Suck and Blow (17 page)

16

ODE TO THE LATE-NIGHT SPONGE

The advantage we had with
Letterman
and, later, Stern is that we were fans first. When people were getting on Letterman, particularly during those first few years at NBC, they might have thought of it as just another booking—“I'm used to being on Carson and now I'm learning this new show.” But to us Letterman and Stern were our Carson. I think there was this evolution in which I got Letterman's humor more than most people who were getting on that show, and I think most people in my generation did.

He once sent me a note congratulating us on our first gold record, and I have it framed on my wall. I really felt he was rooting for us. I think he felt we were something new, and we felt he was something new, and I wanted to be a comedian, so his show was really important to me.

The first time we were on, in early 1991, they made it very clear that only Chan and I could play. I remember Brendan and Bobby really objected to it—“We're a band and we only go on as a band.” But Chan and I were like, “We see your point, but we really should just take any offer they give. But it really does suck.” Chan and I weren't overplaying our hand, but we thought, “Let's do what they've asked us
to do and then try to get the whole band on the show that way.” Our manager agreed, and I'll never forget, Chan and I quietly left the room and then started dancing around and high fiving.

All of my
Letterman
prep work really paid off, though. It was really my kind of humor, and being on that show felt natural to me. I knew how sometimes they would cut to Biff Henderson to watch his reaction for comedic effect. In fact, everyone on Letterman's staff knew they might be on the show if they were on the set and had a stupid expression on their face. When I first went on, I sat in with the band as well, and while I was listening to Paul, I was trying to pay attention to the conversation, trying to have a stupid face ready to go. And because I was a weird-looking guy with crazy hair and knew how to mug for the camera, they cut to me a few times. And getting a laugh from just having a silly look on my face was my favorite moment on that show, more so than doing the song.

I nearly ended up in a MiloÅ¡ Forman movie because of that first appearance. MiloÅ¡ saw me on that show and shortly afterward called our management to say, “We want to hire John to star in a move. It's about an American sumo wrestler who wants to become a full-blooded sumo wrestler and compete in the sacred Japanese competition.” I agonized for weeks:
Do I want to be in a movie in a giant diaper? Is that who am I? Have I worked that hard at music to be in a movie wearing a diaper?
And there's something about being performer and you say, “Of course, that's what music is for, to dress up in a diaper and parade around in a diaper and wrestle other guys in diapers. That's a great honor.” And then I began to think about the money; anything at that time would have seemed like a lot.

MiloÅ¡ wanted me to come in to audition. So I went into the place and there was some other fat guy coming out, looking all nervous. I don't think anybody was very excited about this movie—“Oh my God, I'm trying out for a movie to be in a diaper.” I walked in there, and MiloÅ¡ was very nice to me and asked me to read some lines. They hadn't sent me any sides to read in advance, and I'm terrible reader—to read something naturally off the page was the worst thing for me. So I had the shittiest audition ever, and he said, “Thank you.” I left. That was the last I ever heard of the movie. I found out later it was
never made because the Japanese Sumo Association didn't approve of the script.

I was on
Letterman
twenty times. Each time I watched the show afterward, and it became a torture test of,
Will they cut to me?
One time I had a conversation with Dave, and they bleeped out the word tracheotomy. He said to me, “How do you play the harmonica so fast—do you play two at a time?” I said, ‘No, you need a tracheotomy for that,” and when it aired, they bleeped out “tracheotomy.” I couldn't figure out why. My best theories are that they wanted it to sound dirty or thought I was saying something worse.

I always had a special relationship with the show, at least in my mind, because of my initial connection from high school. In 1983 or 1984 my friend Tom Brown took me to Rockefeller Center and we got tickets to see
Letterman.
Then we waited outside afterward to meet Dave, and he gave us an autographed picture and sent us a
Late Night with David Letterman
sponge. I couldn't believe that a person on TV actually existed. And the sponge was something I saw on TV every night; the sponge was famous to me. It would be thin when he gave it you, but after you added water, it would swell into a proper sponge. Eventually, I think ten years later, I finally did wet it to make a full-size sponge, and that was the beginning of its end—it started pilling and falling apart.

I also got an autograph from Steve Jordan, who was in the
Late Night with David Letterman
band because he played with the Blues Brothers. Then I saw Paul, and my first question for him was, “How come you weren't in the
Blues Brothers
move?” Paul was in the Blues Brothers band, and once you've done that, you could do no wrong in my eyes, but I never understood why he wasn't in the movie. So Paul explained to me that he was committed to
Gilda Live!
on Broadway, which is why Murphy Dunne is in the film. It's too bad he wasn't able to be in the film, because over the years I've heard Dan Aykroyd talk about that blues bar he had with John Belushi, and Paul was very much part of that scene.

If I had a real book or fake book, it was the Blues Brothers movie that led me to all this other music. I made cassette tapes of those songs and learned them religiously. Through his work with the Blues
Brothers on
Saturday Night Live
and on tour, Paul was part of reawakening the old blues music, and for me that was a great way to get into the Stax sound. I was an ignorant kid in the suburbs and had no desire to learn the Stax history. I just thought,
Wow, that really sounds good—it's that
Saturday Night Live
sound.
I was proudly ignorant. It was terrible and wonderful. If I had homework to learn about Stax, I wouldn't have done it, but because it was on TV, that was my world. It allowed me to treat it with the reverence needed for me to get good at it. I really think it would have fucked me if I knew about things. That's why Arnie Lawrence called us the Dummies because our ignorance was bliss.

And when I made my final appearance on the
Letterman
show during its last weeks, after I played some riff, Paul leaned over and said, “Arnie Lawrence would be proud.” I thought that was pretty cool.

Actually the second time I met Paul after the time I got an autograph outside Rockefeller Center was through the New School. We had a field trip to a studio where we got to watch a session and meet Paul. He introduced himself and said, “Hi, I'm . . . Paul.”

Then the third time was a few years later when I was on the show. He had heard that Bill Graham was managing us and was very deferential. For me it was mark of coming up in the word, how Paul Shaffer reacted to us.

Over the years, when I was on
Letterman,
Paul would usually give me a call earlier in the week. Then on the night of the show I'd have about forty minutes before the show, if that, to work out the songs we were going to do, and the band had already done their homework (the real homework was that they were so generally prepared and such solid musicians that it was pretty easy for them; they would decide songs on the fly quite often). The way Paul worked with me as an improvising musician was to say, “I'll cue you, you blow for a while, and we'll throw it back to a melody, the head. Then just keep your eye on me, and we'll stop when the commercial comes in.” Bernie Worrell was in his band for a while, but he had to leave because he wouldn't stop for the commercial breaks; he would keep on playing.

The whole time I was on
Letterman
Paul would be telling me stuff in my ear—“We're going to do ‘Low Rider' next in the key of G—be ready.” Or, ‘We're doing to do this Animals tune,” and he'd name it.
I'd say, “I don't know how that goes,” and he'd sing me the melody because I am not an encyclopedia and he knew how to handle that.

When Blues Traveler got bumped the first time, I was sitting in with Paul's band, so I didn't know about it. He was the one who told me, “We ran out of time; you're getting bumped. You can't play because we're mean, horrible people.” But I felt like it was all part of a rich tradition; it felt like a great show-business moment—“I'm being bumped, how professional.”

What's ironic about being bumped is that we were bumped for Bill Murray—that was the first time we ever met Bill Murray—and the cool part is we were all in first class, flying out to play
Letterman,
and he got bumped out of first class because we took all of the first-class seats. So it was kind of a mutual bumping.

In 1993 Paul hired me for his
World's Most Dangerous Party
record. He later played on
four,
he did something on “Stand” and he's in our “Hook” video. On the
Party
record I did a session with Dana Carvey and Mike Myers. The two of them were trying to talk to me, and I kept forgetting to respond to them because I was used to just looking at them on TV—“Oh, you're talking to
me
.” You forget that. It's not like you're an imbecile; it's more like you're hypnotized.

Another important thing I have to say about
Letterman,
though, is that one of the first times I did it Julia Roberts walked out and kissed me square on the lips. It was like she had a thing she wanted to do, and then she sat down to talk to Dave. It was so surreal, I couldn't believe it. I knew I was on TV, so I was respectful, but the whole time my lips were tingling. I remember thinking,
Wow, the sexiest woman alive just kissed me full on the lips.
And that woman's got some lips.

In January 2015 I was playing in a brewery in Taos, New Mexico, with Scott Rednor's band, Brothers Keeper, and I'm not much of a beer drinker, so I mentioned that I'd like someone to get me something other than a beer. And this woman wearing glasses kept coming up throughout the night to bring me vodka. When I thanked her I realized it was Julia Roberts. She had her glasses on and was dolled up, but she was regular dolled up—she didn't have her TV hair on. She had her regular going-out–to-have-fun hair. At one point I told her, “I loved it when you kissed me on
David Letterman
in front of America.” She said “I can't believe you remember that!” At first Jordan, my
then girlfriend, now wife, was a little jealous, but then she realized who it was, and her friend said, “If she makes $20 million per film and her husband's there, I don't think you can get jealous.”

Speaking of January, Letterman always liked the studio really cold. Your average air conditioner gets to 55 degrees if you really crank it but he put in a special air conditioner to get it to 45 degrees because he figured that, with the lights, that kept it below 60. It's true, and I always found his stage quite refreshing. It's eccentric, but I could see the methods.

Another rule was that when Dave walked through the halls coming to or from the show, nobody was to be in the hallway: “Everyone must be out of the hallway—band, cast, crew, leave the hallway to Dave.” He probably didn't want to talk to anybody while he was getting pumped for the show, and that's part of it, but I think he was also something of a nervous wreck.

One time I left a CD in the dressing room and Gina went back to get it. Everything was locked down, and she was trapped in the hall when he was coming back from the show. She tried to make herself really tiny, but apparently she didn't make herself tiny enough because Dave muttered, “Who the hell are you?” as he walked by. Gina was destroyed. She felt like she'd done something horrible. I think Dave just never wanted anyone to see him in this state because he was afraid of what he would say to people. It made me identify with him in a weird way because we're all a little crazy, and as long as you know you're crazy and set up precautions, I say be as crazy as you want.

On my final show I had one mission: to thank him for thirty years of comedy and for starting our career and then to get the hell out of his way. It felt like senior year of high school when you know graduation is coming. Everybody on the show was walking around saying, “We're going to miss you,” and “Thanks.” I think they had been doing that for the last three months. I looked out the window at the remains of Roseland across the street, which really drove home the point that an era was ending for me. It also reminded me of J. R. R. Tolkien—the elves were leaving these shores. It's no longer the era when late-night TV holds the same kind of sway.

It was a little bittersweet, but I came in with a mission to observe. I just wanted to see it one more time and wear that terrible earpiece
while Paul and the band are talking and deciding which song to play while I'm trying to watch the show.

One of the songs we played was “But Anyway,” the first song we did on
Letterman.
Paul went back to a harmony that was a little wrong, and I told him. So he asked, “Oh, I fucked it up the first time?” And I said, “Yeah, you did.” He got a kick out of that and said, “So I'll fuck it up again?” And I said, “Yeah, for old time's sake.”

Whenever I'd do
Letterman,
after the show I'd go out the stage door, and there would be fans there who wanted me to sign stuff. One time I was out there and holding up Tony Danza's limo because I was signing so much stuff. And he was probably trying to get to another show to promote his thing—his book or his TV show or whatever—and to him that's not where he normally met his audience, but for me that's always where they were, wherever the hell they are.