We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (32 page)

“I loved the Shirelles, man, and that bird with the Chantels that sang ‘Maybe.’”

“That’s Arlene Smith. I’ve got a video of her that would kill you. She’s on
The History of Girl Groups
. It’s filled with those Brill Building stories that always end the same—‘And then the British Invasion wiped us out. We couldn’t compete.’”

“Hey, mate, I’ve got to see that fockin’ show.”

That’s all I needed to hear. We went back to my suite at the Gramercy, where I slipped in the tape. Chas was especially fixated by Don Kirshner’s interview on Spector.

“Phily was an artist,” said Don. “We’d cut three sides for $1,500—no problem. Phily would go in the studio—one song, four grand.”

“Stop the bloomin’ tape,” Chas exclaimed. “That’s why those Brill Building blokes lost their way. Do you know how much it cost us to make ‘House of the Rising Son’?”

“How much?”

“Fifteen fockin’ dollars. With enough left for pints all around. British Invasion, my arse.”

Being Letterman’s bandleader
is
the gig of gigs, especially for a piano player who once survived by working topless bars. Every night’s different. Every night’s a challenge. And of course every night means working with Dave, whose pitch-perfect wit keeps us all in tune. I’m forever grateful for such wonderful work.

But if any gig could rival the excitement of being on nightly TV with Dave, it might be the annual Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction.

It all began when Ahmet Ertegun thought I’d be the right musical director for the induction function. Ahmet had taken a shine to me when I first worked for him on Robert Plant’s Honeydrippers’ record. He appreciated my adaptability.

“You and your band can back up anyone and everyone, Paul,” said Ahmet. “You have the right flexibility and the right feel. The gig is yours.”

The problem was that the first Rock and Roll Hall of Fame dinner, to be held at the Waldorf Astoria in New York, was scheduled for the same day as a Letterman anniversary special.
If the special had been slated for our normal taping time—mid-afternoon—I’d have no problem running across town and making the dinner. But Dave’s idea was to have the entire show taped on an airplane heading for Miami. Then, always the most generous of bosses, Dave would treat everyone to a weekend of sun and fun in Miami Beach.

The only solution was for me and the band to turn around and fly back to New York the second we landed in Miami. Because Dave was supportive of my participation with the Hall, he offered to pay half the cost of a private jet. When Ahmet’s co-chair of the Hall,
Rolling Stone
founder and publisher Jann Wenner, said they’d pay the other half, we were set. All this sounds cool except for one thing: I was convinced that the little jet carrying us back to New York would crash and burn. In my fevered imagination, it seemed inevitable. Ours would be the next big rock and roll air disaster. A private plane heading for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Please, you couldn’t ask for a hipper disaster. I thought I was destined to be remembered with the Big Bopper, Buddy Holly, and Ritchie Valens. Otis Redding and the Bar-Kays had been on such a flight. So had Jim Croce.

In an act of musical perversity, every time we went to commercial on that Letterman anniversary broadcast, my band and I played a song by an artist who had gone down in flames. Commercial one: “Chantilly Lace.” Commercial two: “That’ll Be the Day.” Commercial three: “La Bamba.” Station break: “Dock of the Bay.” Commercial four: “Soul Finger.” Commercial five: “Bad Bad Leroy Brown.” I was petrified during both flights, but the music saw us through. We returned safely to New York and made it to the Waldorf on time.

From then on, I’m happy to say that my band has performed
at virtually every induction dinner. The gig has been a blessing and a blast. The Hall got me even further inside the secret life of rock and roll. It also added to my repertoire of rock and roll stories.

Many of the stories came out of the jams. As years went on, I’d become famous—or infamous—for arranging legendary jams.

That first year all of us were hesitant to ask the legends we were inducting—including Chuck Berry, Ray Charles, Jerry Lee Lewis, James Brown, and Fats Domino—to perform. After all, they were there to be honored, not to sing for their supper. However, at evening’s end a monstrous totally spontaneous jam session exploded out of a photo op, and the cats ran for their instruments. Before we knew it, Chuck Berry was on the floor, his neck resting on the audio monitor, doing a reverse hump as he banged out “Roll Over, Beethoven,” while Jerry Lee bashed the high keyboard counterpoint. That gave me the courage to ask John Fogerty to roll out “Proud Mary” and Steve Winwood to give up “Gimme Some Lovin’,” two tunes by two singers who had not sung those songs in years.

That jam was a dream, others near nightmares. One such occasion resulted in my getting on Eric Clapton’s shit list. This, as you can imagine, is a source of considerable pain for me.

Let me begin the Shaffer/Clapton saga in the eighties, when Eric sat in with my band on Letterman. He was the first major musician to do so. This was important because it opened the door for other stars to do the same. In other words, if God thinks Shaffer’s band is good enough, God’s disciples will follow.

Next time Clapton was in New York, he invited me to hang out with him and his pal Phil Collins, another lovely chap. Suddenly I was tight with the Brits and loving every minute of it.
Eric was even giving me etiquette advice about an upcoming state dinner in Canada where I was to meet Prince Charles and Princess Diana.

“The Royals are very strict about protocol,” said Clapton. “Whatever you do, don’t speak to the Prince and Princess until they speak to you.”

The big moment arrived. I was in a reception line with a number of dignitaries. Brian Mulroney, Prime Minister of Canada, was slowly making his way down the line with the Prince and Princess at his side, introducing each of the guests to the Royals. When they finally got to me, things did not go well. I saw a blank stare on Mulroney’s face; he had no idea who I was. I thought of Clapton’s instruction—
don’t speak till you’re spoken to
—but no one was saying anything. Time stopped. At that moment, I bravely decided to break with royal protocol. I said to Prince Charles, “Hello, Your Highness. My name is Paul Shaffer, and I’m the bandleader of
Late Night with David Letterman
in New York.”

“Really?” the Prince intoned. “How late?”

“Well,” I answered, almost apologetically, “we start at half past midnight.”

“Oh,” the Prince said with a chuckle, “count me out.” He then continued on his princely way. Meanwhile, the poor Princess looked so sad, I let her pass without saying a word. I think she was grateful.

Then in 1999, Clapton and I were both participants in the Save the Music Concert on the White House lawn. I was musical director, and a host of stars, including Al Green, Garth Brooks, and B.B. King, were on the bill. Bill and Hillary were in attendance.

During rehearsal, I tried to set up some format for the song
that Eric and B.B. would be playing together. I did that because, left to their own devices, neither one of them would take the first solo. They had too much respect for one another. The result would be an uncomfortable silence.

I suggested that B.B. sing the first verse and that Eric take the first solo.

“Paul,” said Eric, “this is the blues. We don’t need to plan things out. Just let it develop.”

“I understand, and you’re absolutely right,” I said. But as James Brown had told me, I had the pressure of the time.

“We need some kind of road map, Eric,” I suggested.

He looked at me like I was an enemy of the blues.

“Have it your way,” he said, but he wasn’t happy.

Nonetheless, the performance was stellar.

The president was especially pleased. He’s a blues lover to the core. After the concert, he came over to have his picture taken with the horn section. He was standing right next to me when, for some reason, I felt obligated to let loose with a wisecrack.

“Mr. President,” I said, “if you had come on Letterman instead of Arsenio Hall’s show to play your sax, I’m sure you would have won anyway.”

Clinton’s face fell and he said, in dead earnest, “I wish I had been asked.”

Oh shit
, I thought to myself,
I’ve pissed off the leader of the free world!

To compensate for my blunder, I mailed the president a box of Rico reeds for his sax. “Pres,” I wrote, “check these out.” When he sent me a handwritten letter of appreciation, I realized that the leader of the free world probably had more important things on his mind than a misplaced quip from a piano player.

Meanwhile, my tenuous relationship with Clapton wasn’t
getting any better. Our next encounter came at the Concert for New York, the benefit after 9/11, for which I also served as musical director. Paul McCartney organized the event, which included everyone from Bon Jovi to Jay-Z to the Who and Mick and Keith. There was also the comic relief of Billy Crystal, Jimmy Fallon, and Adam Sandler as Opera Man bashing Osama bin Laden. Meanwhile, in an attempt to keep the show moving and the stars happy, I was operating on overdrive.

David Bowie opened. I’m a fan. I also believe, having heard both their voices, that Bowie and Anthony Newley are the same person. As Belzer says, “Did you ever see them together?” Just saying.

For his opening song, Bowie planned to sing live to a prerecorded instrumental backing. My tech had been instructed to hit “play” on the playback machine when Bowie gave the cue. When he did so, the machine stuttered, and Bowie was out there without the music he needed. It wasn’t pretty. Pro that he is, Bowie covered up admirably and afterward, feeling sick—he had food poisoning—went straight to his dressing room.

I followed him to offer my sincere apologies. But as I was rushing to Bowie’s room, Eric Clapton popped out of another room. Superstars were popping out everywhere.

“Paul,” said Eric, “I must talk to you right away about the song I’m to play.”

“Sorry, Eric,” I said, “I can’t talk right now. I need to see Bowie.”

“Bowie’s already played,” said Eric. “I haven’t.” I felt the pressure of the time. “Eric,” I said, “just give me a sec.”

I found a sick Bowie in his dressing room, and I apologized profusely. Ever the gentleman, Bowie graciously let it slide.

Speaking of apologies, I once had to make a colossal one to Bowie’s twin, Newley. This happened on Letterman when Anthony had agreed to sing with my band. As the song progressed, I inadvertently modulated way higher than I was supposed to. To reach his final note, poor Anthony nearly busted a gut, but made it. As he went offstage, I heard this horrific howl: “FUUUUUCK!”

I had to apologize, and I did. “You always hurt the one you love,” I wrote in a deeply contrite letter. Newley wrote back: “My final note was so stratospheric, dear Mr. Shaffer, that dogs in Alaska are still holding their ears in pain.”

Back at the Concert for New York, Eric and I had our meeting. He then went onstage and killed with Buddy Guy. But alas, I don’t think the evening brought Eric Clapton and myself any closer together.

Some years later I would play for Eric in another context. This was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame dinner during which Clapton and B.B. King were inducting the same Buddy Guy. This time I knew not to interfere with Eric’s flow. But when Joel Gallen, the producer/director of the show, took me aside, I got a little sidetracked. “Paul,” he said, “this may be one of the last times that these three giants play together. It’s got to be classic. Make sure that B.B. sings one chorus, just like Eric and Buddy.”

The rehearsal was slated for mid-afternoon. It was a typically crowded schedule. In addition to Buddy, the other inductees were U2, Percy Sledge, the O’Jays, and the Pretenders. Many acts, many songs. I was harried. When it was time for B.B., Eric, and Buddy to play, against my better judgment I began to explain how I thought it should go.

“Please, Paul,” said Eric, “this is the blues. Just let it develop.”

Oh, God
, I realized,
I’ve alienated “God” again
. I backed off. But as the song “developed,” B.B. didn’t sing. Remembering the producer’s edict, I stopped the band and said to the three guitarists, “Guys, I think we need to get the format straight. I’d love for B.B. to sing the first chorus.”

“You’re prescribing a format,” said Eric, “and killing the spontaneity.”

“I just want to make sure that B.B. sings,” I explained.

Eric wasn’t happy. Eric didn’t think I understood the blues.

During the actual performance that evening, the song came off brilliantly. Turned out Eric was right. The guys did what they wanted, regardless of the rehearsal. I guess you’d have to say that Eric’s blues are deeper than mine. But I had the pressure of the time.

That same pressure impacted another major musical meeting involving another hero of mine: the immortal Mr. Sammy Davis Jr.

Let me preface my Sammy story by saying that on the wall of my study, among many mementos, my prized possession is a plaque in the shape of the state of Israel. It reads, “An artistic and cultural award presented to Sammy Davis Jr. in Washington, D.C., July 13, 1965, from the Ambassador of Israel.” The plaque was purchased at an auction authorized by Sammy’s estate. I look at it often. It takes me back to that night at the Apollo when I first met the man. He and I participated in the “Motown at the Apollo” television special. Everyone was there—Wilson Pickett, the Four Tops, Smokey Robinson, Luther Vandross—and I was in soul heaven. When Sammy showed up, I introduced myself. “Paul Shaffer,” I said. “I work on the Letterman show.”

Sammy smiled his crooked smile and said, “Groovy, man, I know who you are.”

My heart skipped a beat.

My next experience with Sammy happened on the Letterman show. In the eighties, Dave decided to do a week in Las Vegas. At that time, Cathy—with whom I was still breaking up to make up (and making up to break up)—was working as a talent coordinator for Letterman. That meant she booked the acts. Cathy was great at her job because she’d never take “no” for an answer. Her tenacity was legendary.