Category Archives: Monty Python

Nilsson: the Book

I just finished reading the new biography of Harry Nilsson by Alyn Shipton, titled Nilsson: The Life of a Singer-Songwriter. I knew Harry, off and on, for the last 15 years of his life, but there were great gaps in my knowledge of the man, gaps that this book filled most admirably. In fact, if I had known this much about his life and times before I’d met him, I’d probably have been too intimidated to approach him.

One bit of full disclosure. In the early 90s, he wanted to shop around his autobiography, and I helped him to put together a proposal (I met Harry through the Pythons in general and Graham Chapman in particular); to that end, he sent me what he had written up to that point. I helped him package it and helped him send it around, but there were no takers, so I sadly sent it all back. But his family held onto it long enough for Shipton to mine it for quotes and other information.

Dominating a huge portion of that life, of course, were the Beatles, particularly John and Ringo, though there are some wonderful anecdotes about Paul and George as well. It’s worth reading for that reason alone, but his life crossed so many other paths that I could scarcely believe my eyes.

His childhood was spent shuffled from relative to relative, crossing the country alone at a frighteningly early age, until he wound up working as a bank manager. He kept that job even after he started finding success as a singer-songwriter, but shortly after he left it, the Beatles famously described him as their “favorite group.” He went on to major Grammy-winning success, but his success did not serve him well. He was a major part of John Lennon’s “lost weekend,” during which Lennon produced his “Pussycats” album, but drink and drugs took their toll on his personal life and on his amazing voice. I know people who encountered Harry during this period, and they described a different man than the Harry I knew. Of course, I knew him after he had mostly quit drinking, and that had a huge positive affect on him and his family.

During his prime, he was turning out iconic hits like “Everybody’s Talkin'” and “Without You” (both written by others), while writing songs that others made into huge hits (Three Dog Night’s “One”). But he refused to be pigeon-holed, and his albums are incredible mixtures of rockers and old standards and everything in between. Yet he prided himself for never playing live concerts, and for the most part, he remained true to that.

Nilsson does an amazing job of analyzing nearly every song he recorded (Shipton is a music writer), though I would have liked to have read more about his personal life, and his life after 1980 is given particularly short shrift. Then again, those were seemingly the saddest years for Harry, at least professionally, when his health began to suffer and his finances suffered because he trusted people he shouldn’t have trusted. I enjoyed reading Nilsson until around 1980 for that reason–then it became a little too painful. But I know the 80s were his happiest family time with his family, making up for what he never had, so I’m not sure Harry regretted them.

It should also be noted that he spend time in the 80s campaigning against Handgun Violence after John Lennon was assassinated, so even though he had mostly retired from music, he stayed active. He did appear at a number of Beatles Fan Conventions and sang (usually two or three songs) to raise money for the charity. Near the end, to repair his finances for his family, he was even planning a concert tour, but his ill health prevented that from happening. And frankly, his voice was not what it had once been, either, after those years of abuse. But Harry was still Harry, and I’m sure his personality could have made up for any musical lapses.

It’s such a cliche to say that “his music lives on,” but the new episode of HBO’s Girls featured the cast dancing to Harry’s provocative “You’re Breakin’ My Heart.” He would have loved that, but I’m sure he knew he would be remembered regardless. And thanks to Nilsson: The Life of a Singer-Songwriter, I was able to spend a few more hours with Harry.

iO Python Process Class Part 2

The final session of my first iO writing class wrapped up last night with a staged reading of a half-hour show we cobbled together from the various sketches the students have been writing and co-writing in the same process that the Pythons used to put together their shows. It went even better than I had hoped, especially considering the degree of difficulty involved.

It occurred to me that we managed to do in four three-hour sessions what would normally require twice as many sessions. But despite the breakneck pace, they acquitted themselves very well. Although it would have been nice to have a bit more time for polish, they were amazing, especially considering that four weeks ago, none of them knew each other, but managed to collaborate enough to produce a half-hour program.

But even the short schedule, I think, was beneficial. As I told them last night, most writers have virtually their whole life to come up with and polish their first portfolio of sketches or their first TV spec script. But if they get hired, they often have one week to produce their second one. There’s not a lot of ways to train for that. Hopefully, my students are a little better equipped than they were four weeks ago.

We even had time to watch the very first episode ever filmed of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, to give them some ideas about sequencing sketches, so I decided to post one that got a lot of laughs. Enjoy.

iO Python Process class

Tonight is the final session of my iO Chicago Python Process class. I’m going to miss this a lot! The group is busily polishing sketches and tonight we’ll decide on a running order and do a reading with a few invited guests. If my students are having as much fun as I am, I’m going to have to organize another one of these very soon.

We’ve been watching videos, writing, and discussing re-writes and they’ve been learning collaboration a la Python. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Fabulous Rutles!

After an afternoon of working on taxes, I’m planning to kick back to watch the Beatles special on CBS tonight. I thought it was worth mentioning that Eric Idle is also going to be a part of it, narrating a few segments and doing whatever else needs to be done to help pay tribute to the Fab Four. In addition to being a member of Monty Python and being a close friend of George Harrison, Eric, of course, created The Rutles. (And I’m sure I don’t have to explain to any Beatles or Python fan who the Rutles are. Right? But if you’re still not certain, click here.)

It’s interesting to see art imitating art this way. Eric once told me of how he was filming a scene for The Rutles: All You Need is Cash (now out on Blu-Ray!), dressed in mid-60s Beatle-ish attire, when a frantic fan came up to him, begging for an autograph. She was convinced that she had just met one of the Fabs, even though none of the real Beatles had looked like that in 10-12 years. But she didn’t care, so Eric obliged her with an autograph, and she went on her way. What she failed to realize was that, standing next to Eric, was George Harrison, dressed for his role in the film as a TV interviewer.

Eric also told me about another occasion, when he and (fellow Rutle) Neil Innes were visiting George at his home in Henley. Ringo showed up, and the four of them (two Beatles and two Rutles) sat around singing Rutles songs. The older I get, the more I see how life is becoming a mash-up–and I can’t think of a better example.

At any rate, the Beatles special includes a Rutle–and I think all of the Beatles (and Rutles) would be happy.

The Beatles and Me and My First LP

It was 50 years ago this weekend that the Fab Four arrived in America. Me? I didn’t have a clue. But once I did, I made up for lost time.

I missed their first appearance. But when I got to school Monday morning, the day after their historical appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, it was all that anyone else in Miss Langbehn’s class could talk about.

After spending the next week hearing about little except The Beatles, I was determined that I wouldn’t miss their second appearance coming up again on Sunday night. I would be staying at my grandparent’s house, but I extracted a promise that we would have to watch Ed Sullivan that night. They gamely agreed, and I planted myself three feet from the black and white screen.

When they came on, I studied them closely. I wasn’t sure what they were, but I knew they were different, that things were changing. And when I returned to school the next morning, I joined in the conversation.

That week, my parents announced they were raising my weekly allowance, from ten cents to twenty five cents. I immediately spent the entire allotment on five packages of Beatles bubble gum cards, and they immediately questioned their judgment. (I still have the cards, which are now worth considerably more than a nickel, though I’m not planning on getting rid of them).

Then, I decided to get a Beatle album. It would be my first LP ever, a milestone of my childhood. One was cheaper than the others, so I grabbed it and went home to listen, and realized I had been ripped off. The voices coming out of the tiny, tinny speaker were not the Beatles. There were four Beatle songs and six songs nobody else has ever heard of, and none of them were sung by the Beatles. I read the liner notes on the back cover, which started with “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” and knew I had been robbed.

As soon as I could scrape together the money, I immediately ran out and bought “Meet the Beatles”–the genuine article. That was more like it. It was my second LP.

The rest was history, the kind of history that so many of us shared, watching The Beatles develop and grow, just as we developed and grew. I never saw them in concert–I was a little too young–but they were a huge part of my life then and now. I never met them, although I was delighted beyond words to meet and hang out with George Harrison on several occasions (as I’ve written about elsewhere on this site–thank you Monty Python).

I once did a radio interview with Frank Gorshin, best known today for his appearances as The Riddler on the ’60s Batman TV show. But before that, he was best known as an impressionist. He also performed on The Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964, so I couldn’t resist asking him about it. The moment I did, I could tell he wished I hadn’t brought it up. Simply put, it was apparently not one of the highlights of his professional career. Of course, no one else on the show that night did very well either, as the audience was filled with teenaged girls who were only there for one reason. And it wasn’t Frank Gorshin.

My first LP is long gone. But I still have my second LP, and I’m not planning on getting rid of it, either.