June 15, 1941 – Harry Nilsson:
Me and my arrow
Straighter than narrow
Wherever we go, everyone knows
It’s me and my arrow
Me and my arrow
Taking the high road
Wherever we go, everyone knows
It’s me and my arrow
And in the morning when I wake up
She may be gone, I don’t know
And if we make up just to break up
I’ll carry on, oh yes, I will
Me and my arrow
Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, straighter than narrow
Wherever we go, every one knows
It’s me and my arrow
Me and my arrow
Straighter than narrow
Wherever we go, everyone knows
It’s me and my arrow
His name was Dodge and he seemed to me to be impossibly old, maybe even 24-years-old. He looked like young James Taylor and he lived in bohemian digs in Browne’s Addition, the closest thing Spokane had to a gay neighborhood. Dodge’s sitting room, draped in Indian print bedspreads, was a turret in a Queen Anne style mansion that had been broken up into small apartments. I never saw his bedroom, try as I might.
Dodge was my pot dealer from 1969-1972. I loved him for his long limbed, gangly body and sweet hippy disposition and, of course, for the plant materials he provided for sale. During that epoch, Mary Jane was sold by the ”lid” and was measured by finger widths, not ounces. I would buy a ” three finger lid” for $15 from Dodge and then lounge around on giant pillows in the turret room after the transaction, listening to music, getting stoned and trying to hard to seduce Dodge.
Dodge introduced me to the music of Harry Nillson. First it was the album Harry in 1969, then Nilsson Schmilsson and The Point in 1971, and Son Of Schmilsson just 8 months later. Hard to believe, but musicians from this era sometimes released more than one album a year. Nilsson’s songs would receive plenty of listening by me for the next 50 years. His music spoke to me with its unique blend of two genres that I hold dear; Tin Pan Alley and Rock ‘n’ Roll.
In October of 1979, I declared my romantic inclinations to a married, impossibly beautiful set designer, who would eventually become my own husband. Yes, I was a home wrecker. I said the words: ”I have fallen in love with you’ ‘as A Little Touch Of Schmilsson In The Night played on the stereo in the background. Nilsson’s version of Irving Berlin‘s classic What’ll I Do? would become our song”. 30 years later I would weep while playing Nilsson’s Without You on repeat when I assumed that we were about to divorce (we didn’t, but that’s another post)
Nilsson deserves to be grouped with George and Ira Gershwin, Cole Porter, Berlin, and Lennon/McCartney as one the great songwriters of 20th century standards.
He was considered a peer by all four members of the Beatles, who all called him a “fifth Beatle” and someone on the same wavelength as themselves. He is the only artist with the distinction of having The Beatles publicly endorse him to the world when he was still a relative unknown. It was clear that they not only admired him, but viewed him with awe, causing John Lennon to refer to him as his “favorite group”. He was a pioneer in the practice of an artist dubbing his own background vocals and his intricate, multi-layered vocal arrangements remain influential today.
Nilsson refused to tour, so Baby Boomers don’t remember him, and those born after his era are unaware of who he even was. This is tragic. Everyone should have the opportunity to be exposed to this wonderful talent.
Nilsson spent the last 15 years of his relatively short life with a vocation of self-destruction. He died at 52-years-old, overweight and dissipated, taken by heart disease after a decades long rampage of non-stop overindulgence in alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana, cocaine, hard partying and flagrant misuse of his special three-octave vocal instrument, with seemingly otherworldly vocal control.
Yet, he had perhaps the most gifted pop singing ability of his generation; he was financially and artistically successful, was held with industry acclaim, won a Grammy Award, an Academy Award, an unusually good recording contract with a top label, and he recorded at least two perfect albums: Nilsson Schmilsson, all originals; and A Little Touch Of Schmilsson In The Night, all standards recorded with a live studio orchestra.
Brooklyn born Nilsson’s bestselling song was his rendition of Fred Neil‘s Everybody’s Talkin’, featured in the film Midnight Cowboy (1969). His own submission for the film’s title sequence, the rejected I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City is one of my favorite songs about my favorite places on our pretty planet.
Nilsson’s produced and wrote a charming and captivating animated film The Point, broadcast on ABC in February,1971, as an ABC Movie of the Week. Nilsson’s self-produced album of songs from The Point! includes the enchanting single, Me And My Arrow, my favorite song about dogs.
Nilsson chose producer Richard Perry to record his very best album- Nilsson Schmilsson. It yielded three very stylistically different hit singles. The first was a cover of Badfinger‘s song Without You, featuring a highly emotional arrangement and soaring vocals, recorded, according to Perry, in a single take. This song still stirs my senses.
The second single is Coconut, a favorite of my father, which makes me love it even more. Coconut is a novelty number with a calypso beat featuring four characters: a narrator, a brother, a sister, and the doctor, all sung in different voices by Nilsson. The song is remembered for using just a single chord- C7th and for the chorus lyric, “Put de lime in de coconut, and drink ’em both up.” The third single- Jump Into The Fire, is raucous, ranting Rock ‘n’ Roll.
Nilsson created the first remix album, Aerial Pandemonium Ballet (1971) and recorded the first mashup song, You Can’t Do That (1967). Nilsson Schmilsson and Son Of Schmilsson sold a million copies. He won Grammy Awards for two of his recordings: Everybody’s Talkin’ (1970) and Without You (1973). In 1994, Nilsson died of a heart attack while recording new material for a still-unreleased comeback album.
Nilsson’s 1970s London flat on the edge of Mayfair, was a two-bedroom apartment decorated by the ROR design company owned by Ringo Starr and interior designer Robin Cruikshank. Nilsson lived for years in the flat, which was located near Apple Records, the Playboy Club, and the nightclub Tramp. Nilsson’s work meant he would return to the USA for extended periods, and while he was away he lent his place to friends. During one of his absences, the marvelous singer Cass Elliot, formerly of The Mamas & The Papas, stayed at the flat while she performed her solo at the London Palladium, Don’t Call Me Mama Anymore. Following a strenuous performance with encores on July 29, 1974, Elliot was discovered in one of the bedrooms, dead of heart failure at 32-years-old.
On September 7, 1978, rock band The Who‘s drummer Keith Moon returned to the same room after a night out and died at 32-years-old from an overdose. Nilsson, distraught over both friends’ death in his flat, sold it to Moon’s bandmate Pete Townshend and moved to Los Angeles.
Nilsson was profoundly affected by the murder of John Lennon on December 8, 1980. He stopped recording and joined the Coalition to Stop Gun Violence and overcame his preference for privacy to make appearances for gun control events.
Nilsson’s music has informed my life for the past five decades. I still discover tracks that sound as if they could be listened to fresh today. I have recently re-discovered the off-beat charm of his songs and score for Robert Altman‘s musical film Popeye (1980). I am listening to him as I compose this post. Nilsson would have been celebrating his 78th birthday with his best pal John Lennon today, if they had both made it. Dodge was taken by the plague in 1992.
