We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives

by Paul Shaffer

  Dave never blinked an eye. I blinked both eyes. Over and over again.

  Our third Christmas trip also took us to Iraq. This time Dave figured we should bring along a comic. Always loyal, he chose his friend Tom Dreesen. Tom had been a longtime friend of Sinatra’s. In fact, he was the opening act for many of Frank’s appearances. Like many of us, Tom’s obsessed with all things Sinatra. Unfortunately, I don’t have any Sinatra stories. If I did, I’d be telling them night and day. Tom Dreesen has loads of Sinatra stories. He tells them night and day.

  In fact, Dreesen told an endless stream of Sinatra stories on our endless plane ride to Iraq. In long and hilarious disquisitions, Tom delineated those situations when one was required to address Sinatra as Mr. S; when one called him Mr. Sinatra; and when one was free to refer to him as Frank or simply the Old Man. Tom offered up delicious descriptions of Frank’s compound in Palm Springs; he told us that each guest bungalow was named after a Sinatra hit and let it be known that he always stayed in the Tender Trap.

  Naturally these stories charmed me entirely, even if—or especially because—they stood in such vivid contrast to our goodwill mission. Our show was a simple affair. Dave welcomed everyone and expressed his gratitude to the troops. Military personnel, most of whom were excellent, performed. Tom told a few hilarious jokes, followed by a few tunes played by yours truly. Then came two novelty chick acts from the Late Show. The first was the Hula Hoop Girl, whose name describes her routine. Next came the Grinder Girl. The Grinder Girl was something to behold. This frisky lassie placed a grinder—a revolving drill bit—right on her crotch and bent over, and when the grinder began grinding, sparks flew out of her ass. Even the soldiers were embarrassed.

  Embarrassments and anxieties aside, what a privilege to go on these trips with Dave, a privilege to personally thank the men and women who put their lives on the line for us.

  As I approach my seventh decade of life, I must confess to some self-examination, to asking, as did Dionne Warwick, “What’s it all about, Alfie?”

  Naturally I am a believer in the spiritual properties of music. Music is my muse, my soul, and my salvation. Music pays my children’s orthodontist. Music puts gas in the car, food on the table, and a smile on my face. Music lights my way—always has and always will—as I navigate life’s tricky mazes. Music expresses feelings I cannot put into words. Plain and simple, music—music heard and music played—makes me feel good. Even the blues takes away my blues.

  As demonstrated in these pages, my musical gods who jam atop Mount Olympus are many—many writers, players, producers, and singers in all styles. If God ever caught me, as Moses caught the children of Israel, worshipping a graven image, it would probably look a little like Felix Cavaliere of the Rascals.

  I also worship at more traditional altars. I attend shul. I’m a member of an Orthodox congregation where my son Will is scheduled to celebrate his bar mitzvah a few years from now. That’s important to me. It was important to both me and Cathy that she convert to Judaism before we married. My faith, and the tradition that informs it, is a vital part of my life.

  Here’s something quirky about my relationship to modern Orthodox Judaism. As you might expect, it involves music. At my current shul, most of the traditional centuries-old prayer melodies—the same melodies I learned and loved as a child in Thunder Bay—are being replaced by melodies written by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach. Carlebach, who died in 1994, was a gifted composer who gave a modern folksy spin to Hebraic music. Some have compared him to Dylan. His motifs became hugely popular among younger Orthodox Jews. In many shuls around the world, they have actually replaced the ancient melodic lines.

  This doesn’t thrill me. And though I know it sounds strange for me—lover of rock and roll and defender of all genres of pop music—to hold such a staunchly traditional view, I just want to hear the melodies I first heard when I entered the synagogue as a boy, those same melodies that filled the hearts of my ancestors. Today those melodies fill my heart with a love linked to the history of a people who have suffered and survived. I need for those haunting melodies to survive. I need those haunting melodies for strength.

  When my mother fell ill in 1999, I needed a great deal of strength. By then my father had also fallen into an alarming decline. A few years earlier, Mom had told me, in her genteel way, “I’m afraid, dear, that your dad is losing his marbles a little bit.” It turned out to be Alzheimer’s.

  That’s probably why he broke the news the way he did.

  I was in postproduction for Blues Brothers 2000. While not the same kind of blockbuster as its predecessor, the film was a wonderful experience for me. Dan Aykroyd made good on his promise to bring me back into the funky world of the Blues Brothers. To me, my presence in the second movie made up for my absence in the first. That meant a great deal to me. I got to produce Aretha doing “Respect” with yours truly on organ while the Queen played her soulful piano. I especially relished the spectacular ending where I led an all-star jam extravaganza that included Billy Preston, Isaac Hayes, Stevie Winwood, B.B.

  King, Wilson Pickett, Bo Diddley, Dr. John, Jimmie Vaughan, Travis Tritt, and my old friend Eric Clapton.

  Looking at early rushes of the film and coordinating the music, I was hard at work when Dad called. Looking back, our conversation felt like something out of Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm.

  “How are you, Paul?” he asked.

  “Fine, Dad.”

  “Just calling to check up on you.”

  “That’s nice of you, Dad. The film’s almost done.”

  “Can’t wait to see it, son.”

  “I’ll fly you and Mom out for the premiere.”

  “Mom may not be able to come.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, well, because she’s in the hospital.”

  “Mom’s in the hospital! When did this happen?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “And you never told me?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Not bother me! She’s my mother! What’s wrong with her?”

  “Pneumonia.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Cathy, the kids, and I flew up to Canada to see her. Her condition had stabilized, and the doctors were optimistic.

  Back in New York, I called her every day. A week later, she sounded excited.

  “They’re letting me go home today,” she said.

  “Oh, Mom, that’s wonderful.”

  “I can’t wait to get back to my own bed.”

  “I can only imagine. Hey, Mom, I love you.”

  “I love you too, Paul.”

  Three hours later, my aunt Lorna called. “Your mother’s dead.”

  “I just talked to her. What happened?”

  “Her heart gave out.”

  Shirley Eleanor Wood Shaffer was seventy-seven.

  Dad hung on for quite a few more years. But his decline was difficult. I’d fly home to see him often. Passionate about jazz singers his entire life, toward the end he only wanted to hear three: Nat Cole, Tony Bennett, and Sinatra. Later, only Nat and Frank sounded good to him. During his last days, three dwindled down to one: Dad only wanted to hear Sinatra. That’s how he left this earth, listening to Frank. Bernard Shaffer was ninety.

  I miss my parents every day of my life. I think of them every day. I feel great gratitude in my heart for the love they gave me. I forgive them for urging me to get a wig when my hairline started to recede. Rugsville? I don’t think so.

  Despite differences in our outlook on hair, I am the product of my parents’ culture. When my culture began to move in a new direction, when rock and roll invaded my soul, Mom and Dad supported and encouraged me. They saw that my passion was genuine; they realized the music was worthwhile. Without their backing, I may well have wound up an unhappy barrister or a barista at Starbucks.

  Instead, I’m a happy pianist. I’m happy to be the guy who backs up the singers, the stripp
ers, the rockers, and the rollers.

  I’m happy when I’m pumping the organ and Bruce Springsteen jumps on top of it while whipping up a frenzied “Glory Days.” I still hear myself telling my mother, just as I told her when I was a kid falling in love with music, “Ma, it’s rock and roll.”

  It’s a party.

  It’s a life.

  It’s a dream.

  It’s a different dream than the one I imagined when I first came to New York through the kind auspices of composer Stephen Schwartz. When I first stayed with Stephen in his home in Connecticut, I knew that the vanilla suburbs were not for me. I had to have the city. I had to have the funk. I had to move to big-city beats. And yet here I am, decades later, one foot on Broadway and another in Westchester County with the wife and kids.

  Yes, my people, I have a divided soul. I live a double life. And I like it.

  My suburban life finds me fathering America’s two greatest kids, Victoria and Will. I put on my Father Knows Best baby-blue Orlon cardigan sweater and attend parent conferences with their teachers. Cathy and I are absolutely aglow when we’re told our children are achieving on a high level, as invariably they are. I have been known to barbecue in the backyard. I consult gardeners about crabgrass. I drive to the supermarket.

  But two nights a week, after the Letterman show has wrapped, I’m back in the funk. I troll the city nightlife. I might fall by my favorite bar and restaurant, Caffe Cielo. And even though I do not drink—my migraines won’t tolerate it—and even though I am a happily married man, I stand at the bar, like Jackie Gleason at Toots Shor’s, and listen to the proprietor, my pal Joe, go on and on about the wonders of Brazilian women. After that, I might hook up with Tom Leopold, the wittiest of writers, and go catch a Ben Vereen, a Tony Martin, or a Lynda Carter at an East Side cabaret. Or maybe catch Lew Soloff at a club in the Village where he’s brewing up a hot pot of New York post-bop.

  Yes, kids, it’s a gas to be living in a city where I walk the streets to the harmony of a Henry Mancini jazz score. It’s a gas to rock the Ed Sullivan Theater every weekday night with the baddest band in the land. A gas to walk through Manhattan at midnight when the skyscrapers are glowing neon and the streets shimmering like jewels.

  If you stop by my apartment overlooking the moody Hudson River, you won’t find me in front of a bank of high-tech synthesizers with the latest digital this and digital that. No, sir, you will find me at the tried-and-true Hammond B3, the one that belonged to Soul Brother Number One, Godfather James Brown. Hey, I just might favor you with a few of my best Jimmy McGriff or Dr. Lonnie Smith licks. I’ll play the blues for you. I’ll get you to thinking that you’re in some semi-sleazy lounge where the waitresses wear cat suits and the patrons want their funk unfiltered.

  This is where I began. This is where I am. This is where I’ll be. And if I stop, it’s only because we gotta take a short pause for the cause. We’ll be back in a flash. We got one more set to go. And then, somewhere east of midnight, in those wee small ones, it’ll be time to wrap it up. In the words of Sam Butera, “It’s a pleasure to kill ourselves for you, ladies and gentlemen.” We hate to go, but we got to go. So we leave you with the love and the sincerity and all good stuff. Please come back and see us.

  We’ll be here for the rest of our lives.

  Credits

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of Universal Music Enterprises.

  courtesy of NBCU Photo Bank.

  courtesy of Edie Baskin Studios, © Edie Baskin.

  courtesy of NBCU Photo Bank.

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of Chuck Pulin.

  courtesy of HBO.

  courtesy of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Foundation.

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of NBCU Photo Bank.

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of Canada’s Walk of Fame.

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of CBS Photo: JP Filo.

  courtesy of the author.

  courtesy of Kimberly Butler/Kimberly Butler Photography.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Paul Shaffer is one of America’s enduring musical icons. He is the musical director of Late Show with David Letterman as well as the co-composer of “It’s Raining Men.”

  David Ritz has co-written memoirs with, among others, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and Don Rickles. He also co-wrote “Sexual Healing.”

  Copyright © 2009 by Paul Shaffer Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday/Flying Dolphin Press, an imprint of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  FLYING DOLPHIN PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.doubleday.com

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published and unpublished material:

  Paul Anka: Excerpt from “My Way” parody by Paul Anka. Reprinted by permission of Paul Anka.

  Brew Music: Excerpt from “We’re An American Band” by Don Brewer, copyright © 1987 by Brew Music. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Brew Music.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Shaffer, Paul,

  We’ll be here for the rest of our lives / by Paul Shaffer with David

  Ritz. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Shaffer, Paul. 2. Conductors (Music)—United States—Biography. 3. Musicians—United States—Biography. 4. Late night with David Letterman (Television program) I. Ritz, David. II. Title.

  ML422.S48A3 2009

  784.092—dc22

  [B]

  2009005484

  eISBN: 978-0-385-53221-1

  v3.0