Shatner Rules (11 page)

T
wo men sat in my Ventura Boulevard office one morning. They called themselves the Foos Brothers. And no, they didn't appear to be a vaudeville act.

They were nice enough fellows, we shared a few laughs and pleasantries, but I wasn't quite sure . . . who they were. My ubiquitous presence on the media landscape is the result of projects that stem from many meetings such as these, and sometimes I get people mixed up.

They had a pitch of some sort. I listened politely while craning my neck to get a look at my daily planner. The day was, as usual, very full, and the word “Rhino” was filled in between 10 and 11
A.M.
I like rhinos. In fact, there's a picture of me riding a rhino in my office. What a great day that was when I met the rhino—I also got to swim with an orca and hold some cheetah kittens. Around 1987? My mind was drifting as the Foos boys were pitching; I looked at my rhino picture, and smiled.

Again, very nice young men, but what did they want—?

A record.

They wanted me to record an album. They
used
to be with Rhino Records, and now they had a new label called Shout! Factory.

Now, Rhino
was
familiar. What did they do . . . ?

Golden Throats.

Oh no. The guys who produced
Golden Throats
were in my office, asking me to make a record. Perhaps this could be a perfect opportunity to wring
their
golden throats?

For the uninitiated,
Golden Throats
was a series of compilation albums released starting in 1988, which featured cover songs performed by people who were not known as traditional singers. Among the highlights: Eddie “
Green Acres
”
Albert's take on Bob Dylan's “Blowin' in the Wind,” Mae West singing “Twist and Shout” at an age when she could barely do either,
Dragnet
's Jack Webb doing a “just the facts” rendition of “Try a Little Tenderness,” and Leonard Nimoy hammering away at “If I Had a Hammer” and
“Proud Mary.”

Leonard was one of two artists featured on the album twice. The other was me.

My renditions of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” and “Mr. Tambourine Man”—from my 1968 album,
The Transformed Man
—were highlighted on
Golden Throats
. Being highlighted on that album was not a tribute; it was a form of mockery. Needless to say,
Golden Throats
is
not
on my iPod. For one thing, I'd have to know how to put things on my iPod.

I let these Foos chat on, aware that their intentions for me were probably not the best. I sent my assistant down to the corner for coffee and gave her the wink, which was the signal for “put something nasty in their cups.”

I clasped my hands behind my head, and let my mind wander again, back many years ago, to the release of
The Transformed
Man.

Sometime in 1968, Fred de Cordova, the executive producer of a famous late night television show, looked at me, shook his head, and said, “Three minutes.”

I pled, “But the song is six minutes.”

“It's two songs,” he insisted, “Do one or the other. If I were you, I'd do the Dylan number. The kids like that.”

My rehearsal for an appearance on
The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson
had just ended, and we had run through the second track of side one of my album, which was “Theme from Cyrano/Mr. Tambourine Man.” On that tune, I read a poem from Rostand's
Cyrano de Bergerac
in which “I may climb to no great heights, but I will climb alone” dovetails into Dylan's song, which I performed as a drug addict hungry for a fix.

Sound heady? It
was
heady! It was 1968!

It was the year the Beatles visited the Maharishi, it was the year
Hair
opened, side 2 of the Velvet Underground's
White Light/White Heat
album featured the seventeen-minute-long “Sister Ray,” the Amboy Dukes took us on a “Journey to the Center of the Mind,” Richard Harris's seven-minute-long “MacArthur Park” went to number two, Iron Butterfly released the eighteen-minute-long “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” Our minds were expanding, and so was our patience for long, freaky pop numbers. And I wanted to be as long and freaky as the rest of them.

Come on! Six minutes of William Shatner was nothing compared to eighteen minutes of Iron Butterfly, but Fred de Cordova wouldn't hear of it. I could do Rostand or Dylan, but not both.

How dare you, Mr. de Cordova? I was a musician! And I had the concept album to prove it.

And it's not like I had never sung on a talk show. Earlier in the year, I had broken out into song on
The
Mike Douglas Show
, singing a tune called “Keep It Gay.”

FUN FACTNER:
While it means something completely different today, in the 1960s, “gay” meant “happy,” “cheery,” “full of merriment,” and “homosexual.”

It was a great performance. In fact, if you type “William Shatner” and “Keep It Gay” into YouTube, you can watch the clip.

I tried to explain to Fred what I was attempting to do with
The Transformed Man,
which was link great literature of the past with great modern literature—the poetry found in many songs of the sixties. Taking one song out of context would destroy the connection. Elsewhere on the album, I paired Hamlet with Sinatra, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” with a poem called “Spleen.” It all made sense in context.

Can you dig it, Fred de Cordova?!?!

But my pleas fell on deaf—and hopelessly square—ears. De Cordova, not digging it and in a hurry to oversee the wrapping of Johnny's Carnac the Magnificent turban, told me, “Do the Dylan number. Nobody knows the Cyrano thing.”

So I did “Mr. Tambourine Man” as a junkie, and my allotted three minutes didn't allow me to outline some of the headier concepts presented in
The Transformed Man
to the millions of people watching
The Tonight Show
. I was uncertain, but I performed it like only I can.

As I worked my way through the number, I eventually collapsed to the ground, in front of Doc Severinsen and the Tonight Show Band, looked heavenward, and screamed,
“MR. TAMBOURINE MAAAAAANNNN!”

I finished, turned toward Johnny, and saw him mouth the words, “What . . . the . . . fuck?”

It seems most of America mouthed those words as well. That was the beginning of the end of
The Transformed Man
, an album frequently mocked, but one I am proud of. It vanished pretty quickly, and I moved on. And then . . .

Golden Throats
came out. It all came rushing back to the pop culture landscape.

Which brings me back to my meeting with the ex–Rhino Records executives. They continued on about how great it would be for me to record another album with them, how they would enlist their full support, shoot videos, blah, blah, blah. These guys were just looking for a gag version of
The Transformed Man
, and I wanted no part of it.

My album became a joke to many people, and for better or worse I had learned to go along with the joke as time went by, but . . . no thanks. I was ready to show the Foos boys the door when . . .

I got a phone call. It was Ben.

Ben whatshisname.

FUN FACTNER:
William Shatner can never remember the last name of his good friend and frequent collaborator Ben Folds.

Ben Folds! Yes. Ben Folds was on the line! Right in the middle of my meeting with Shout! Factory.

Full disclosure: I can never remember Ben Folds's last name. The only way I can is by applying a methodology, a mnemonic, in which I bend myself in the middle, creating a folding action after Ben's name. I suit the action to the word—it's the same way you act Shakespeare! So needless to say, I will be folding myself over as I write the rest of this book whenever Ben's surname comes up.

Ben (fold) Folds is a wonderful singer and songwriter from North Carolina, a beloved figure in the world of alternative pop, and a longtime fan of . . .
The Transformed Man.
When he picked it up at a garage sale as a kid, he had never seen Johnny Carson and had not yet heard of
Golden Throats.
He was a fan of Captain Kirk and his rather wild and strange record album. And in 1998, he asked me to provide some vocals on his record
Fear of Pop.
I had heard of his music, loved it, and agreed.

So out of the blue—in the middle of my meeting with the Foos boys—Ben calls me. I spoke to him briefly, didn't quite listen to what he said, but then looked up at the record execs, and declared, “I'll do a record, but only with Ben Folds.”

The Fooses (Foosi?) almost spat out their coffee—and agreed right there on the spot.

Within a couple of weeks, I had traveled to Nashville to meet with Ben. Tucked under my arm were fifty sets of lyrics I had composed. Before I knew it, I was there, ready to rock, and waiting for Joe Jackson to finish his warm-ups.

They took a very long time.

Y
es, I'll never forget the day that Ben (fold) Folds introduced me to British musician and singer-songwriter Joe Jackson. It was kind of a long day. He and I were to perform a cover of Pulp's “Common People” for my new album,
Has Been.

We came up with the title for the album after I was at an industry event and a young actress refused to take a photo with me, declaring, “No, I don't wanna take a picture with him. Not that has-been.”

Charming. This made me long for the warmth of Charlton Heston.

What does that mean, anyway?
Has-been?
If I still “am,” I “be.” Correct? And if I “were,” at least I “was.” Right? “Was” means I got “there”! In Hollywood, “there” is the goal! And as far as I and many of my fans are concerned, I still “is”! That actress, no doubt, was new to there—Hollywood—and who knows if she still is? I no longer remember her. Where is she “be”? But I digress.

Anyway, we thought it was the perfect title, and Ben then chose a cast of perfect collaborators with whom I could create this album.

Jackson floated in all the way from England, although I understand nowadays he lives in Berlin. I think the Germans keep the white, white Joe Jackson around so that they might feel “ethnic.” He is a white wraith, with white-blonde hair, tall and thin and ephemeral. He was in a cloud. He reminded me of Nosferatu, and I half expected all the flowers in Nashville to shrivel and wilt in his wake.

He came into the studio and plopped down in front of a piano in the sound booth. And began to warm up. He would make . . . sounds. Tinkle away at keys. Make more sounds. Tinkle. Sounds. Tinkle. Sounds.

For three hours.

At one point, I walked up to the window in the sound booth and took a look at him. As with Ben, my daughters were very helpful in letting me know Mr. Jackson's story. He emerged as a force in the British punk/New Wave movement in the late 1970s, where he created a sound that was an eclectic hybrid of pop, classical, and jazz. It was really a thrill to work with him, especially after I realized that the Joe Jackson who Ben kept talking about was not the patriarch of the Jackson 5. I'm not sure I could have taken that kind of trauma.

I watched Joe do his warm-ups and gave him a little wave. Joe looked up from what he was doing, rose, floated out of the booth, and had a conference with Ben.

Ben later called me over and said, “Joe doesn't want you to look at him.”

Oooookaaayyy. Joe seemed to be taking a page from the actress who didn't want to be photographed with me. I thought my transition to rock star was going to award me the slavish devotion that would entitle me to a rock star–sized ego. Either way, I respected the man's process, backed off, and let him enter into hour four of his warm-ups unwatched.

The warm-ups were worth it. Joe Jackson's vocals on “Common People” are enough to send shivers down your spine. (Although honestly, a lot about Joe Jackson is a tad spine-tingling.) All the people I worked with on that record were great: Aimee Mann, Brad Paisley, and Henry Rollins, who I've stayed friends with ever since. Henry and I performed a song called “I Can't Get Behind That,” which featured him and me trading shouts over a freight train of percussion and guitar feedback. That performance certainly would have harshed the mellow of my “Mr. Tambourine Man” junkie.

Rollins has released many spoken-word records, so pairing up with the world's premier “speak-singer” was a natural for me. Also, I like to stand next to him to appear more buff. Seriously, Henry—hit the gym!

FUN FACTNER:
Henry Rollins was once the manager of a Häagen-Dazs store in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.C. And he's the only guy on Earth who can say “white chocolate raspberry truffle” and still sound tough.

Ben and I learned a lot from one another making this record. He helped shape my fifty different sets of lyrics into cohesive songs. At first, though, he was surprised I came in with anything.

“I figured we would just write them here,” he said.

“Wait a minute. You mean you don't have the written material, like a script, when you come into the studio?” said I, incredulous.

“No, we never do that. We just make it up as we go along.”

I guess that's rock and roll, but that's an anathema to me. I don't “wing it.” I'm a stickler for “process” when it comes to performing. When I act, I don't use understudies, I do all my own camera rehearsals, and I am never late. I never arrive without all my lines learned. And I showed up to Nashville with my fifty sets of lyrics, ready to work.

First thing in the morning.

Which for Ben, was around 11:30.

Ben was very rock-and-roll. When he said to arrive at 11
A.M.
, I would be waiting for a half hour to an hour. Eventually, I had to have a sit-down with him. We were paying for the studio space—why waste it? Being on a schedule is very un-rock-and-roll, but being not rock-and-roll is the most rock-and-roll thing you can do, right? I was totally being rock-and-roll with my un-rock-and-rollness.

Ben and I learned a lot from one another. He taught me about music, about the power of collaboration, about telling the truth with my lyrics. I like to think I taught him about the little hand and big hand on the clock. We put together a great album—in two weeks. And have maintained a friendship ever since.

Before long, we were performing together in support of the album, even appearing on
The Tonight Show with Jay Leno
, which by then had been Fred de Cordova–free for many years. After we performed “Common People,” no one was mouthing “what the fuck?”

We played the entire album, with a full band, including Joe Jackson and Henry Rollins, at the historic El Rey Theatre in Los Angeles. “El rey” means “the king,” and I certainly felt like royalty in front of the eight hundred young people who came out to cheer us on. The acceptance I felt from the audience was overwhelming, and really gratifying.

The golden throats of the capacity crowd were united in cheers.

The El Rey show ended, we went backstage, and the crowd continued to cheer for thirty minutes. Unfortunately, we had run through all our songs. There were no more on the album, and Joe Jackson had vanished in a green mist, but I wanted to give the crowd more.

So we went out and did “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”—the Shatner way!

Sure, my groovy premise for
The Transformed Man
had long been forgotten
,
but in the forty intervening years, I was the one who transformed. The audience transformed. The people in front of me at the El Rey
got
it
.

I. Was. Vindicated.

I'm not a vulgar man, but at the end of the number, I raised my middle finger into the air. I raised it high, I raised it proud. It wasn't so much a “fuck you,” but a more rock-and-roll version of “I'm number one!”

The spotlight caught it and held it. It was power, it was defiance, and it was . . .

Transformative.

And I held it up high enough for Freddy de Cordova to see in Heaven.