American Beatle
15 min read
When a comet is flung through interstellar space, it sings. When Harry Nilsson’s voice finally gave out, he would continue singing in eccentric orbit, throwing the sound as far as the liquor would allow. “I donated it to whiskey,” he would joke during a 1975 interview, his eyes shifting right, then left. Even in jest, Nilsson had to be honest: just thirteen months prior on March 12th, 1974, he and John Lennon were famously kicked out of the Troubadour nightclub for drunkenly heckling the Smothers Brothers after one too many Brandy Alexanders.
Once a prodigious songwriting perspective with a soaring three-and-a-half octave range, Harry Nilsson, the man who introduced John Lennon to cognac and cream, does not receive enough twenty-first century credit for the legendary catalog of work he left behind. The genius behind a Grammy award-winning interpretation of “Everybody’s Talkin’” (Midnight Cowboy), the 1971 single “Without You” (the celebrated cover of the Badfinger original) and the novelty song “Coconut” (Nilsson Schmilsson), Nilsson lived a pristine decade of hits and artistic influence before his troubles would catch up to him in that Los Angeles club, and follow at his heels at a pace that would define the last twenty years of his life.
It was in casual infamy that Harry Nilsson was able to establish his legacy, even in the wake of the substance abuse that hastened his premature departure in 1994. In death, Nilsson was untouchable, an honorary member of the modern American songbook. In death, Nilsson sang the songs of a twentieth-century bard, creating and interpreting stories like a phantom parable. In death, a pudgy-faced boy from Brooklyn transmuted into the household voice you never knew you admired. As Tom Smothers mentioned in the 2010 documentary Who is Harry Nilsson (And Why is Everybody Talkin’ About Him)?—“When you say ‘Harry Nilsson,’ people either get it right away, or they have no idea.”
Almost like somebody’s first comet sighting.
***
Boasting an orbital period of 1962 to his last commercial release in 1977, Harry Nilsson began a colorful life as a demo singer and songwriter. His commercial jingles for brands like Ban deodorant and Red Roof Inn helped to pay the bills while he recorded a handful of tracks for a small subsidiary label of Capitol Records. Spotlight On Nilsson was twenty-two minutes of a man simultaneously learning his sound while demonstrating vocal technique that sounded ten years his senior.
Once signed with RCA, Nilsson began devising and auditioning compositions like “Cuddly Toy” (a 1967 hit covered by The Monkees), “One” (recorded by Three Dog Night in 1968), and “This Could Be The Night” (a collaboration with Phil Spector and a personal favorite of Brian Wilson).
Pandemonium Shadow Show, Nilsson’s first serious project on the RCA label, gave us what some critics have conceded may be, “one of the most remarkable orchestral pop albums of the '60s.” The fresh arrangement of the Beatles cover “You Can’t Do That” somehow pays additional homage to over 20 Beatles hits, including “Drive My Car,” “A Hard Day’s Night,” “And I Love Her,” and “Yesterday,” to name a few. This composition established the Nilsson track as one of the first mashup songs in popular music, and very quickly caught the attention of the Fab Four. According to many sources, John Lennon, upon receiving a copy of Pandemonium Shadow Show from publicist Derek Taylor, “listened to it non-stop for 36 hours straight.” It was this breakthrough album that would eventually warrant an invitation to sit in on the Beatles White Album sessions at Abbey Road, and quickly inspire a friendship that would trip, drunkenly, into the next decade.
By 1969, Nilsson was slowly climbing out of the musical pigeon hole he shared with other singer-songwriters who were making a living by selling their original compositions to other vocalists. Among the Leonard Cohens of the industry, Harry’s reputation as a singer and recording artist began to gain traction with his celebrated performance of Fred Neil’s “Everybody’s Talkin’” for the Academy Award-winning film Midnight Cowboy.
The world noticed, and a star turned on its axis.
Pandemonium Shadow Show was quickly followed by Aerial Ballet, Skidoo (original film score for the Otto Preminger production of the same name) and Harry— all within three years.
ABC called to commission a theme song for the television series The Courtship of Eddie’s Father. The song, “Best Friend” (originally written as “Girlfriend”), is best remembered for its lyrics, “People let me tell you 'bout my best friend,” and became a lasting tongue-in-cheek pop culture reference—despite having never been released on an original LP.
Additionally, the relatively unknown Randy Newman was elevated to the right hand of Nilsson with the 1970 release of the cover album, Nilsson Sings Newman. While it was extremely common for artists to cover songs written by other musicians, recording an entire album of another songwriter’s music was—at that time—completely unheard of. “We’ll have a kid, or maybe we’ll rent one,” Nilsson croons as Newman plays the piano accompaniment. “He’s got to be straight, we don’t want a bent one.” The entire project is a genius interpretation of Newman’s whip-smart lyricism, and is still hailed by critics as some of his best work. The album also highlighted Nilsson’s recording abilities, boasting more than 100 vocal tracks on select songs as he pushed to mimic the sound of a multi-man chorus.
Finally, to kick off the new decade, Harry Nilsson released Aerial Pandemonium Ballet. In an effort to circulate his older material to a growing fanbase and revisit techniques he felt were “dated,” the musical genius effectively produced the rock’s first remix album. The overdubbed, re-recorded and re-imagined album received little fanfare, but stands as a fine example of Nilsson’s arrangement chops.
With the momentum of the late-sixties encouraging his launch into space, 1971 proved to be the year that would bring Nilsson the commercial success his label had been waiting for. Nilsson Schmilsson gave us performances of his most famous singles (“Without You,” “Coconut,” “Gotta Get Up,” and “Jump Into the Fire”) and met every weighted expectation in his performance of both heart wrenching ballads and sunny pop songs. In its wake, Producer Richard Perry dubbed Harry, “the finest white male singer on the planet.” Once circulated, the record peaked at No.3 in the U.S.
Luckily, Harry Nilsson didn’t care much for artificial coronation into the Hollywood elite. “I just hope Harry knew how great he was. He was always putting himself down, making fun of himself,” Randy Newman would observe years later. This would come to fruition in the 1972 follow-up to Nilsson Schmilsson: Son of Schmilsson. Compared to its predecessor, Son of Schmilsson was diabolical and jarring, a literal “fuck you” (see: “You’re Breakin’ My Heart) to his handlers, and the top of a very slippery slope.
As one of the few commercial artists who maintained a successful career without ever touring or performing live, his life’s purpose was simple: impress his heroes, maintain honest friendships with those brave enough to show up at his party, and indirectly dissect the ghost of his absent father. Even after the commercial success of Nilsson Schmilsson, Harry wasn’t ready to bow to the confines of label overlords. He was wild, messy, and wickedly funny, a madman running headlong into his own subconscious. It was the concomitant risk of this experimentation that ultimately distanced himself from becoming the false god of his generation, but likewise cemented his place as a true disciple of rock.
With this in mind, critics wonder—would this approach to business be possible in twenty-first century music production? Could such a talent build a career without ever stepping foot outside of a recording booth?
Arguably, the sixties and seventies were the ideal decades in which to perform such an experiment. It was, after all, the album era, which defined the LP as the most popular method for which music was recorded and purchased. Touring wasn’t necessarily a requirement, as the radio was still a heavy influence in album sales, and as the full-length album was still the preferred format for consuming popular music.
Today, however, the business is one that is overwhelmed with new music, new artists, and is financially manipulated by access to streaming platforms. As consumers are faced with a paradox of choice, and the ease at which digital copies are available to download or stream, the value of this work (as it is packaged and distributed) decreases. Streaming pays artists a fraction of what music sales used to produce. Though the revival of vinyl record nostalgia has created an upward trend in album sales, most listeners are no longer interested in purchasing an album as a whole. This makes the push toward live events a necessary element of running a successful music incubator; though music has become “cheaper” to access, the concert experience has not. As consumers engage with the highest ticket prices in the history of live performance, they are finding themselves directly responsible for the longevity of an artist’s career.
If Nilsson had released music between 1996 and 2017, he would have been required by his label (and likely his own living expenses) to capitalize on the revenue guaranteed from rising concert ticket sales. According to the Music Industry Research Association, 81% of musicians earned income from live events in 2017, and performances accounted for 42% of the average musician’s music-related income.
As documented in Who Is Harry Nilsson (And Why Is Everybody Talkin’ About Him)?, Nilsson would later admit that his live performance boycott was a huge mistake. It was, unfortunately, too late to change course.
***
If it weren’t for the fogeys, and Nilsson’s aversion to touring, he may have made a fine Beatle. During a 1968 press conference, Paul McCartney was not too shy to admit that Nilsson was his favorite songwriter. John Lennon and George Harrison echoed the sentiments, calling Nilsson at his home to invite him to London.
“You’re fantastic, man,” Lennon reportedly purred into the phone, a sleepy and bewildered Nilsson listening on the other end. “Let’s get together and do something.”
With plenty of “fifth Beatles” in the running, Harry Nilsson was fondly issued the title of “the Beatle across the water” by Beatles publicist Derek Taylor. While never an official member of the Fab Four, Nilsson claimed coveted space at the right hand of Ringo Starr and John Lennon, even participating as accomplice and puppet master during the infamous “Lost Weekend”—an eighteen month period defined by copious drinking and intense bouts of creativity during Lennon’s separation from wife Yoko Ono. It was during Lennon’s sabbatical that the ill-fated night at the Troubadour transpired, and when he loudly announced his intent to produce Nilsson’s next album.
According to music writer Jeff Giles, the consideration of a Nilsson-Lennon collaboration was “a little like putting two bulls in a china shop. With drugs.” Chaos ensued when Nilsson elected to rent a Los Angeles beach house to “prep” for the new album, inviting who Giles would describe as other “notable nightlife enthusiasts.”
"We had the wildest assemblage of that part of history in that house," Nilsson grinningly admitted in a 1980 interview for a Mix publication. "It makes the Round Table look like a toadstool."
The guest list extended an open invitation to interrupt and contribute to the cocaine-fueled recording sessions at Burbank Studios, and included Stevie Wonder, Graham Chapman, and the raucous “Hollywood Vampires”: an elite drinking club whose sole mission was to outdrink its fellow members. Participants of the fraternity included Keith Moon (The Who), Micky Dolenz (The Monkees), Marc Bolan (T. Rex), and Alice Cooper—all men who were impressed by Nilsson’s expert-level carousing.
Sadly, this behavior created an impossible formula for the task at hand. There was little structure in the project as a whole, and the combination of excessive instrumentation and heavy background vocals distracted from the lush interpretation that was once Nilsson’s specialty. This time around, he didn’t seem to care.
Outside of the drugs and tomfoolery, there may have been a little room for magic during the Nilsson-Lennon recording sessions. On March 28th, 1974, Paul McCartney and John Lennon would play together for the last time in-studio. Unfortunately, all of the magic in Burbank couldn’t save Nilsson’s tenth studio album from becoming a sticking point in his relationship with RCA, and they hesitated in closing a new deal for the record. Though Lennon would eventually assist in re-negotiating a new contract for Harry, the damage had been done.
***
If the mid-seventies were unkind to Harry Nilsson, he challenged his critics with the fury of fifty inebriated men. After RCA agreed to releasing his new album pending a more “appropriate” name (the original title for the record, Strange Pussies, was not appreciated by label executives), the 1974 release of Pussy Cats was met with mild distaste.
Compared to Nilsson’s most famous record, Nilsson Schmilsson, Pussy Cats proved to be a commercial flop. A quick listen of Pussy Cats would provide wily and playful background music, as Harry earnestly covers classics like “Many Rivers to Cross” and Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” An honest listen of the Nilsson-Lennon project gives a more sobering glimpse into Nilsson’s reckless lifestyle, and the effect it had on his instrument. To Nilsson purists, it sounds less like Harry, and more like somebody had taken the roughest edges of John Lennon’s creative missteps, and pieced them together with unraveling threads.
“Don’t Forget Me” may be a single moment of redemption among the wreckage. It is three-and-a-half minutes of honesty, a confessional chapter in the life of a man who is realizing his own mortality. For what seems like a genuine intermission of sadness and sobriety, Nilsson admits that he might, in fact, need the shoulder of somebody other than his own arrogant shadow.
Sadly, to many music historians, Nilsson’s attempt at “Subterranean Homesick Blues” could be listed as a subsequent “Day The Music Died” in the comprehensive guide to all things rock and roll. To likely impress Lennon, Nilsson had attempted a scream that would rupture a vocal chord, and contribute to the chronic vocal polyps that had finally impeded his freakishly natural abilities. Due to chronic overuse and his refusal to properly rehab the injury, the recording of Pussy Cats arguably destroyed the singer’s three-octave range. One can almost feel Nilsson coughing up blood when pausing to flip the record.
This change is strikingly obvious on a number of select tracks. In “Old Forgotten Soldier,” Nilsson tries to summon the playful days of Pandemonium Shadow Show, but sounds too tired to effectively perform. “Save the Last Dance for Me” pushes way too hard for the standard to make it work as a dance number. “Black Sails” may sound the most like Nilsson Schmilsson, evoking the provocative rumblings of a Nilsson time machine. Sadly, it’s not enough. The “finest white male singer on the planet” had finally bottomed out.
“He was this amazing vocalist, who began to systematically destroy his own talent,” friend and fellow songwriter Jimmy Webb recalled. “It was a very painful thing for me when he began to dismantle his genius, this jewel that was in his forehead, this blessing from God. It was hard for me personally to hear the voice go, because it was such a perfect thing.”
***
John Lennon was murdered on December 8th, 1980. He was forty years old.
Nilsson was in the studio when he heard the news. Announcing his retirement from music, the singer threw himself into gun control activism with the gusto of a man visited by ghosts. Though he would record the occasional song, Nilsson would never again complete an album. Instead, he joined the Coalition to Stop Gun Violence, becoming a national spokesman against the legislation gaps that contributed to Lennon’s tragic death.
Activism gave Nilsson a new purpose. He recorded PSAs to speak out against handgun violence. He attended rallies and festivals and made other public appearances to honor the memory of his friend. He initiated contact with dozens of influential acquaintances, knowing that the support of Hollywood would help further the cause. Hoping to one day “make the Coalition more powerful than the National Rifle Association,” Nilsson donated a large sum of his own fortune to the cause. “What good is [being] wealthy if someone shoots you in the head?” he asked a curious reporter. “John Lennon had all the money in the world.”
A year following Lennon’s death, Nilsson wrote to Yoko Ono. According to biographer Alyn Shipton, this letter “emphasized Lennon’s shining qualities,” and confirmed that it was his life— and subsequent death—that gave him the motivation to persist in his efforts. “I got to thinking about Nilsson’s 4th law,” Nilsson mused in his letter to John’s widow. “[That] which clearly states that the brighter the light, the more likely it is to be extinguished.”
Fourteen years after the death of his good friend John, Harry Nilsson died in his home. At 52 years old, he was tired, overweight and indebted to creditors and the IRS after his business manager had left him victim to an embezzlement scam. It seemed, in his final hours, that Nilsson’s status as a velvet-throated demi-god was merely an exercise in smoke and mirrors. He was human— a very worn, and wrung-out human, whose ambition had once transformed into self-indulgence, and again to a placid retirement. That was his right, after all. While music critics and devout collectors find it amazing that Nilsson’s catalog has gradually slipped into obscurity, it fits the narrative of a maudlin drag racer running out of road.
Comets, like any object in motion, find themselves in a state of constant transformation. If moving fast enough, a comet may be ejected from the solar system. If too fragile, a comet may split apart upon impact. Sometimes, under inopportune conditions, a comet may simply fade, as the volatile substances holding it together evaporates.
The thing about comets is that they are fleeting, and only a select few will take the time to notice their presence amongst the light pollution and the satellites. Perhaps Harry Nilsson knew this, as he laid out his eccentric perspective in projects like Pussy Cats, and Son of Schmilsson. Perhaps, his nontraditional approach to “the business” was a personal affirmation of everything he knew to be out of his control. Beginning with the departure of his father, and peaking with the disapproval of his critics, Nilsson could only emote, furiously, until his ideas collided with the opposition, or evaporated into thin air.
You see, the brighter the light, the more likely it is to be extinguished. Only Nilsson could have written it that way.
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RESOURCES
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