We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives by Paul Shaffer Read Free Book Online Page A

encounter with Andy was during the debut of
SNL
in 1975; it was a performance that ignited Kaufman’s career. As a painfully shy boy, he stood in front of a phonograph and simply dropped the needle on a record. Out came the Mighty Mouse theme. Rather than dance or even move, Andy simply stood there, like a little boy. At the chorus, though, he suddenly came alive and mouthed the words “Here I come to save the day.” For those few seconds, he transformed into a superhero—his facial and body language pulsating with heroic masculinity—only to return to his listless state of awkwardness once the short chorus had ended. This strange little act was a sensation and put Andy on the map.
    For a period, Andy went to any length to make audiences love him. In concert venues, he invited the entire crowd to join him for milk and cookies. Then he led them to a convoy of buses parked outside the auditorium—and off they went to a restaurant, where Andy would treat every last patron.
    Conversely, or perversely, he went through another period where his solitary aim was to incur the audience’s wrath. Now he wanted to be hated, and he succeeded by avoiding any semblance of entertainment in his act. All he would do was read a crushingly dull book out loud. The book would have no relevance. Andy would simply stand there and read until he was booed. When the booing stopped, people would start throwing things at his head. When the throwing stopped, the crowd would get up and leave. And when the last audience member walked out in disgust, Andy felt he had triumphed. He was hated.
    His need to be despised darkened over the years. He got into the habit of insulting women and accusing them of inferior intelligence and strength. To prove his claim, he invited women to wrestle him onstage. Several were willing. In some cases the women—who may or may not have been shills—were injured, thus antagonizing the audience even more.
    Andy Kaufman was a performance artist who trafficked in unpredictability. When he did a parody of a talk show, for instance, he placed his desk eight feet high so that he literally talked down to his guests. The piece was brilliant.
    He was a semi-regular on the Letterman show in the early eighties. In a famous appearance, he showed up with wrestler Jerry “The King” Lawler. At one point, Kaufman began cursing Lawler, who, in turn, reacted violently. They lunged at each other, spilling Dave’s coffee and scalding him. Andy looked tobe seriously injured. Everyone was concerned for his health. But when he and Lawler were spotted having dinner later that same evening, we knew we’d been had.
    Then came the week that Andy was scheduled to appear on Letterman two successive nights. The first night he would come on as himself, the second as Tony Clifton, his alter ego, a highly obnoxious Las Vegas—style lounge singer. He went so far as to have a latex application that altered his entire visage. In Clifton, he created a character who was not only abusive to the audience but to his accompanying musicians as well. One false note and Tony might attack you.
    After his first night, Andy as Andy came over to me and said, “Tony Clifton will be here tomorrow. Now listen—he’s notoriously tough on piano players. If you don’t know your stuff, he’s likely to punch out your lights.”
    “Oh, I can handle Tony,” I said. “I’ve been backing lounge lizards my entire life.”
    “Well, you better have your shit together, Shaffer,” he said, “or Tony will ream you a new asshole.”
    The next day I was careful to arrive early for rehearsal. Tony showed up at 2 p.m. sharp, in full regalia—shiny Vegas show suit, coal-black wig, latex mask, patent leather shoes.
    “Okay, Shaffer,” he said, “I don’t know what I’m going to sing until I sing it, so you better fuckin’ follow me or you’ll wind up on the floor.”
    He started into a lounge medley where he threw a half dozen songs in my direction. I knew every one.