Tag Archives: Harry Nilsson

Python Live, 34 years ago

It was 34 years ago this week that the Pythons played four nights live at the Hollywood Bowl. At that time, none of them would have dreamed that they’d be playing ten nights at the O2 in London 34 years late. For one thing, the O2 didn’t exist. But at the time, it seemed like the high point of Python, and in many ways, it was.

They were still active, making movies together. They were all together, including Graham, along with other fans and friends who were hanging out at the Bowl that I now miss very much, including George Harrison, Harry Nilsson, and John Tomiczek.

It was a very special four nights, part of which I was lucky enough to spend backstage, and even luckier to be on stage, with the Pythons. Not to take anything away from the O2 shows, which comprised one of the most amazing curtain calls for show business careers ever. But the Hollywood Bowl was just as special in its own way. It was where Python peaked in America, where Graham took his final Python curtain calls, and where I get way more nostalgic than I probably should. But it might be a good weekend to put Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl in the DVD player…

Robin Williams…

…I don’t have much to say except that it’s a great loss, and very sad. I had a few encounters with Robin Williams, the first of which was at a party at Harry Nilsson’s house after the final night of Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl. At that time, Mork and Mindy was one of the biggest shows on television. I noticed him walking around the back yard in the near-dark, alone, and decided to approach him, as we had a mutual friend who worked on that show. It quickly became apparent that he was in a much darker place than that back yard, and I quickly excused myself. When his substance abuse problems first became public, I was not surprised.

I had a much happier memory of Robin several years later–oddly, it was when Del Close was dying. I know that Robin and Del knew each other by way of The Committee in San Francisco, of which Robin was a huge admirer (Del never actually taught him, but always called him his “grand-student”). I thought Robin should know that Del didn’t have much time left and might appreciate a call, so I asked Eric Idle to pass on the news. To my surprise, I got a phone call shortly afterward, and we chatted for a while; I filled him in on Del and he was effusive in his praise of Del. He apparently had trouble connecting with Del at the hospital–I’m still unclear whether they were ultimately successful, but if not, it was not for lack of trying. He called me several more times that week and I gave him regular updates. I remember him asking me about a couple of science fiction stories that he was considering doing as films; at first it seemed a little odd that he would ask me, a near-stranger, but then I realized that he knew that I was friends with Del, so I would almost certainly have to be SF savvy!). We had some nice chats in which he felt no pressure to perform or entertain for me over the phone, and I felt like I was talking to the real person. I liked him enormously.

There were other encounters. I can recall an elevator ride late one night at Rockefeller Plaza, after a Saturday Night Live broadcast. I found myself riding down with Robin Williams and Tom Petty, the former as animated as one might expect, apparently in an effort to entertain the latter.

It’s all very sad, sad for his family, his friends, and for comedy lovers. I’m particularly saddened for Eric Idle at the loss of his close friend. And Robin had just finished a film for Terry Jones, Absolutely Anything, in which he recorded the voice of the dog; Terry recently told me how much fun he’d had in the studio with him, and the many versions of the character he delivered. Now it’s going to be a much more poignant experience.

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.

Harried…

I had planned to post my comments on the new Harry Nilsson biography over the weekend, but the weather continues to be atrocious and life has continued to interrupt. I want to be thorough, so I had to delay it. There’s currently another blizzard/ice storm raging outside, so it’s going to have to wait a little longer. In the meantime, I thought a nice Harry video might be just the thing. And yes, that’s really Harry in one of the gorilla suits.

Remembering Harry…

It’s hard to believe that Harry Nilsson has been gone for twenty years this week.

When I think of Harry, I think of a big, gregarious teddy-bear of a man, always smiling, always happy to see you. It’s hard to describe Harry to someone who doesn’t think they know who he was, because he did so much music that’s ubiquitous to our present-day culture. His was a quirky career, just as Harry was a man who embraced quirkiness. His best-known songs were not written by him (“Without You,” “Everybody’s Talkin'”), while the best-known songs that he wrote were not recorded by him (including Three Dog Night’s “One”).

I first met Harry when he hosted a party following the final night of Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl. My pal George Harrison first introduced me to Harry. [The previous sentence is one that I try to use as often as possible.] Harry wrote the introduction to my third Monty Python book, Life Before (and After) Monty Python. I’m pretty proud of that book, but the introduction by Harry may be the best thing in it.

We were able to get together the few times Harry was in Chicago or, at the time, the few times I was in L.A. He had quit drinking and cleaned himself up admirably in the years before he left us. Recently, he’s been the subject of a biography, a documentary, the reissue of most of his albums in a boxed set. I’ll write more about Harry later. I miss him, but it’s good to know his music lives on.

Happy birthday Graham!

Happy birthday, Graham Chapman! Graham would have been 73 years old this Wednesday, and the world is a far less silly place without him. He left us nearly a quarter of a century ago, and he is sorely missed.

Readers Digest used to run a feature about "The Most Unforgettable 
Person I Ever Met." While I have known a few people who would qualify, 
I don't know if anyone fit the bill more than Graham. In addition to 
being a member of Monty Python, he was also a goatherder, a Petula 
Clark writer, an alcoholic and then a recovered alcoholic, openly gay 
at a time when it wasn't well-accepted, a mountaineer, and a fully 
qualified medical doctor who went to New Zealand as the result of an 
off-handed comment during a meeting with the Queen Mother. He was 
sometimes prolific, sometimes not, though at one point, he was 
simultaneously writing for three different television shows.

[He would undoubtedly have been at the forefront of the gay rights/gay 
marriage movement over the past 25 years, as he was when he was 
alive--he never really got the credit, but he was, arguably, the first 
openly gay star of a Hollywood movie.]

His greatest accomplishment may have been his triumph over alcohol. He 
used to party with his friends Keith Moon, Harry Nilsson, and Ringo 
Starr, a group not known for their temperance (they all eventually 
quit--or in the case of Keith, tried to quit--drinking; all but Ringo 
are gone now). At the beginning of the filming of Monty Python and the 
Holy Grail, Graham self-diagnosed himself as alcoholic and made the 
decision to quit drinking, though it took some time. But when he 
finally came out of it newly sober, he proved himself to be wonderful 
capable in films like Life of Brian.

The first couple of times I met Graham, he was still hampered by 
alcohol. The Chicago premiere of Holy Grail (where he was accompanied 
by Terry Jones) was early in the day, and he did not seem to be 
affected. The following year, I met him again backstage at New York's 
City Center, between two Saturday evening performances of the Monty 
Python Live! stage show. He wandered around shirtless with a large 
tumbler of something that looked suspiciously like Gordon's Gin. He 
emitted the occasional random squawks!  and sang "Ya De Buckety!" for 
no apparent reason. But he held himself together enough during the 
performance that I saw, and I enjoyed it immensely.

When I flew to London two years later, I met a completely changed 
Graham. Quiet and soft-spoken, but still with a wickedly funny sense of 
humor, he had quit drinking at the beginning of the year and was a 
totally different person. He invited me to stay at his house on 
Southwood Lane, along with his partner David, foster son John, dogs 
Harry, Sly, and Clint, and a semi-regular assortment of drop-in guests, 
including a semi-scary man in black leather called Spike, and Bernard 
McKenna, with whom he was writing at the time. He introduced me to the 
Angel Pub in Highgate (where there is now a plaque in his honor), where 
he drank ginger ale. Having read about it in guidebooks, I ordered 
the shepherd's pie; when it came, Graham eyeballed it, looking a bit 
disturbed, and asked me "Are you sure that's what you wanted?" (Graham 
was right about the shepherd's pie.)

And so began our long friendship, one which lasted as long as Graham 
himself. Happy birthday, Gray.