally do I find myself slipping and sliding all over the road. Miraculously, I make it to Manhattan in one piece, but I’m distressed because, due to the delay, I’ve been unable to call Ellie Greenwich. Every year I must speak to Ellie on this day of days. I must do so not only because she wrote the song with Jeff Barry and the song’s producer, Phil Spector, but because Ellie is the song. Her musical spirit is what the song is all about. Our conversation never varies.

  “Ellie,” I begin. “The time has come. I’m so excited.”

  “Me too, but I have an idea of how to do it.”

  “How?”

  “Start off the opening chorus a capella.”

  “Great idea,” I always say. “Then we can bring the band in at the first verse.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “But come to think of it, Ellie, I better just do it like the record. There’s no improving on perfection.”

  “Good luck, Paul, and thanks for keeping the song alive.”

  This is a conversation I absolutely need to have—it’s my good luck touchstone—but as I arrive at the Ed Sullivan Theater, I realize I’m late. Now I have the pressure of the time.

  The nine background singers have already arrived for the massive production number. Before I deal with them, though, I close myself off and, one more time, listen to Darlene Love’s record from 1963. I remember its unfortunate history: Released just weeks before Kennedy’s assassination, it was the only original song on Spector’s Christmas album. Along with the rest of the record, the tune faded in the wake of the national tragedy. Nonetheless, “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” has remained a favorite of singers and musicians and, for my money, is the definitive yuletide anthem.

  After I listen to the record and renew my inspiration, my long-suffering assistant, Daniel Fetter, appears with a report from the production meeting.

  “We don’t know what’s going to happen in the first act after the monologue,” says Daniel.

  “Mah nishtanoh, babe,” I tell him, quoting the section of the Passover seder that asks, “Why should this night be different than any other?”

  Daniel only half laughs. He’s only half Jewish. If I had time, I’d tell him the joke my father never tired of telling me—how Barry Goldwater was turned away from a restricted golf course. “No Jews allowed,” he was told. “I’m only half Jewish,” said the senator. “Can I play nine holes?”

  Daniel runs down the rest of the show. Little by little, we get a general idea of what will happen. In the second act, I’ll do Cher singing “O Holy Night,” and actor Jay Thomas will tell his getting-saved-by-the-Lone-Ranger tale, a story that never varies year to year. Dave loves it, and so does the audience. After that, Jay and Dave will throw footballs at our Christmas tree in an attempt to dislodge the meatball on top, another hallowed tradition.

  Acts 3 and 4 will be devoted to Paris Hilton. We’ll play her on with “I Love Paris.” She’ll be deadpan hysterical. She always is. Act 5 is announcer Alan Kalter’s voice-over jokes. And act 6, my big act, will be Darlene.

  At 4 p.m. it’s time to rehearse. There are strings and extra horns, a percussionist, chimes and bells, and, as always, Tom Malone’s brilliant arrangement. There are three guitars to approximate the six on Spector’s original. There’s an upright bass to augment Will Lee’s electric bass. There’s a carefully engineered mix to be balanced by Harvey Goldberg so that, if we can’t build a wall of sound, at least we can put up a fence. There’s also the challenge of how to present Bruce Kapler’s baritone sax solo. Every year Bruce, dressed in a custom-made Superfly Santa suit, makes a
n unorthodox appearance. Last year he flew in on cables. This year he’ll emerge from a giant gift box pushed onstage by two leggy ladies in slinky Ms. Claus costumes. We run the song down a couple of times before the lovely Darlene herself appears. She sings it twice with full orchestra. In the final chorus, fake snow starts to fall. Beautiful.

  At 5 p.m. sharp, I run upstairs to dress: red silk Versace suit; glitter-green Dolce and Gabbana tie, Ferragamo alligator laceups. Jew be stylin’.

  In makeup I see Dave for the first time all day.

  “How’s your holiday season going, Paul?” he asks.

  “Boring,” I say. “How’s yours, Dave?”

  “Boring,” he says.

  Fired up, we’re ready to go.

  The audience has been loaded in. At 5:25 I hit the stage. At 5:30 we blast off.

  We fire on all cylinders. The show hums. Darlene tears it up. After the big number, Dave comes out and says, “Beautiful job, everybody. Good night. We’ll see you next year.”

  My band’s especially relieved because they have other gigs to get to. They’re halfway off the stage when director Jerry Foley says we need to redo our closing theme because, with all the scattered mics, the stage looked messy.

  “Fine, Jerry,” I say, “but can we hold the audience? My band needs to get out of here, so let’s do it now.”

  I say this because we can’t play while the audience loads out—a seven-to ten-minute process. The band has got to go! I have the pressure of the time.

  “No problem, Paul. We’ll hold the audience.”

  It takes a minute for us to get ready. But just as I’m about to count off the theme, I see the audience standing up and filing out. I explode. I start screaming at the stage manager, “Who the fuck told you to let the audience go? Who do you think you are, the director? The director and I had it all worked out, and you’ve fucking ruined the whole goddamn plan. What the fuck is going on here?”

  My mic is hot, and the audience hears my every word. Making matters worse, it isn’t the stage manager’s fault. He hadn’t gotten the word to hold the audience. Any way you look at it, I’ve blown it.

  The next day the New York Post prints a letter from an audience member reporting on being at the Letterman Christmas show. She writes that the show was beautiful, even meaningful. Everything was simply perfect and in keeping with the holiday spirit. Then suddenly Paul Shaffer threw a fit and started cursing like a sailor. He ruined everything. The world might see him as a nice guy. But now the world must be warned: he’s the grinch who ruined Christmas.

  The Post is good enough to let me respond. I offer my humblest apologies to all concerned. I explain that I had the pressure of the time.

  Chapter 45

  Patriotism and Religion

  I love my country of birth, the great nation that has recently awarded me the Order of Canada, the highest civilian honor the country bestows.

  For what? Cutting off a guy’s pant leg?

  No, seriously, I’m humbled.

  At the same time, I now love my adopted United States of America, the land that gave me the music that changed my life, a career that has exceeded my wildest expectations, and a family I adore. Having lived in the United States my entire adult life, I’ve become a naturalized citizen.

  I am not much of a political maven. I am certainly not an ideologue. I tend to listen to—rather than participate in—political disputes. Like everyone else, though, I was shaken to the core by the tragedy of 9/11. Those of us living and working in New York City experienced the nightmare on a frighteningly visceral level.

  Dave Letterman’s response was especially moving. I call Dave a patriot because of his instinctual love of country. Out of that instinct, he called me after the United States had gone to war against the Taliban.

  “How’d you like to go to Afghanistan, Paul?”

  While my patriotism doesn’t exist at the high level on which Dave’s operates, my response was immediate: “What an opportunity! Let’s go.”

  “Great. I want to take you and Biff. We’ll go for Christmas Eve and spread some good cheer.”

  Biff, our stage manager, is a Vietnam vet and all-around great guy.

  Dave was too modest to bring over what other entertainers might call “a show.” He was also insistent upon keeping our trip low key. No TV cameras. No footage for Late Show. He just wanted to hang out with the soldiers. Which is what we did. It turned out to be one of the deepest experiences of my life. It was scary, nerve-racking, and incredibly rewarding.

  We flew through the night to the Sultanate of Oman in the United Arab Emirates, where we transferred to a C-130 military cargo plane that took us into Afghanistan. Dave and I were in the cockpit kibitzing with the pilots. Suddenly the humor ended when we were told we were about to make one of those wartime landings. That’s when, at high altitude, the plane lunges into a downward spiral, releasing flares so that heat-seeking missiles might seek the flares instead of the plane. Just when it felt like we were about to crash, the plane pulled out of the spiral and eased down.

  On the ground at Kandahar airport, we were greeted by an officer. “Don’t wander off,” he said. “Land mines are everywhere.” The airport had been captured from the Taliban, who had used it as their headquarters. The hangar was now riddled with bullet holes.

  We climbed into two old Humvees and started greeting the divisions one by one. First the army, then the air force, then the marines. Dave was wonderful. “We’re just here to say that everyone back home is thinking about you,” he told the soldiers. “We want to thank you for everything you’re doing.” He had time and a good word for everyone.

  Everyone wanted his or her picture taken with Dave. Dave made everyone smile. When it came to the marines, though, as we were posing their commander barked, “I don’t want to see no smiles!”

  A group of soldiers gathered in the hangar, where I led them in carols. We sang “Silent Night.” Outside the hangar, the night was silent, eerily so. The sky was astoundingly clear. It was Christmas Eve. I noticed one star shining brighter than all the others. “I feel like something’s happening in Bethlehem,” I told Dave. “Let’s rent three camels and get the hell over there.”

  A female sergeant approached me to thank us for coming.

  “We’re here to thank you,” I said.

  “I have two kids back home,” she told me.

  “Wow,” I replied, “what a sacrifice!”

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “I gotta help clean up this world for them.”

  A male officer wished us a Merry Christmas. “I’m worried,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because it’s just a matter of time before we go into Iraq. And no one wants to go.”

  Our plan was to get into another C-130 and head up into the mountains to the Bagram base. We got on the plane only to be told that the trip was canceled for the evening. There was trouble at Bagram.

  That night Biff and I shared a room in the airport with a sergeant. At about 3 a.m. I used a flashlight to make my way to the latrine.

  The next morning the sergeant said, “Was that you fumbling around last night?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Christ,” he said. “I almost went for my gun.”

  I imagined the headline in the New York Post: CHRISTMAS EVE TRAGEDY: FRIENDLY FIRE FINISHES OFF LETTERMAN’S JEW SIDEKICK.

  It was still too dangerous to approach Bagram, so we were forced to fly back to Oman, where we entertained our troops at the Seeb base. The soldiers hipped me to the lingo. The C-130 was a “Hercules.” Greenwich Mean Time was “Zulu Time.” The frozen military dinners were MREs—Meals Ready to Eat. They were hungry for a little lighthearted humor. Dave had them laughing. I sang, “I’ll have a Seeb Christmas without you.” During the show, I was so tired I began hallucinating. On the plane home, I realized that these men and women had shown us what bravery in time of war is all about.

  A year later at Christmas, Dave, Biff, and I were off aga
in, this time to Baghdad. Dave chartered a private jet that flew to Kuwait. The stewardess couldn’t wait to tell us that Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck had recently chartered this same plane. According to the attendant, they had asked the entire crew to squeeze into the cockpit so that the famous couple could couple in private.

  We flew from Kuwait to Baghdad in another C-130. We visited some of Saddam’s palaces that had been taken over by our military. The mood was up because Saddam had just been captured.

  We performed a little in each palace. Dave spoke beautifully, of course, and then introduced me. This trip I had my own lyrics to the tune of “White Christmas”:

  “I’m dreaming of an Iraq Christmas…had Christmas Eve dinner on a C-130 Hercules…at 0800 Zulu a big chick named Lulu … passed out the MRE’s…”

  Then I said, “Now here’s some old Bob Hope jokes. Hey, I gotta tell ya, I’m a little nervous being over here in Iraq. This morning my toaster popped, and I surrendered to the maid. But General Sanchez reassured me. He promised to have my blood type available, even if he had to kill the chicken himself. Hey, seriously, there are no psychiatrists in Iraq. They know you’re nuts or you wouldn’t be here.”

  I wrapped up singing:

  Now that you got that bastard Saddam

  Our Christmas stateside will be safe and warm

  The cheers were deafening.

  Then we were loaded into a convoy that left the protected Green Zone. There were gunners at the front and gunners at the rear. All of a sudden, the convoy took a sharp turn off the road and followed a circuitous path. We later heard that a decoy convoy had been sent ahead of ours. Intelligence suspected that the enemy was interested in taking out our group of VIPs. In fact, the decoy convoy had been attacked, but fortunately suffered no casualties.