We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (35 page)

As was his MO, Lorne called it for 4 p.m. but didn’t make his grand entrance until 6. None of us objected. After all, we were all there because of Lorne.

I started off the evening by announcing that the Harlem Boys’ Choir would sing a song. I have no idea why the Harlem Boys’ Choir had been chosen by Lorne, but so it was. They sang splendidly. I also performed “Honey, Touch Me with My Clothes On,” one of the songs Gilda and I wrote for her one-woman show. The three ladies of Rouge sang it, the same three who had accompanied Gilda on Broadway.

Then the comedians. Laraine and Jane were touching. They really missed Gilda. Danny Aykroyd told of his getaway weekend with Gilda when, in his words, “I finally had this irresistible lady all to myself.” There were other such loving remembrances on the part of Gilda’s male cohorts. It became a Gilda love-off: who loved her more, who loved her longest, who loved her best.

But the entertainer who caught the dark-and-light comic moment with greatest clarity and humor was Bill Murray. Bill got up in front of the audience of Gilda’s
SNL
peers and said what we were all thinking but were too afraid to put into words. “Of course we all loved her,” said Bill. “She was our Carol Burnett, our Lucille Ball. She was our own special genius. The more vulnerable she became, the more we adored her. And then one day—beyond the control of any of us—she met her Prince Charming. Suddenly she was out of our sphere. She was in Connecticut—with
him.”
Here Bill paused for effect before uttering the words “Gene Wilder killed Gilda.”

What may now appear harsh in print was just the comic antidote we needed. It was the biggest laugh I’d ever heard. We laughed uproariously. We laughed until it hurt. We cried until it hurt. We’re still laughing. We’re still crying.

Among the immortal lines we remember from the movies—Clark Gable’s “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” Marlon Brando’s “I could’ve been a contender,” Robert De Niro’s “You talkin’ to me?”—are these words spoken by Artie Fufkin the promo man, played by yours truly in the great rockumentary
This Is Spinal Tap:

“Kick my ass—please!”

I am referring, of course, to my brief movie career during those wild and crazy eighties when, perhaps because of the buzz from my sitcom
A Year at the Top
, I was in great demand. While I didn’t have a starring role in
Spinal Tap
, there was some talk about a supporting actor Oscar nod—mainly from my mother who saw a nuanced interpretation that others may have missed.

This Is Spinal Tap
was written by Harry Shearer, Michael McKean, Christopher Guest, and Rob Reiner. It’s a mockumentary about a make-believe rock band. The original idea was for all four screenwriters to portray the band members. Three of them did, but legend has it that Rob couldn’t fit into the spandex.

That’s how he got to play the part of the doc film director. Reiner was, in fact, the real-life director of
Spinal Tap
.

The filming technique employed the use of scene outlines rather than an actual script. The overall plot was planned, but the dialogue was a kind of free-for-all improvisation. Some of the actors might cook up their comic lines in advance, but they wouldn’t reveal them until the cameras rolled. People were breaking up right and left. On playback, though, Rob would say, “That’s okay. You
would
break up if someone said something like that. We’re leaving it in.”

There are some who say my role as Artie Fufkin was typecasting. Of course, I have known a gang of brilliant promoters over the years, the greatest of whom is Donny Kirshner. Certainly I had Kirshner in mind as I developed the character.

In my key scene, Artie has arranged a record signing for the band’s new release,
Smell the Glove
, at a retail store. He arrives wearing a silver satin tour jacket. When not a single fan shows up, though, Artie is humiliated. He tries to blame the store manager, berating him unmercifully. To express his disappointment, Artie tells him, “We’re talking about a relationship here.”

“Artie, don’t take it so personal,” the manager says.

“Forget about personal, what about a relationship?” asks Artie, invoking the spirit of the great Don Kirshner.

Ultimately, though, Artie assumes the blame for the fiasco. In a moment of mea culpa passion, he bends over and tells the band, “Kick my ass! Enjoy! Kick an ass for a man! I’m not asking, I’m telling with this! Kick my ass—please!”

By the way, the movie did kick ass.

In 1843, Charles Dickens wrote a timeless fable called
A Christmas Carol
. Its two lead characters are Tiny Tim and Ebenezer Scrooge. One hundred and forty-five years later, my good friend Bill Murray used the story as a launching pad for the film
Scrooged
.

I was asked to participate.

My screen time in
Spinal Tap
might have spanned six minutes. My screen time in
Scrooged
was considerably shorter—six seconds. It was memorable nonetheless, mainly because of the presence of one Miles Davis.

The setup was this: Miles, a true jazz icon, would be leading a group of street musicians during a Christmastime outdoor scene as Bill Murray walked by. I was in the band along with Larry Carlton and David Sanborn. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. In wide-screen Technicolor, I was Miles Davis’s keyboardist.

During the musical prerecord, Miles said, “Where’s the drummer?”

“It’s a street band, Miles,” said the music director. “So what?” said Miles. “Even the Salvation Army got drums.”

That’s when I pulled in Marcus Miller to play drums on a machine.

Miles began sketching out the way he wanted us to play “We Three Kings of Orient Are.”

“We’ll do it in three,” said Miles, “then go to a funk section.”

Carlton whispered in my ear, “Why is Miles directing this thing? Why do we have to do it the way Miles wants it?”

“Maybe because, um, he’s Miles?” I said.

The result was a major music lesson for me. I was playing synth bass. Instructing me, Miles said, “Paul, don’t play the root. Don’t land on the root. Ever. Play around it, but never hit
it.” In doing so, I realized this rootless technique floated the whole thing. It immediately sounded like Miles.

The six seconds on camera were extended to six full minutes on the album sound track.

Miles was also a wonderful artist and illustrator. I had the great honor of having him sketch me as I appeared to him on Letterman. He then gave me the sketch. As if that wasn’t enough, he pointed to his sketch pad and said, “Paul, pick out another one. Pick out whatever you like.”

I liked a sketch of Miles being serviced by a lovely Asian babe.

“You have good taste,” he said.

“Thank you, Miles. So do you.”

“Hey, Paul,” he added. “Let’s do this Christmas song on Letterman.”

“Groovy.”

The very next Friday, Miles came on the show and played “We Three Kings” with my band.

During rehearsal, listening to us vamp on a Sly song, he came over and said, “If it ain’t funky, you can’t use it. Ain’t that right, Paul?” I smiled in agreement as I absorbed one of the great compliments of my career. Then, in that same rehearsal while we were playing “We Three Kings,” Miles brought our level down to a whisper. “This is how you get guys in a rock band to listen to each other,” he said. On the show itself, the World’s Most Dangerous Band never played with greater subtlety. Miles was magic.

  Picture this:

  
We’re on the set in Seinfeld’s apartment. Jerry, Elaine, and Kramer watch TV
.

Downstairs buzzer sounds.

“Who is it?”

“It’s George.”

“Oh hi,” Elaine says. “Come on up.”

A beat
.

The front door opens
.

And there, ladies and gentlemen, instead of the irascible Jason Alexander, stands the irascible Paul Shaffer. Kramer does a double take
.

  It could have happened. It was the late eighties. The Letterman show was going strong, and I was frantic with activity. At that point I was winging it without an assistant. I wasn’t answering mail or returning phone calls. Who had time? Which might have been why I hardly noticed a call from Castle Rock Productions, Rob Reiner’s company. I thought to myself,
Castle Rock… that sounds familiar
, but I didn’t make the connection, which was funny, considering that I’d done
This Is Spinal Tap
for Rob. But that’s what happens when you’re burning the candle at both ends.

In any case, I read the message, which said that Jerry Seinfeld was getting his own TV series and he wanted me to be his sidekick. “You don’t have to read for it. You got the part. Just call us back.”

An offer and I don’t have to read? Hmm, tell me more …

But then I got to thinking: Jerry Seinfeld was just one of so many comics who passed through our studio night after night. Jerry’s great, but what kind of show could he possibly have?

So I never returned the call.
Schmuck
.

In an alternate reality somewhere, I can’t walk down the street without being identified as George Costanza, and Jason Alexander is playing keyboards on late-night TV.

My relationship with the one-named diva Cher began in the seventies. That’s when producer Ron Dante flew me to Hollywood. I was excited when she came to Ron’s bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel dressed in white fur and heels higher than I’d ever seen on a white woman. She was extremely cordial and got right to work.

“Paul will be writing some of the arrangements for your record,” Ron said.

“Which ones?” she asked.

“I thought I’d give him ‘Bound To Please,’” said Ron.

“Great,” said Cher. “That’s an S&M number.”

“Then I’m bound to get it right,” I said. Cher smiled. “Please do.”

I started to play, she started to sing, and there was that voice.

Ron gave me some tunes to arrange. One of them, “My Song (Too Far Gone),” co-composed by Cher, was a lament on the end of her relationship with Gregg Allman. I made the guitars weep.

“My Song” made the album, but my other arrangements for
the rock numbers didn’t. Cher’s label, Casablanca, was deep into disco and consequently loaded the record,
Take Me Home
, with dance ditties.

I cherished the chance to work with Cher, though, and, in secret, developed what I considered to be a highly respectable imitation of the singer’s vocal style. I found the right time on Letterman to publicly perform it: late December.

’Twas the night before Christmas when, on the air, I began what would become my annual Cher tribute. “You know, Dave,” I said, “around this time of year I can’t help but reminisce about my favorite episode of the
Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour
. As a lad back in Canada, I remember watching their Christmas episode, the one where William Conrad, of the popular detective series
Cannon
, guest starred. After the comedy sketches, they moved into an extended Christmas medley. Mr. Conrad did “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” in his rotund, jovial manner. Everyone had a lot of fun. Then it was time to get serious. The lights came down. A street lamp appeared and snow started to fall. Cher made her entrance wearing a gorgeous Victorian overcoat. Her hands were in a muff. The pianist played lovely arpeggios, and Cher began to sing ‘O Holy Night.’”

It was at this point that I broke into song, my voice crying in Cher-like cadences, “Woah hol-eh niiiigh, the liiiighs so briiidl-eh shiiiine-oh…”

Years later, I was happy to learn that Cher herself would be appearing on Letterman—largely due to the efforts of one Cathy Vasapoli, booker extraordinaire. Not only was Cher coming on the show to sing her new single, “I Found Someone,” she had requested that my band back her up the week before on
Saturday Night Live
as well. So there we were, in Studio 8H
with Cher, waiting to go on the air. During the commercial break just before the performance, someone in the audience yelled out, “Shaffer, do ‘O Holy Night’!” I sang only a few notes, much to Cher’s delight.

“You sound more like Sonny,” she said.

I took that as a great compliment because I always felt it was Sonny who had taught Cher to sing. I always heard Cher as Sonny, only with a better instrument. I was also aware of Sonny’s seminal influences.

“Sonny sounds more like Louie Prima than Sonny,” I told Cher.

“And Louie Prima,” said Cher, “sounds more like Louie Armstrong than Louie Prima.”

A week later, I was preparing for Cher’s appearance on Letterman. In what amounted to another coup, Cathy had also booked Sonny, but only to converse. Cher had made it clear that she wanted no duet.

I was in the booth with Cher, listening to a rehearsal playback of “I Found Someone,” when I happened to see Sonny walk by. Remembering all his great Sonny and Cher productions, I invited him to listen to the arrangement. There was a wistful look in his eye when he said, “Paul, that’s great.”

Showtime. Cher looked like a million bucks and sang the hell out of “I Found Someone.” She did great panel with Dave. Then Sonny came out and joined them. They spoke of the old days with obvious nostalgia. Sensing the mood, Dave bravely popped the question: “Cher, how about singing something with Sonny?”