stephen sondheim--10/9/26

09 Oct 2026

stephen sondheim--10/9/26

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Today's selection -- from Never Mind the Happy by Marc Shaiman. In 1999, award-winning composer and lyricist Marc Shaiman had a chance encounter with the legendary Stephen Sondheim:

"After living exclusively in Los Angeles for a decade, and with Hairspray rehearsals about to start, it was time for Scott Wittman and me to find a place back in New York. In 1999, we found a fabulous apartment in Chelsea with a soundproof studio in the back, and once again had a home in Manhattan.

“On November 19 that year, Patti LuPone made her solo debut at Carnegie Hall. Scott directed the act, and I was lucky enough to be called in to do some of the arranging and piano playing. And let me tell you, until you've played ‘My Way’ for Patti LuPone at Carnegie Hall, you haven't lived.

“After the concert, Scott and I hosted a party at our apartment. When we got out of the cab, who should be wandering around outside our building but Stephen Sondheim. He had been at the concert and been given our address but didn't take down the apartment number. So, we ushered him through the front door and accompanied him upstairs.

“As a teenager, I would take the bus into Manhattan to visit the historic Colony Music store and buy the piano/vocal scores for Company, Follies, and A Little Night Music. I would play along to the cast albums (when I wasn't playing along to the Mary Poppins soundtrack or Bette Midler records) and marvel at the depth and passion of Sondheim's music and lyrics. I'm also a huge fan of the shows he wrote later, but because those three were part of that very formative time in my life, they are still my favorites.

“Was I in a state of shock that Stephen Sondheim was in our home? Yes, I was.

“The apartment was full of people celebrating, everyone in a great mood. Patti said, ‘Ya know, Marc, a great ice breaker with Steve is to ask him if he wants to smoke a joint. He loves pot’

“Now, I had only recently started smoking pot again, trying to learn how to relax after a decade of high-pressure film scoring. So, I went over and said, ‘Hey, Steve, Patti mentioned you might like to smoke a joint?’

Sondheim in 1970

“He quickly took me up on the invitation, so I grabbed two of the other guys who had worked on Patti's concert, conductor Rob Fisher and orchestrator Bruce Coughlin, and off we went to the soundproof studio in the back.

“The four of us started smoking, making conversation about music and showbiz, but because he is Stephen Sondheim, we each keep deferentially passing the joint back to him instead of around in a circle. So he is easily taking in four times as much as the rest of us. Not to mention, this is when that new, stronger pot was becoming the norm, so this joint packed a punch.

“I started feeling comfortable in front of Stephen fucking Sondheim and began telling him about working on the South Park movie (which he adored) as well as sharing other stories and dirty jokes–and actually making him laugh!

“Suddenly, he got up and walked across the studio, and leaned against crates the caterers had used to bring in silverware. Seeing him walking away, I asked, ‘Uh oh, was my last story a little too much?’

“But before he could answer ... BOOM! Sondheim fell to the floor.

“Because the party was loud and the studio was soundproof, no one in the front of the apartment could hear the sound of three jaws dropping as Rob, Bruce, and I freaked the fuck out.

“I raced over to him. He sat up groggily and said, ‘Boy, that pot is really strong.'

"Yes it is:' I said. "I think we have had enough!"

“Sondheim stood up, said he was okay, and we started making conversation again when all of a sudden ... BOOM! Down he went a second time.

“I placed a pillow under his head and, after a few moments, he said, ‘I think I should just go home now. Help me to a cab.'

“So now I'm walking with him down the corridor between the studio and the elevator. He seems fine, we're talking, it really seems like the worst is over–but nope.

“TIMBER! Down he goes a third time.

“I am now standing over him, looking down at Stephen Sondheim, God of The Musical Theater. I can tell that his eyes have rolled to the back of his head, his complexion is ashen, and I think to myself, Oh my God, I have done what every musical theater writer has ever wanted to do the year before their musical hits Broadway ... I've killed Stephen Sondheim!

“Thankfully, that wasn't true. He came to and we put him in a cab back to his townhouse in Turtle Bay.

“I got his number from Patti the next morning and called him to make sure he was okay. ‘Yes, I am, thank you for calling,' he said. ‘Just do me a favor, wait until I'm dead to tell this story.'

“Well, Mr. Sondheim, I waited. It was hard, but I waited!

“When he did pass away in 2021, everyone was writing gorgeous remembrances full of appropriate praise and deification. I went to Times Square that Sunday and joined in the mass choir that had been invited to sing ‘Sunday,’ a song so perfect that I have never not broken into tears upon hearing it. But as I sang and cried, I also thought of this story I wanted to share. Not just because it was a secret I had managed to keep for two decades, but because it humanized him in a way we weren't hearing at the time.”