We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (15 page)

“No, man. Those cats down there—Ornette, Pharaoh, McCoy—they’re so heavy, man, I could never hang.”

“How ’bout you, Paul?” Munoz asked. “Would you ever consider New York?”

“Well, as a rock player I would, sure. Rock and roll’s my thing.”

But I was far from the world of rock and roll. This was the world of cosmic jazz. Yet even in that world, with all its spiritual enlightenment, all was not sweetness and light.

I was playing keyboards with Munoz at a coffeehouse near the university. This was the Vietnam era. Our appreciators included students, street people, and existentialists. Hippies in assorted colors and sizes sat in the audience. We welcomed all of them. As the evening went on, our music became freer, drifting from one planet to the next. In the process, several new planets were discovered. We were flying and taking the responsive listeners along with us on our journey.

Then, as if the coffee shop were an Old West saloon, the doors flew open, and in walked Sonny Greenwich with his cult of spiritual gunslingers behind him. He walked to the bandstand and, pointing to Tisziji, announced authoritatively, “You are not the Christ.”

“I never claimed to be,” Munoz replied.

“You are the anti-Christ,” Sonny added.

“I am?” asked Munoz.

“Yes,” Sonny went on, “I am the Christ.”

Jesus Christ!

The audience sat spellbound, not quite understanding the magnitude or meaning of the confrontation at hand.

It wasn’t long, though, before Sonny retreated. Having made such a divine claim, he did not see the need to restate his case. I must say that Tisziji reacted with sublime grace. He simply smiled.

Afterward, I realized I had witnessed a crucifixion. But a week later, when Munoz took me and the boys to play a gig in a majestic church on Bloor Street and kicked off with Pharoah Sanders’s “The Creator Has a Master Plan,” I saw the resurrection. Munoz transcended the ugly incident with Sonny and carried us to that place in the cosmos where pure peace prevails.

My patriotism extends to two great nations: Canada and the U.S. Both countries have been good to me. And so it was without equivocation that, after having graduated from the University of Toronto, I took it upon myself to travel to far northern Quebec to make sure that the missile bases there, housing weapons designed to protect home and hearth, were indeed secure. I did this not with any military knowledge but with a firm grasp of the rock and roll piano. I played in a cover band supporting a variety show that provided entertainment for the officers and enlisted men. It was hard work, sometimes even treacherous work, but it had to be done. Music kept the soldiers sharp. Without hearing our inspiring version of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” these brave Canadian military men might easily have lost their motivation and made a critical mistake.

Before I joined this band and began this noble trek, I had had a critical conversation with my father. Dad had come to Toronto on business during the end of my final semester before graduation. I was always happy to see him, and he was always
happy in the certain knowledge that after graduation I would go to law school, just as he had done. We met for lunch in the dining room of the Royal York Hotel, a grand dame building in the center of the city. He asked how school was going and mentioned that he and Mom, along with several other relatives, were excited about attending my graduation ceremony.

“I presume your law school application is in,” Dad said.

When I hesitated before answering, he knew something was wrong.

“Don’t tell me you’re not applying, Paul.”

I was never one to tell my father anything he didn’t want to hear. He was a good man, a strong man, a devoted dad. I didn’t want to disappoint him, but my resolve was strong. My college experience had taught me one thing: I had to give music a try.

“I don’t want to go to law school,” I said.

“I understand, Paul, but consider this: in a few years you’ll want the options that law school provides. Besides, there’s also a respected practice I’ve established that could be yours.”

I didn’t want to say it to Dad—and didn’t—but if the thought of my practicing law in Thunder Bay was my father’s dream, it was my nightmare.

“I want to try this music thing,” I said.

“And actually make a living as a musician?” he asked. “That’s rough, son.”

“I know it is, but I need to try. It’s the one thing I’m passionate about.”

“Passion doesn’t equal income.”

“I realize that, Dad. But if I don’t try, I’ll never know.”

I expected my father to retaliate with ironclad arguments. He was, after all, a professional litigator. But much to his everlasting credit, he didn’t respond, not for several long minutes.
Maybe he was thinking about his own passion for music; maybe he was thinking about his own unrealized ambition to be an entertainer; maybe he was thinking that I could do what he couldn’t. Whatever he was thinking, his response was beautiful.

“You know, Paul, your mother and I figured you might say something like this. And …well, you’re absolutely right. This is about you, not me. You need to give it a try. But also give yourself a time limit. If it isn’t working after a year, reconsider. That sound fair?”

“Very fair.”

When lunch was over and we walked out of the hotel, I kissed my father and said, “Thanks for understanding, Dad.”

“I’m rooting for you, Paul.”

A year.

I had a year to make a living making music.

During my heroic missile base tour, one of my fellow entertainers was a young woman named Avril. She told me that when she got back to Toronto, she wanted to audition for
Godspell
, the theatrical musical. My girlfriend, Virginia, also wanted to try out. The composer, Stephen Schwartz, was personally listening to singers who hoped to get into the show. Both girls wanted my help; they wanted me to accompany them. I was happy to assist. But before I get to the part of my story where Shaffer meets Schwartz, I need to give you a glimpse into my life as a freelance musician in Toronto, desperate to make it. If not, a large pile of law books awaited me.

Toronto was the farthest point north on the southern chitlin’ circuit. It was a soul town with lots of soul music. Hookers were in abundance. Johns were in abundance. Music lovers, who
included both hookers and johns, were in abundance. Musicians were in abundance. Musicians who played the Hammond B3 organ, the soul instrument du jour, were in demand. The pay was low, but the sound was right. I loved the sound, and I didn’t mind playing the raunchy joints. The raunch had flavor. Toronto had been favored by the presence of Jackie Mitoo, a well-known organist in reggae circles. Mitoo was the real deal, a brother from Kingston who put R&B through his fine Jamaican filter. His version of the Stylistics’ “Betcha by Golly Wow” was one of the great revelations of my young life. He played the melody from start to finish with few flourishes. Just a great sound. He sang through the organ. This was, of course, several million miles away from my experience with Munoz. But one didn’t cancel out the other. Both modes—the straight-ahead song and the far-out excursion—got me off.

Playing cover songs in cover bands suited me just fine, and my passion for that particular form of musical expression deepened. I was, after all, playing songs that I didn’t simply like but loved. In fact, it was in Toronto in the early seventies that I developed a credo that has come in handy when, at critical times in my life, confusion threatened to cancel clarity: “What I do best is simply play songs I love.”

To be in a funky bar band in a funky Toronto bar and play the Dells’ “Stay in My Corner” and “Oh, What a Night” or the Dramatics’ “Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get” and “In the Rain” was all I could ask for. And then to top it off with lovely topless dancers undulating right in front of my organ … well, these were stimulating times.

It was during these times that I first heard Wayne Cochran at the El Mocambo, a well-known Toronto rock club. As a kid in Thunder Bay, I was familiar with the Cochran legend, this
singer from Florida known as the “white James Brown.” He was said to have two drummers and cotton candy hair piled to the sky. He had a number of regional hits. I had heard “Going Back to Miami.” (And later covered it with the Blues Brothers.)

The show was masterful. It opened with just a three-piece rhythm section—bass, guitar, and drums. No Wayne in sight. It was the bass player who killed me. He carved out a groove that could have made Richard Nixon boogaloo. He was the funkiest bass player I’d ever heard. (Later I’d learn he was the great Jaco Pastorius.) This groove kept grooving. The groove got groovier, and groovier, and so goddamn groovy that people were up and dancing while the horns came marching in from the back of the club. When they reached the stage it was horns up and out blasted a devastating version of Freddie Hubbard’s “Mr. Clean.” Then, on cue, a voice from heaven announced, “Ladies and gentlemen,
this
is Wayne Cochran and the C. C. Riders!”

I was already on the floor before Wayne came out. When Wayne appeared, Wayne killed. Wayne killed without a voice. His voice was shot, but it didn’t matter. His soul was intact, and his soul made up for his voice. The pitch, the intonation, the enunciation—it all said one thing:
I am a showman whose ability to perform overwhelms all liabilities. I will win you over with my soul. I will soul you to death. My soul will prevail
.

Wayne’s show was such a smash that the minute he closed I ran to the phone to call Funky Ricky.

“Wayne’s as great as we imagined him to be,” I said. “Even greater.”

“I need every detail,” Ricky demanded. “Don’t leave out a fuckin’ thing.” I didn’t.

Which brings me to the first time I met David Letterman.

As this narrative continues, I’ll put this meeting into some personal and—forgive my sense of self-importance—historical context. For now, it’s enough to say that it was the early eighties, and I was being considered as the bandleader of Letterman’s new post—Johnny Carson late-night talk show on NBC.

When I was ushered in to see Dave, the most affable of men, he asked me about my musical ideas for the show. I thought back to my days playing the topless bars in Toronto and said, “I’m partial to R&B and think it would be great to interpret the vocals instrumentally.”

“Sounds good,” said Dave. “I’ve always seen myself as Wayne Cochran anyway.”

That was about the hippest thing I’d ever heard a talk-show host say.

Ten years earlier, in 1972, Avril and Virginia’s request to have me accompany them for
Godspell
did not seem to be a life-altering opportunity. But my friends tell me that I’m a helpful kind of fellow, and in this spirit I agreed to play. I worried that the deadline established by my dad was nearing. In these past eleven months, I had worked steadily at clubs and with Munoz, but I wasn’t really making a living. Something had to happen—and soon. I was only getting twenty dollars for this audition. But when it comes to music, I’ve always had the attitude that low-pay or no-pay, it’s always good to play.

When we arrived, we saw that the auditorium was bustling with young performers waiting their turn. The audition line was long. Avril was called early. I went to the upright piano on stage, and Avril took her place before the mic. She sang the hell out of “Bless the Lord,” a song from the show.

Virginia was next. Her number was Dusty Springfield’s “I Only Want to Be with You.”

From the dark void of the empty audience a voice rang out. “Very nice, young lady. Might I have a word with your piano player?”

I walked to the edge of the stage. A well-spoken man, also in his early twenties, approached me. He was well dressed and well mannered.

“I’m Stephen Schwartz,” he said.

“Paul Shaffer.”

“Paul, I like the way you play. You’re a rock pianist, aren’t you?”

“Try to be.”

“Well, you are. And to be honest with you”—here he brought his voice down to a whisper—“my audition pianist doesn’t quite get rock. He’s a typical theatrical pianist with a light touch. I need that percussive feel that you seem to have. He doesn’t understand that this is a rock musical and most of the aspiring singers are coming in with rock songs. How’s your general knowledge of rock songs?”