Jan. 15, 1994— Harry Nilsson, a singer-songwriter of rare versatility and virtuosity, died at
age 52 in his sleep at his Agoura Hills, Calif., home, two decades after his
manic lifestyle ruined his voice, shortened his career and wrecked his health.
I first became aware of
this musician’s work through watching TV as a child around 1970. An ABC
animated “Movie of the Week” called The
Point, narrated by Dustin Hoffman, featured stories and music created by
Nilsson, with the musician singing his own songs. Moreover, the theme of the
Bill Bixby sitcom The Courtship of
Eddie’s Father, “Best Friend,” was an adaptation of a song from Nilsson’s Aerial Ballet LP, “Girlfriend.”
A self-taught musician
who learned piano chords from rock ‘n’ rollers who performed at L.A.’s Paramount
Theater, where he worked as assistant manager, Nilsson was soon building a
solid catalog of his own work (enough to eventually lead him to being
recognized as one of Rolling Stone
Magazine’s “100 Greatest Songwriters”),
notably “I Guess the Lord Must Be in New York City,” “Jump Into the Fire,” “Gotta
Get Up,” “You’re Breakin’ My Heart,” and “One” (soon covered by Three Dog
Night).
Ironically, though,
Nilsson achieved his greatest commercial success as an interpreter of other’s
songs, especially with Fred Neal’s “Everybody’s Talkin’” (featured in the
Oscar-winning Midnight Cowboy) and
Badfinger’s “Without You.”
Even now, it is only
dimly appreciated how innovative Nilsson could be. More than a decade before
Carly Simon and Linda Ronstadt, entering their “legacy years” as performers,
tried out the Great American Songbook, Nilsson was experimenting with this rich
(and, by now, neglected) mine of music with A
Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night. Furthermore, he compensated for
his stage anxiety by taping a forerunner of MTV with his tune “Coconuts.”
John Lennon may have helped make Nilsson’s career with an
enthusiastic endorsement of his talent (“Nilsson for President!”), but also
helped ruin it with shared drug-and-alcohol-fueled hijinx several years later.
When the ex-Beatle and wife Yoko Ono had a trial
separation in the mod-1970s, Lennon entered a period often referred to as his
“lost weekend.” The phrase only began to capture the intense, incomprehensible
benders on which Lennon took his friend Nilsson —misadventures that led
another Nilsson friend, songwriter Jimmy Webb, to describe their “mutually
destructive aerial ballet” in his memoir, The Cake and the Rain.
Even more insane than their night-owl antics (Lennon
narrowly escaped charges of assaulting a female photographer) were their studio
sessions for Nilsson’s Pussycats LP, produced
by Lennon.
At one point, Webb, alarmed to hear Nilsson croak
out a greeting and to see him vomiting blood into Webb’s kitchen sink, asked
what had happened to his vocal chords. The laughing response: “I left it on the
microphone.” Nilsson’s magnificent singing voice was never the same again.
Nilsson’s career was shorter than it should have
been, but he made the most of his short window of time. I love this quotation
from songwriter and admirer Randy Newman on this talent: “He had a gift for
melody. Which is a rare, inexplicable talent to have. People like McCartney
have it, Schubert, Elton John has it. Harry had that gift."
1 comment:
I loved that "Without You" song while in 6th grade, thinking of our Catholic schoolgirl classmates in Sister Grace's classroom...
Years later, during summers off from Humboldt State University, I was a camp counselor at Emandal, a 1,100 acre working ranch tucked in southern Mendocino County. I was Harry Nilsson's son Zack's camp counselor for two years in the early 1980's.
One degree of separation from songwriting greatness.
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