Not to brag, but I've stood upon some pretty rarified podiums: I've conducted "The Candy Man" for Sammy, “New York, New York” for Frank, and “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie,” for Don McLean.
But to be honest, nothing competes in the thrill department with playing a piano for a Broadway legend who is recreating an original performance. Talk about musical comedy heaven.
I always feel I'm suddenly transported back to the Golden Age of Musicals, a period I sadly missed but imagined as intensely as any cast-album producer could have wished. When I play the piano for a legend and it's just the two of us onstage, I feel as if I am writer, singer, director and audience in a magical time-travel wish fulfillment dream. 
When I was just a punk kid – probably aware that I'd have to hurry, I somehow managed to escape high school and started playing for performers at auditions, rehearsals and nightclubs in Manhattan. Phyllis Newman heard about me and I was suddenly writing her new act for the Grand Finale. (Anyone remember that place?). Phyllis was a well-known TV personality then but she first came to prominence as a supporting actress in a less-than-successful Jule Styne, Comden and Green musical called, Subways are For Sleeping. (Anyone remember that?) In fact, Phyllis won a Tony Award for her performance as a fallen bathing beauty, beating out another star-to-be who was making her debut as Miss Marmelstein down the block.
Happily for me, while my friends were listening to Black Sabbath, I was listening to Jule Styne and I knew the album to Subways by heart. So when Phyllis said we were going to do her famous number, “I Was A Shoo-in,” my heart skipped a beat. And when she said I was going to perform the Orson Bean dialogue with her, I virtually went into cardiac arrest.
Even then I was well aware that “Shoo-in” isn't first rate Jule Styne. It's probably not even third rate. But for me, at that moment, the number could have been “Rose's Turn.” There I was playing for the same person who was on the cast album, recreating with my fingers the sound that I grew up on. Last week I had been in home room, and this week I could not believe where I had landed.
Through Phyllis, I met her illustrious husband, Adolph Green and his partner Betty Comden. One fine day the pianist who had traveled with them for years couldn't make it, and I was enlisted. No World War II soldier ever stepped forward as fast. In a few minutes I was accompanying Adolph as he sang -- no, forgive me -- became Captain Hook, singing the lyrics he himself had written. And Betty imitating Judy Holiday? No, that's wrong. Judy Holiday was imitating Betty who was then imitating Judy. Well, who ever was doing whom, I remember the thrill of playing my favorite song, “Make Someone Happy,” with the lyricist. The way she phrased it, the way her lyrics caressed the music. It was poetry. I can hear her in my head as I write.
Over the years, I've accumulated many fabulous memories: playing “Nowadays” for Gwen and Chita, the 
Cassie Dance for Donna McKechnie and “What I Did for Love” for Priscilla Lopez. After she was a dictator-ess but before she was a legend, I played for Patti LuPone at many classy and not so classy venues. Performing Patti's Broadway classics was a completely different experience, because quite frankly, I never liked nor really understood “Don't Cry for Me Argentina.” Or “I Dreamed a Dream.” I admit I had been disappointed by these songs; they didn't seem to be infused with the wit and specificity of the songs I considered classics.
But something miraculous happened when I played for her. Her belief in the songs made me believe them absolutely. It was as if she were singing Mozart. I can't believe I felt like that. I can't believe I'm writing it. When I played that musical interlude in “Argentina,” I was there right by her side on the balcony at the Casa Rosada. When I played those three building chords and she lifted her hands, I could barely control myself.
Another memory is interviewing and playing for Carol Channing at a show we did together called Singular Sensations. We were talking about Dolly and the audience was eating it up. She and I had performed “Before the Parade Passes By,” and now we were talking about the title song and Gower Champion's staging: how in rehearsal, Gower had the waiters lift Carol in the air. Then he came running down the aisle saying, “No. That's wrong. Sorry. Dolly is becoming her own woman. She should never be lifted. She always has to have her two feet planted firmly on the ground.” Then Carol talked about the modulation into the last chorus. How it's not just a modulation, it's a musical metaphor for Dolly picking up the pieces of her life and moving forward.
The audience was mesmerized. Knowing the frenzy it would cause, I went to the piano and started the famous strut intro to “Hello, Dolly.” The crowd was on their feet and stood through the entire number. And when we hit that modulation and Dolly made up her mind, I modulated for dear life. I had to pinch myself: I was playing Dolly for Dolly. 
Tonight, I have the privilege of playing for Florence Henderson in a new one women show we put together. When I first met her I had to reveal my guilty secret: When I was a little kid, way before High School exit strategy, my mother took me to the New York State Theater for the revival of South Pacific starring Florence. Honestly, I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the giant exotic flowers engulfing the proscenium; I remember the stage jutting over the orchestra pit; and most of all I remember Florence as Nellie Forbush. I was sitting way in the balcony but Lord, I swear I can remember her putting her hands on her hips, thrusting out her chest and belting “Wonderful Guy.” I even remember the sound and colors of the orchestra: that magical Richard Rodgers hesitation waltz and the heavy downbeats contrasting with the lightness of the tune.
So, tonight, when I start playing that famous vamp from South Pacific and Florence transforms into Nellie, you can bet I'll be trying to recreate those musical memories at the keyboard. Chances are, I'll have an enormous Cheshire Cat grin on my face. Now, you'll know why.
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