We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (28 page)

Meanwhile, things got worse. When Lorne played the record for my friend Jerry Wexler, the legendary producer, Wex said, “Hey, you’re about to do
Gilda Live!
on Broadway anyway. Just record the fuckin’ show and forget these tracks.”

The tracks were forgotten. The tracks were shelved. Lorne produced
Gilda Live!
as a limited run at the Winter Garden Theater. I ran back and forth from the pit band to the stage, where I played numerous parts, including superschlep Arnie Schneckman to Gilda’s supernerd Lisa Lupner. The highlight was Gilda doing the “Judy Miller Show” where, as a little girl, she’s literally bouncing off the walls.

At one point Gilda said to Lorne, “Paul’s great in the show, but he seems so sad.”

“That’s because Paul used to be in the Blues Brothers band,” Lorne replied. “Now he’s in the Judy Miller Show.”

No matter, the crowds were large and enthusiastic. Lorne
was able to secure a film deal for
Gilda Live!
and I had the pleasure of working for director Mike Nichols. Mike graciously offered me a slot in his actor’s workshop in Connecticut. I toyed with the idea, but it would have meant missing the fifth season of
SNL
. That was the season that began without Danny, John, and the musicians in the Blues Brothers band. Their movie had gone overtime, and they couldn’t get back to New York. Meanwhile, Howard Shore put together a new
SNL
band that included soul saxist David Sanborn. Then, a big surprise:

It happened when I was out in Los Angeles for the weekend. I was at the Sunset Marquis Hotel, sunbathing on a Saturday afternoon, when Danny Aykroyd spotted me. He could not have been nicer. “Duck Dunn’s having a barbecue for the band tomorrow,” he said. “You’ve got to come.”

“I’d love that,” I said.

Danny hastened to add, “Belushi will be there.”

I hesitated for an instant. Danny read my mind and said, “John will be glad to see you, man.”

John was. He embraced me as soon as I arrived. And the first thing he wanted to do was to play me the sound track from the movie—the sound track, of course, I had had nothing to do with. As it played, the band did their choreography with John and Danny fronting. They were all so proud of the steps they had learned and wanted my approval. I was touched, but also conflicted and brokenhearted. After all, this was my band, but a band from which I was now excluded. The whole thing was bittersweet.

A few weeks later, though, the sweet overwhelmed the bitter when John asked me to return as musical director of the Blues Brothers for the big upcoming tour. Naturally I was happy to do so. Who doesn’t want to be a Blues Brother?

We toured eight or nine cities and traveled on a twin-engine prop plane provided by Aspen Airlines. The plane was shaky, making all of us mindful of the late greats—Buddy Holly, Big Bopper, and Richie Valens. As we bounced through a ferocious lightning storm between Detroit and Memphis, I suggested that we write a song and give the publishing to our families. “If we crash,” I said, “at least we’ll leave behind an annuity for our loved ones.” Naturally the song was called “Rock Tragedy,” and we took turns writing verses:

Our bassist, Duck Dunn, who of course had been one of the MG’s, contributed these lyrics:

The tour had some rough spots. In Memphis, home of Booker T. and the MG’s and Stax Records, our concert was attended by a crowd that was all white except for David Porter of the great Isaac Hayes/David Porter writing team. To add insult to injury, we didn’t come close to selling out the venue.

The next day, we all went to the hotel pool to chill. Our group included two integrated couples. When the other guests saw a black man with a white woman and a white man with a
black woman, they cleared the pool and went up to their rooms. We all got a bad case of the Memphis Blues.

I thought back to happier times with Belushi. One of those times involved an
SNL
skit in which—forgive my hubris—a certain semi-modest piano player made television history.

I was in a skit playing one of the “Minstrels of New Castle;” it was a medieval dramatization of a famous underground tape of a Troggs rehearsal. The Troggs were the group that my band had opened for back in Thunder Bay. The tape revealed them unsuccessfully trying to explain a simple beat to their drummer. The problem was that their only means of musical communication was to say “fuckin’” this and “fuckin’” that, as in “You had the
fuckin’
beat. Now you’ve
fuckin’
lost it.” The
SNL
writers put us in old English costumes and had us re-create the scene. As the bandleader, I played recorder. James Taylor was on mandolin and Bill Murray was the hapless drummer. In place of
fuckin’
, TV standards required that we say
floggin’
.

I began by berating Bill. “It’s so
floggin’
simple,” I said. “We’re in
floggin’
Gaunt Manor,
floggin’
Elizabeth of Gaunt is gonna come through the
floggin’
door any minute, listen to us play this
floggin’
song, and decide if she’ll be our
floggin’
patron. Meanwhile, you can’t play four
floggin’
notes.”

Before the skit began, writer Al Franken told me, “That
floggin’
thing is hysterical. Put in as many
floggin’s
as you like.”

So I piled it on. When Bill messed up the rhythm again, I said,
“Floggin’
listen to me for a
floggin’
minute. You just gotta
floggin’
pay attention.”

I was deep into the character, brimming with confidence, when I said to Bill, “You threw the
fuckin’
thing off.”

Oh fuck.

I realized what I did, but there was no going back. This was live. The skit went on. Belushi came out in drag, playing the part of Eleanor of Gaunt. John was anything but gaunt in the role. He was humongous. He took over Bill’s drum spot and had the audience howling.

When the show was over, I saw Lorne and said, “I fucked up.”

“You should have
flogged
up,” he said.

“Sorry.” I cringed.

“You just broke down the last barrier. Anyway, no one noticed.”

Laraine Newman, who had also been in the sketch, added, “Thank
you
, Paul, for making television history.”

In late July, 1981, Cathy and I took a vacation to Hawaii. On our second day there, I almost lost my life in a car crash. I know, though, that there must be a God in heaven. Why? Because on our first day I got to see Don Ho.

Before I get to the scary part of the story, let me start with Mr. Ho.

I’ve always been intrigued by the “King of Hawaiian Entertainment.” When Cathy and I took our seats in the beachside venue on Waikiki Beach and I looked up to see Don seated in his great wicker chair, I was filled with happiness. It didn’t matter that the summer heat was sweltering. I loved how his Hammond home organ was covered with drawings of tiny bubbles rising from a champagne glass. “Tiny Bubbles” was Don’s one big hit. As he sang it, I recalled the days when he had appeared on Johnny Carson or Ed Sullivan. His voice was soft and laconic. Ho was the lounge singer’s lounge singer, the ultimate schmaltzmeister. This guy was Dean Martin on Valium.

With the moon shining above his shoulder, Don looked out
over the audience of admiring women. He had the visage of an aging prince with an aged Prince Valiant haircut. His voice had seen better days, but we didn’t care. He was Don Ho, and that was all we needed. That’s all he needed. After singing the first couple of lines of any given song, he didn’t even bother to sing the rest. He didn’t have to. A handsome young male background singer would take over where he left off. Don’s message was
Hey, I’m Don Ho; I don’t need to do an entire song. I’m so laid back I can’t even be bothered singing a whole song
.

Every song was basically the same. It was “My Hawaiian Home” over and over again.

I didn’t mind. I
wanted
every song to sound the same. I wanted to be lulled off to never-never land by this tranquilizing mood music. It gave me pause to reflect on my life. Maybe I didn’t want to go back to New York. Maybe New York was too raw, too real, too crazy. I had heard that Jim Nabors had a show on the other side of the island and was doing quite well. Maybe
I
could have a show. Maybe I could cash in on my
Saturday Night Live
connection. I could call it “Paul Shaffer’s Saturday Night Live Honolulu Luau.” Carol Burnett, who had moved to Hawaii, could be a guest. Jack Lord would appear. I’d book young Hawaiian talent. Have a weekly limbo contest. Conduct surfing contests. Bring in the best singers from New York: Jerry Vale, Jimmy Roselli, Vic Damone, and, of course, Julie LaRosa. I’d form an all-ukulele band and never deal with winter again. Memories of my frozen Canadian childhood would melt under the island sun. I’d be happy for the rest of my life.

My sweet reverie was broken, though, when, right in the middle of the show, a woman from the audience got up and walked onstage. No one stopped her. I had never seen this before and couldn’t help but be a little shocked. She was middle-aged,
slightly portly, and obviously enchanted by Don. She stood before him for only a second or two when he stopped singing, grabbed her, and brought her face to his. Then he kissed her. I mean,
he kissed her!
From then on it was a free-for-all, one woman after another marching to the stage to place her mouth on the eagerly awaiting Don. Each kiss was caught on film by Don’s photographer. And each woman was quick to buy the picture—at a premium price, of course.

At the end of the show, when the band exited, Don didn’t move. He remained seated on his wicker throne, while the women who had kissed him lined up with their pictures for him to sign. To maximize Don’s take, the photographer would snap still another picture of the female fan kissing Don once again. That print would be available the next day at the box office at 4:30 p.m.

Meanwhile, Cathy drifted over to the gift stand and bought a Don Ho bobble-head doll.

“Do you think he’d autograph it for me?” she asked.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “He’d autograph a thousand if you brought them to him.”

Cathy got on line, her bobble-head doll in hand. As she approached the man, I leaned in to get a good look. True to form, Don kissed her passionately. I was happy for Cathy.

Don’s photographer took the picture and gave us the pitch. We were willing to pay. I wanted to frame it and place it above the television set in my modest suite at the Gramercy Park Hotel.

“What was the kiss like?” I asked Cathy.

“Well, he felt clammy.”

“Tongue?”

“Yes.”

I was thrilled.

Overall, unfortunately, the vacation was anything
but
thrilling. July is the wrong month for Hawaii. The heat is deplorable; there are no ocean breezes; and the place is overrun by tourists—like us—looking for the cheapest packages possible. My mood was dark. I hadn’t wanted to leave New York because Diana Ross was cutting a new album, the one with Michael Jackson’s song “Muscles,” and I was told I might be called for the sessions. My love for Cathy was strong, but I didn’t see how it would be weakened if I hung around the city to record with Miss Ross. On the other hand, Cathy was strong on maintaining her vacation plans. We were going to Hawaii, and that was that.

The day after the Don Ho show, we decided to take our rental car up to Waimea Bay. The scenery was magnificent. The lush mountains and tropical waterfalls were breathtaking, if you like that sort of thing. Frankly, I’d rather be recording with Diana. Oh well, at least I could relate to Hawaii through rock and roll. Who could forget the Beach Boys’ immortal anthem: “All over La Jolla and Waimea Bay, everybody’s gone surfin’, surfin’ USA”? It was part of pop music history, and that had to be good enough for me. So let’s visit Waimea Bay.