We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (17 page)

(Even today, thirty-seven years later, whenever Marty Short
and I get together, I go to the piano, he stands behind me, and, for the next hour, we perform every single song in that blessed show. When our wives put us away in the old-age home, Marty and I will be performing
Godspell
there on a nightly basis.)

The show rekindles my energy. Last night, for example, after the curtain went down, I ran to a late-night gig with Munoz in Yorkville. And if that weren’t enough, at 2 a.m. I hooked up with Lenny Breau, the remarkable jazz guitarist, for an after-hours jam. I didn’t play with Tisziji or Lenny for money, but because my soul craved their inspiration. My body craved sleep, but after barely an hour of shut-eye, it had to head for the airport. Stephen Schwartz had sent me a ticket for a quick trip to New York City so I could play piano on the recording session for the sound track of the
Godspell
movie.

Nothing this big has ever happened to me before. This is not only my first trip to New York, it will also be my first time in a recording studio.

“This is my first time here,” I tell the cabbie.

“No kidding,” he replies.

He turns up his radio. “Walking in the Rain with the One I Love” comes on. This is Barry White’s girl-group masterpiece with Love Unlimited. The soaring strings seem to contain all the romantic adventure of the city that awaits me. The song becomes the sound track to my trip.

Twenty minutes later, I notice that this cab ride is taking an awfully long time. It doesn’t occur to me that the cabbie has taken me for a mark.

“Where are we now?” I ask.

“Spanish Harlem.”

“Spanish Harlem!”

I look out the window and see my first brownstone. I think
of the lyrics about that red rose up in Spanish Harlem—it is a special one, it’s never seen the sun. I see that beneath the brownstone there are steps leading down to a basement apartment. This architectural configuration thrills me. It’s been in every New York detective show I’ve ever seen. I imagine that this is the very apartment that houses the rose. She reclines on a bed of cool cotton sheets and wears a sweet fragrance that I can detect, even in this passing cab.

“Where are we now?” I ask.

“The Bronx.”

The Bronx! I crane my neck to get a glimpse of the roofs. I hear the Drifters telling me that on the roof’s the only place they know where you just have to wish to make it so.

Fifteen minutes later, I ask, “Where are we now?”

“Park Avenue.”

Park Avenue! There’s the Waldorf Astoria! I remember hearing stories about Cole Porter living in the Waldorf Towers and composing “Down in the Depths of the 90th Floor” on the grand piano of his penthouse suite.

The cab keeps moving until I see that the neon lights are bright and feel the magic in the air. I don’t have to ask where we are. We’re boogalooing down Broadway! My heart is hammering. We stop at a red light and I glimpse the address: 1619 Broadway. Dear God, 1619 Broadway is the Brill Building, the place where virtually every great song of my childhood was written. I want to jump out of the cab and run into the building, looking for Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, Doc Pomus, and Morty Shuman. “Doc!” I want to shout, “I’m here.” “Morty!” I want to scream, “I’ve made it to New York!”

By the time we pull up to Bill’s Rehearsal Studio in mid-town, the cab tab is fifty dollars, a fortune for me. I don’t care. I
don’t regret having been taken for a ride—not when it’s been the ride of my life. As I grab my bags, “Walking in the Rain with the One I Love” comes on the cab’s radio again.

Inside, the first cat I see unpacking his gear is Ricky “Bongo Boy” Shutter, whose big drums were the defining sound of the
Godspell
cast album.

“We’ve heard of you, Paul Shaffer,” he says. “Schwartz says that you’re the guy who’s tearing it up in Toronto.”

Can I be hearing right? Has an authentic New York City musician actually heard of me?

Stephen comes in and greets me warmly. Then it’s down to work. Because I’ve played the show hundreds of times, I am filled with confidence. The rehearsal goes well.

Lunch break.

Walking out of the studio with the guys, I look across the street and see the Cheetah, a famous club advertising upcoming appearances by Eddie Palmieri, Machito, and Tito Puente. Suddenly the city is pulsating with the baion beat of the Drifters singing “There Goes My Baby.”

We eat at Thanos, a Greek restaurant, where I immediately notice the black-and-white signed celebrity photographs on the wall. My parents have told me that the Stage Deli has such photos, but now I ask myself:
Are there so many stars in New York City that every single restaurant has its very own collection of signed celeb pictures?

I just can’t stop staring. I look up and see Pia Zadora. Next to Pia is Gwen Verdon. Next to Gwen is Jerry Orbach. (A lifetime later, I will be the toastmaster at a Richard Belzer roast with Orbach on the dais. “Nice teeth, Jerry,” I’ll say. “But you know, these days they can actually make ’em look like real teeth.”) Next to Jerry is Stubby Kaye. (My dad loved him in
Guys and
Dolls.)
Next to Stubby is Pat Henry. (My dad told me that when Pat opened for Sinatra with his stand-up routine, he’d put an alarm clock on a stool and say, “I’m setting it for twenty minutes. That’s all the time Frank gives me.”) Next to Stubby are the Platters, the doo-wop masters who sang “With This Ring,” “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” and “The Great Pretender.”

When the food arrives, I’m too excited to eat.

After another three hours of rehearsal, Schwartz says, “Paul, I’ve arranged for you to use our producers’ office tonight. There’s a piano there where you can practice as long as you like.” He’s referring to my need to rehearse a long section where I’m to play fast-paced silent-movie-style piano.

Still going strong, I take a cab to the City Squire Hotel, where I check in, change, shower, and head out to the producers’ office. It’s at 1650 Broadway, the other legendary building where the great tunesmiths worked. I recall that 1650 was the address of Aldon Music, the publishing firm owned by Don Kirshner, the music mogul in whose tiny cubicles Carole King and Gerry Goffin, Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, Neil Sedaka and Howie Greenfield all toiled, creating the sound track of my childhood. I walk down the hallowed hallways as if I’m in a cathedral. I find the producers’ office, sit at an in-tune baby grand, and practice till midnight.

On the way back to the hotel, I stop at a newsstand and buy the
Village Voice
, where I see that the Ronettes will be appearing tomorrow night at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Unbelievable! I’ll be there.

Sometime around 1 a.m. I fall asleep, arpeggios rising and falling in my head.

Next morning I look at the slip of paper with the address of the recording studio. It says, “A&R 799” with the address “799
Seventh Avenue.” I hail a cab, get in, and announce my destination, bristling with excitement. The cabdriver nods, drives a half block, and stops. He points back to a building with the huge number “799” looming over the door. Without my knowing it, Stephen had booked me into a hotel right across the street from the studio. I give the cabbie a buck and get out, feeling like a schmuck.

The studio is cavernous. This is the very room where Elton John cut his live album
11-17-70
. It is therefore sacred ground. I look around and see two hot-line phones on the wall. The first goes directly to Wolf’s Deli, where hot pastramis and corned beefs can be ordered any hour of the night or day; the second direct line goes to Radio Registry, the premier booking service for New York studio musicians. In a few years I will be a Radio Registry subscriber. My life will revolve around Radio Registry. For now, it is enough to know that I am in a land where such a service exists.

The session goes well. On some numbers, Stephen Schwartz is on one keyboard while I’m on another. We match our playing to images on a giant theater-sized movie screen. If you screw up, no problem. Stop the tape, go back, “punch in,” and do it again. I have never experienced anything like this before.

Lunch is at a coffee shop around the corner. Yet even in this, the most inconspicuous of eateries, there are fabulous celeb photos on the walls. There is George Maharis, who, of course, shot to fame on
Route 66
. There is also a photo of a smiling Jack Paar with his handwritten salutation, “Harry, no one does ham and eggs better. I kid you not. Jack.”

(Jump ahead two decades: I am married to the sainted Cathy. We are living in the burbs outside New York City. Victoria, our first child, is an infant. Paar and his wife Miriam live nearby. We
strike up a friendship. Marty Short is coming to town and must meet Paar. I have a backyard barbecue and, before the Paars arrive, Marty teaches me Paar’s theme song from
The Tonight Show
. During the party, Paar puts Victoria on his lap and interviews her in his inimitable fashion. “How do you like your formula, sweetheart?” he asks. “Is this your preferred brand or do you have other favorites?” “Jack,” I say, “tell Victoria, ‘I kid you not.’” “Victoria,” says Paar, “‘I kid you not.’” I’m thrilled.)

Later in the afternoon Jack speaks about his famous feud with Ed Sullivan over guest star fees. Jack explains, “The only thing that reconciled us was Ed’s ability to secure tickets for my daughter Randy to see the Beatles.” Marty and I know this story but act as though we’re hearing it for the first time. At the end of the evening, just as Jack and Miriam are leaving, I go to the piano and play his theme song. The music stops Jack in his tracks. He tries to speak but can’t. I see tears in his eyes. I kid you not.

At the end of the sound track recording session for
Godspell
, Stephen is satisfied. I’ve given him what he’s wanted. I’ve passed another test. Some of the guys are going out for drinks and invite me along. I beg off, hurry outside, and grab a cab for the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Time is tight, and I desperately want to be there for the first song. Will they open with “Be My Baby” or “Walking in the Rain”? I tell the driver I’ll give him an especially generous tip if he gets me there in time. He manages to dance through the traffic, zip over the Brooklyn Bridge, and arrive five minutes before the show’s set to start. I tip him extravagantly. I run up to the box office, but the box office is closed. I misread the ad in the
Voice
. The Ronettes won’t be here till next week. Next week I’m back in Toronto, where I never stop daydreaming of New York.

Portrait of the pianist as a young man.

Bernard and Shirley Shaffer. I am nothing but the sum of their parts.

Paul, Marty, and Eugene—Three Canadian Musketeers.