We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (16 page)

“Good,” I said. “Excellent.”

“That’s what I thought. Would you be willing to take his place and play for the rest of the auditions?”

“Of course.”

“Just give me a few minutes to dismiss him.”

As we all know, Lana Turner was discovered at Schwab’s drugstore in Hollywood. Billie Holiday in Harlem. Don Rickles was discovered in Miami Beach. Stephen Schwartz discovered me in Toronto. What exactly, though, did Schwartz discover?

A guy who could bang out rock tunes and knew a helluva lot of rock tunes to bang. So when the next singer wanted to sing
“Roll Over, Beethoven,” I was right there with him. Didn’t need the music. And when the next gal sang “Respect,” I was down. When a guy wanted “Heart of Gold,” I gave him “Heart of Gold.”

Stephen Schwartz, who had only recently found fame with
Godspell
, had discovered, at the very least, my talent as an audition pianist.

Toward the end of the afternoon, after I had accompanied at least two dozen auditioners, a skinny Jewish gal wearing floppy overalls came up to me and with an endearing lisp asked, “Do you know ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah’?”

“Sure,” I said.

Her hair was in pigtails and her smile impish and irresistibly sweet.

I got into the Disney spirit, improvised a quick introduction, and then watched the young woman command the stage with such childlike charm we all realized we were watching a star. She was absolutely adorable; she danced and sang with such obvious sincerity that, when she was through, everyone—even her competitors—burst out into applause. I myself stood up and applauded. This was Gilda Radner.

Of course Gilda made it into the show. And so did Avril. Alas, Virginia did not.

At the conclusion of the long process, Stephen Schwartz came up to me and said, “Good job. How would you like to put together a band and become musical director of the show?”

I was speechless. Awestruck. Delirious.

This was it! Good-bye, law school!

When I told my dad that I had, in fact, gone beyond the topless bars and funky clubs of Yonge Street and had landed a legitimate job in the legitimate theater doing a legitimate
musical, Bernie Shaffer, much to his credit, was nothing but proud. He didn’t renege on his deal, and he didn’t warn me that the show might not last.

“That’s wonderful, Paul,” he said. “Your mother and I will be there opening night.”

The assignment, of course, represented an unexpected change. I had come to the
Godspell
auditions merely to make a few bucks. But I left with a whole new career direction. This wasn’t playing cover tunes on the Hammond B3. Nor was it playing far-out jazz with Tisziji Munoz. This was inserting myself into the cutting-edge trend of the day, rock musicals. That
Godspell
had a Christian theme mattered not, especially when I heard Jewish Victor Garber win the part of Jesus. He sang like an angel. I felt like an angel had led me to this great gig. This great gig led me to a new circle of friends. And that changed everything.

With those words, Andrea Martin, perhaps the funniest of all the funny people who appeared in the Toronto
Godspell
, lifted her blouse and exposed her breasts. Her breasts were perfect, her delivery priceless.

That scene did not unfold in the show itself. It unfolded in the parking lot after she and other members of the cast had dined on spaghetti and cheap wine. In those days, we couldn’t have cared less about the quality of the wine. We were more concerned with the quality of Andrea’s breasts, humor, and indomitable spirit. Like all of us, she was hell bent on making it, and this musical, that we discussed night and day, was the vehicle.

At the same audition that saw Gilda win the part, two other stars emerged. They grew up together in Hamilton, Ontario, where they both graduated from McMaster University.

The first guy was Marty Short, who sang a Sinatra-styled version of “My Funny Valentine” that brought down the house. He was bursting with talent—impish, wildly irreverent, wholly
unpredictable, and fueled by more energy than a souped-up Ferrari. At the time, however, he was driving a beat-up Beetle and wearing a John Lennon—style cap.

The second guy was Eugene Levy, who sang “Aquarius,” but with a Perry Como cool. In fact, some time later, when Eugene started doing SCTV skits, he did a parody of “I Love the Night Life,” the high-octane disco ditty by Alicia Bridges, as if done by Como. He’d sing as he reclined on a sofa, his head on a pillow, nearly dozing off as he yawned the lyrics “I love the night life, I love to Bogey …”Marty was subtle as a sledgehammer; Eugene actually
was
subtle. Both were hilarious.

After sadly breaking up with Virginia, I began living with Mary Ann McDonald, another cast member. Marty and Eugene shared a house at 1063 Avenue Road. Their home became Comedy Central. We’d gather there after the show for postmortem. We’d meet there at week’s end for what Marty called “Friday Night Services”—and Marty isn’t even Jewish. It was a nonstop gag and improv fest. We’d do impromptu skits, playing each other, ruthlessly parodying our own shortcomings. We became polished shtickticians.

Never mind Aquarius, this was the age of Living Theater. Off-the-wall antics were all the rage. Even within the context of
Godspell
, a retelling of St. Matthew’s gospel, in between acts a cast member could come out and do unrelated and outrageous shtick. Marty, of course, was the king of outrageous shtick. Allow me to jump ahead some thirty years for an example of prime Short shtick.

The Janet Jackson One-Boob Super Bowl was the hottest story of the year. Marty was due to appear on Letterman. He phoned me and said, “Paul, I’ve been thinking about the Janet Jackson thing.”

“Yes, Marty,” I answered.

“Now, you’ve been with Dave for decades. You know him better than anyone. Do you think he’d mind if I came out wearing a pair of shorts?”

“Not at all,” I said.

“And after I sat down, if I allowed just one testicle to pop out, that would be okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “Dave would be delighted.”

When I think back to the Toronto of the seventies, it becomes clear that Marty Short was inadvertently my life coach. He changed my vision of not only what it meant to
be
funny, but to
live
funny. Culturally, he was the bridge between my parents’ culture and my own. For example, my parents loved Sinatra. So did Marty. But Marty, through an irony that both mimicked and adored the ring-a-ding-ding Sinatra style, made it okay for me, a rock ’n’ roll kid, to embrace the Sinatra aesthetic. Marty showed me that life could be lived out in comedy sketches. Life might be tragic; catastrophe might be looming; but if we turn our little daily disappointments into funny bits—with setups and punch lines—we can beat back the blues and die laughing. Nothing keeps Marty Short from making you laugh.

Meanwhile, in our little world of Canadian show biz, I was delighted when Gilda threw a surprise party for my twenty-third birthday and gave it a fifties theme because I was known, even then, as a guy who loved the oldies. Gilda wore a poodle skirt and chewed a fat wad of gum, Eugene came as a greaser, and Marty as a nerd with his pockets stuffed with Kleenex. “Why Kleenex?” I asked. “Because in the fifties,” he said, “everyone seemed to be carrying a lot of Kleenex.”

A little later, Marty appeared in a serious play in Hamilton called
Fortune and Men’s Eyes
. The story involved gay men in jail, which is why Gilda called it “Fortune and Men’s Thighs.” It was an arty drama with all the pretensions of the period.

Nonetheless, Eugene, Gilda, and I dutifully drove down for opening night. Marty had always spoken of Shakespeare’s, his favorite restaurant in Hamilton, and insisted we eat there afterward. As we drove by Shakespeare’s on the way to the theater, though, we saw that it was closed. When we arrived and took our seats, I saw that the actors were onstage and already in character. The atmosphere was solemn. After all, they were imprisoned. Marty was sitting on a bench center stage, assuming a deadly serious attitude. I marched down the aisle and approached him indignantly. “Marty!” I screamed. “Shakespeare’s is closed! Do you hear me?” His head went down as he fought back the laughter; but he couldn’t stop his lower body from shaking and soon lost control. There went the mood. Forget solemnity.

Back at
Godspell
, when Victor Garber left to shoot the movie version, Don Scardino came in from New York to take his place. Don actually moved into Victor’s apartment. “I’ve sublet Victor’s life,” Don liked to say. Don did well in the role but after a while moved on. Then Eugene, a Jew like Jesus, got the part. The problem, however, involved hair, a big topic at the time. They claimed Eugene’s chest was too hairy and insisted that he shave. Eugene said no. Chances are, Jesus himself was hairy as a bear. Besides, claimed Eugene, one has to maintain one’s sense of dignity. He would not shave. Fortunately, a compromise was forged, and Eugene, as savior of mankind, wore a tank top during matinees so as not to scare the kids. The audience accepted him and Eugene was a hit.

A quick out-of-chronology aside for a glimpse into Eugene’s humor. Eugene and I were in California. I was staying in L.A. at the Continental Hyatt House, lovingly called the Riot House by the rock stars who helped destroy it. My room overlooked the glamorous city. At the time, Eugene was living in not-so-glamorous Pasadena, and I invited him over. As we stood on the balcony and perused the landscape of glittering lights, I said, “It’s Friday night. They’re having ‘Friday Night Services’ in Toronto. Let’s call the gang.” Once we got our friends on the phone, Eugene began describing the scene in loving detail, rubbing in the fact that they were in Canada while we were in Hollywood. He talked about how Hollywood was overrun with stars. Then he’d say, “Look who just walked in the room. Why, it’s Dick York.” Dick York was one of the stars of
Bewitched
. Then Eugene added, “I can’t believe it, it’s Dick Sargent. Hey, you replaced Dick York on
Bewitched
. What are the odds?” But Eugene wasn’t finished yet. “Can this really be happening?” he said. “I’m looking straight into the eyes of Don DeFore.” DeFore played Thorny Thornberry, the ever-jovial neighbor on
Ozzie and Harriet
.

In the post—Ozzie
and Harriet
era of hippies and
Hair
, the producers of
Godspell
had to make sure the show didn’t lose its edge. Once a choreographer/director was sent up from New York to whip us into shape. He assumed the demeanor of a guru. This, of course, was the era of gurus. He’d meditate; he’d medicate; he’d pontificate; he’d procrastinate; he’d speak of nuanced staging changes and subtle variations in delivering lines. He wore the robes of an ancient teacher. We were all impressed. As it turned out, though, the gentleman was using his guru figure shtick for a singular purpose: to get laid.

“Am I a guru figure?” I asked Eugene Levy.

“No,” said Eugene, “you’re more of a Jack Carter figure.”

“Ah.”

I’m not sure whether the guru figure was successful, but the show was successful enough to run for well over a year.

… I ask the cabdriver.

“New York City, where the hell do you think we are?”

I’ve just flown into LaGuardia Airport. At 6 a.m. I caught the first morning flight from Toronto. Now it’s 8 a.m. and the yellow cab, with me in the back gawking like a gringo, emerges from a tunnel and starts weaving its way through the canyons of steel.

I’m beside myself with excitement. I’m overcaffeinated and overtired. Last night I played
Godspell
, just as I’ve played it for the past eleven months, eight shows a week with four on the weekend. The band consists of only four members—myself and a bassist, drummer, and guitarist. Because Schwartz’s score is so keyboard based, the weight is on me to bang it out and keep it moving. I have tremendous love for the show. I love the songs and the spirit and the fact that it allows me to demonstrate my technical prowess. I have it down cold and never tire of performing it.