Mort Sahl offended everyone and you were lucky if you could catch his act |
By Charles E. Kraus
Mort Sahl has died.
I own all the records, even the very early At Sunset album famous for being the first Mort Sahl recording and because Fantasy Records increased the speed so they could fit the entire concert onto two sides of an LP (Fantasy Records Mono 7005 Red Vinyl Deep Groove), Mort sounds like a perceptive Mickey Mouse on Benzedrine.
My collection began in 1959. A few years later, I was a kid in a boarding school with the Verve and Reprise records in my closet. The rule was, doors open, hit the books each night from 7 until 9. Except, I had the records. My roommate and I would close our door and play them endlessly. You listened long enough and you started speaking like Mort. Took on his point of view. Did what he did, finding what you said funny and laughing at your own jokes.
Mr. Weinberger would come by. He was an old man with a drill sergeant’s voice, hired to enforce the rules. He’d open our door, step in, listen to Sahl for a while, then step back into the hall closing the door behind him. Mort Sahl was a kind of a hall pass.
Howard Liberman and I returned to the Village Gate nightclub over and over again trying to determine just how much of the routine was ad-lib, taken from the day’s newspapers and current events. That was the official story. What we discovered was that Sahl arranged and rearranged. Adjusted material. Added something, brought back an old comment in new pants. One of his talents was keeping track of what he’d used early in a set so it didn’t get repeated.
Once, a few years later, I attended a performance at the Alhambra Library in Southern California. He wasn’t working much, rumors had it he’d been blacklisted courtesy of the Kennedy clan once he’d begun doing jokes about Jack. The show took place in a basement community room. It was packed. Crammed with fans who’d been waiting for an opportunity to hear from the man. Sahl went on and on and on. Two hours, at least. More extemporaneous than not. When he was hot, the guy could really wing it. Nobody wanted to leave, not even Sahl.
My first job in broadcasting was in the script typing department at CBS’s Television City. We began in the late afternoon, once the writers had left the building, and stayed into the night, often into the early morning, typing, mimeographing, collating, and stapling scripts for All In The Family, The Carol Burnett Show and other programs produced in-house. Then our little unit would head up the street to Cantor’s Deli. Open all night, we’d arrive at 2 or 3 in the morning, and sometimes spot Mr. Sahl at a table reading the papers and taking notes.
We didn’t bother him. It would have been rude. But several years after that, Sahl and I crossed paths at a Denny’s in Sherman Oaks. I couldn’t stop myself. I have all your records, I have your book, I’ve seen you dozens of times, on Broadway, TV, in the clubs — New York, LA, Chicago, Vegas. I was just the kind of fan I knew Sahl hated; knew could upset him. But I’d picked a good moment. He shook my hand and thanked me. He wasn’t as tall as I’d imagined.
There were rough edges. He walked away from his role in Lorraine Hansberry’s play, “The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window.” Hosted, then left various radio and television programs under awkward circumstances. He wasn’t erratic, so much as subject to misunderstandings. That was part of the baggage and the mystique that he brought on stage if and when you were lucky enough to catch his act.
I’d played his records for my daughters, talked about him often, repeating favorite lines. “Not everything I say is true, but it’s accurate.” “The reporter said he’d never been told what to write. But he knew what to turn in.” “A conservative is someone who believes in reform. But not now.” “Liberals feel unworthy of their possessions. Conservatives feel they deserve everything they’ve stolen.”
At 77, he’d returned to New York. The Village Gate, his old stomping grounds, had become the Village Theater, and he was booked for a week. I had flown east with my kids to see a few shows. Someone else was doing a last stand in the city. Hal Holbrook presenting his Mark Twain.
Mort showed up with his blackboard routine, graphing the political stance of various members of our government. He’d updated things, switched from a blackboard to a whiteboard. Had some magnetic cutouts that he slid around. Two of his friends, Woody Allen and Dick Cavett sat directly in front of us. It was a modest crowd. But friendly and pleased with the familiar routines. Sahl wore his trademark sweater. Cavett had dandruff.
Over the years, particularly as Trump turned politician, I hoped that a Sahl comment, some bright new line, observation, insight, would surface. None materialized. But I could, I can, still hear him. “Are there any groups here I haven’t offended?”
No. And none that you haven’t entertained.
Charles E. Kraus is the author of “You’ll Never Work Again In Teaneck, NJ.”
