We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (23 page)

Then came the strike by Broadway musicians.

Since age fifteen, I had been a loyal dues-paying member of the American Federation of Musicians. I accepted my duty and walked the picket lines with a sign outside the Cort Theater. I did so, however, with great reluctance, as did most of the other young working musicians. We wanted to keep working, but we had no choice. We also had no choice when it came to union meetings. They were mandatory.

The first meeting was called by our union leader, Lou “Russ” Russo. We were assembled in the union hall when Lou,
who had wavy silver hair, made his entrance wearing a black cashmere overcoat. The coat resembled the luxuriously tailored overcoat worn by Lee J. Cobb in
On the Waterfront
when he played union boss Johnny Friendly. Lou Russo took off the coat and carefully folded it from the inside, neatly placing it on a chair so we all could see the red silk lining. As Lou “Russ” Russo spoke Brooklynese, also reminiscent of Cobb’s movie role, I kept staring at the coat.

“I wanna report to the membership that this here strike will be over in no time because we got Mr. Frank Sinatra on our side,” he said. “Mr. Sinatra, he comes from Hoboken. Mr. S, he loves musicians. He owes musicians his life and his livelihood. Now, he’s got this show coming up at the Uris Theater, a Broadway house, and the Old Man don’t like to cancel no shows.”

The very thought that Frank Sinatra himself would be involved in our union dispute—that his intervention would soon end the strike—was nothing short of thrilling. The Chairman was coming to my aid.

A week passed without news. Then a second meeting was called. I arrived early. Lou Russo arrived late. He wore the same black cashmere overcoat. He went through the same routine of folding the coat inside out and placing it on a chair so that the red silk lining screamed at us. It screamed prosperity; it screamed power.

“I got good news to report to the membership, fellas,” he said. “Two nights ago I went over to Jilly’s and left word that I need to talk to Frank Sinatra. As you know, Mr. S frequents Jilly’s on a regular basis, so I am most certain that I will be hearing back directly from Mr. Sinatra. Once I am able to sit down with him and explain what is happening with our union, I can guarantee you that we will have Frank Sinatra’s complete support.

That’s the kind of guy he is. He will bring this strike to a speedy conclusion.”

I thought to myself,
In order to get in touch with Sinatra, Russ is leaving word at Jilly’s? Shouldn’t he have a better way of arranging a meeting? Or is that what you did when you wanted to see Sinatra—you went to Jilly’s?

A week later, our third meeting.

Russ was early. When we arrived, his overcoat was already folded and placed on the chair. The red silk lining was already screaming.

“All right, fellas,” said Russ, “I have news but it ain’t the news I wanted to give you. Mr. Sinatra went over our heads. He went to the Federation in Jersey. Out of respect to his legend-hood, they are giving him special dispensation. He can play the Uris Theater, and his union musicians will be allowed to work. It’s too bad, but the strike goes on.”

Luckily for me, the strike did not impact TV, and I could work on
SNL
unencumbered. When it was settled, though, and
The Magic Show
resumed, the two jobs proved too taxing. I opted for
SNL
.

The casting of
SNL
had been a fascinating process. The guy who was destined to be the show’s biggest star—John Belushi—almost didn’t make it.

Gilda and Aykroyd had already been cast. Meanwhile, Gilda was dating one of the musicians in the
Magic Show
band. Boy, did Gilda have a musical soul! She was a Detroit soul sister. We talked about our mutual love for the Supremes. We commiserated over the tragic story of Florence Ballard, the Supreme who wound up on welfare and died so young. Poor Flo. After a stirring
Supremes skit in which Gilda starred, she passed by my piano and whispered in my ear, “That was for Flo.”

Gilda was also the first friend of mine to get into Studio 54.

“Who do you see in there?” I asked. “Halston and Liza?”

“The only people I see in there,” she said, “are my Aunt Zelda and Uncle Hymie. They come to town, I get them in, I leave, I go home to bed.”

Before all that, though, as
SNL
was being cast, she came to the
Magic Show
theater to see her boyfriend, and Belushi was with her.

“We’re sitting shiva,” she said. (Shiva is the period when we Jews mourn our dead.)

“Who died?” I asked.

“John’s career died,” Gilda explained.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I don’t either,” Gilda continued. “I don’t see how you could have blown the interview, John.”

“It couldn’t have gone worse,” said John. “What happened?” I wanted to know.

“Lorne Michaels asked me what I thought of television, and I told him I hated it.”

“Why’d you say that?” I asked.

“Because I do,” said John. “I hate it like the fuckin’ plague. I told Michaels there’s nothing good on TV and chances are there never will be. I told him that if he came to my house, he’d see spit all over my television screen.”

“He must have loved hearing that,” I said.

“I wasn’t feeling any love from him,” Belushi declared.

“We’ll talk him into using you,” said Gilda. “You gotta be in the cast.”

Later Lorne said that he felt like John would be trouble.
Besides, Lorne was especially leery of people who put down television. Lorne loved television. But others—especially Chevy—campaigned for Belushi. Add to that the endorsement of Michael O’Donoghue, Lorne’s ace writer, and John was in.

As history has recorded, the other cast members were Laraine Newman, who’d worked for Lorne in Hollywood, Jane Curtin, Chevy, Garrett Morris, and, of course, Gilda and Dan.

The first host of the first show was George Carlin. The first musical guests of the first show were Janis Ian and one of my idols, Billy Preston. That same year, other hosts included Richard Pryor, Dick Cavett, Lily Tomlin, Robert Klein, and Buck Henry. Musical guests included Esther Phillips, Gil-Scott Heron, Carly Simon, Bill Withers, and Al Jarreau.

I collaborated on a song with one of the writers, Marilyn Miller, who spoke to Lorne about giving me a weekly credit. Because I was doing some composing, the traditional acknowledgment might have been “special musical material by…” But the word at
SNL
was always “That’s too Carol Burnett,” meaning something smacked of an old-school variety show. “Special musical material” smacked of old school. Instead, I thought of those lounge lizard pianists who liked to say, “You’ve been listening to the musical stylings of…” and, given
SNL’s
and my own fondness for kitsch, I suggested to Lorne that my credit read, “Musical stylings by Paul Shaffer.”

When it appeared on the screen, though, my mother called from Canada and said, “It sounds like you’re doing their hair.”

So my credit became “Special musical material by Paul Shaffer.”

Whatever the handle, it was all exhilarating stuff. And what could be more exhilarating than being present when the Rolling Stones came on? I was in their first skit, appearing as
Don Kirshner, who wants to get backstage to see them. Belushi plays their bouncer and is determined to keep me out. “You’re cut,” he says. “You’re not on the list.” But the Kirshner character manages to sneak in and hang out with the bad boys of rock and roll. There I am, acting with Keith, Ronnie, and Charlie. Cool.

The problem, though, was that Lorne, overstimulated by the appearance of the Stones on his show, lost track of time. Something had to go.

I was in makeup, applying the final touches of the Palm Springs Kirshner tan, when Mick popped in and spoke to me—Paul Shaffer—for the first time in his life.

“You’re cut,” he said.

“Cut?” I asked.

“Lorne’s shit-canned Kirshner. You’re out.”

I didn’t care. Mick Jagger had spoken to me.

Outside of Studio 8H, New York night life was jumping. I was surrounded by funky stuff. The funkiest soul band since James Brown was called Stuff. They played four nights a week at Mikell’s, close to my little Upper West Side pad. I never missed a night. It was soul heaven. This was the group that consisted of pianist Richard Tee, guitarists Cornell Dupree and Eric Gale, and drummers Steve Gadd and Chris Parker. The leader was bassist Gordon Edwards. This was the same group that appeared on the second show of the second season of
SNL
backing up Joe Cocker. While doing “Feeling All Right,” Joe was joined onstage by Belushi doing Joe. The Cocker-off was a classic. You couldn’t tell if John was mocking Joe—or if it was Joe mocking John mocking Joe. Either way, it was a beautiful mockery and I was blessed to be there.

Who in their right minds would want to leave
SNL?

“I think you should leave, Paul,” said Norman Lear. “You’d be making a mistake if you didn’t.”

Lear had been the host of the second show of
SNL’s
second season. After the show, he came up to me and gave his pitch.

“We sold the pilot of
Hereafter
to CBS,” he said. “We can’t do it without you, Paul. We don’t want to do it without you. What do you say?”

What does anyone say to Norman Lear?

Yes, Mr. Lear
.

I had my doubts. I loved my New York life. I was playing dates in the studios with everyone from Barry Manilow to Burt Bacharach. I was in demand. I was developing special material with the kids on
SNL
, and I’d been put in some of the sketches. I was loving it.

But then I thought to myself: Wasn’t it cosmic synchronicity that Norman Lear was hosting
SNL
that very week? Wasn’t he there just to tell me that the time was right to tackle Hollywood? And when he said that I’d not only be in a hit TV sitcom, but I’d also be in a band destined to top the charts, who could resist that argument? Who could resist being bigger than the Monkees?

Scardino could; he was out. I couldn’t; I was in.

I met with Lorne and told him about Lear.

“Paul,” he said, “I think you should reconsider. We want you, we need you, we love you. We need to work something out. What will you be making in L.A.?”

“I start at fifteen hundred an episode.”

“We’re going to miss you.”

L.A. was a part of my mythological image of the United States. The Beach Boys had painted a picture of surf and sex under the hot Malibu sun, even as I was shivering on the ski slopes of frozen Ontario. L.A. played into my imagination as a musical paradise that housed
Shindig!
and the Whisky a Go Go featuring Johnny Rivers three shows a night. L.A. was cool.

But unlike Las Vegas or New York, L.A. never became an obsession. I never dreamed of living in L.A. I went there because Norman Lear had beckoned me. I went there because my ego had been jacked up—a relatively common occurrence in my young life—and because I, like millions before me, bought into the notion of becoming a star.

L.A. is star central.