281. Harry Nilsson, "Nilsson Schmilsson"

 


Remember on "Lost" when they'd show Desmond in the Hatch and he'd get up and put on a record and it would be something like Petula Clark or Cass Elliott's "Make Your Own Kind of Music" or something like that?  This album sounds like that, like that bright, brassy 60's pop, which is exactly what it is.

Harry Nilsson is such a weird figure in 60's & 70's music.  He sold a fair amount of records, and was drinking buddies with John Lennon and Ringo Starr, but you don't hear much about him any more, or I don't, at least.  I think that might be because his music is certainly influential, I'm not sure it's widely listened to.  Except by indie acts; The Walkmen covered the entire Pussy Cats album he made with Lennon.  Ty Segall released a bunch of Nilsson covers on his Bandcamp.  And so on.

Nilsson jumped back into the spotlight a couple of years ago when "Gotta Get Up," the first song on this album, was used repeatedly in "Russian Doll," that Netflix show with Natasha Lyonne.  That's the first time I ever remember hearing it and I dutifully looked it up, just like everyone else.  It's a great song that sounds like it came from a musical, like more than one of the songs on this album.

I was surprised by how many songs I recognized.  Besides "Gotta Get Up," I immediately knew "Without You," a - let's face it - treacly and overwrought love song that I think I thought was Air Supply or someone like that?  But it was actually a cover of a Badfinger song.  It was, of course, a huge fucking hit.  There's also the novelty song "Coconut," which my 8-year-old unabashedly loves.  And "Jump Into the Fire," a loping, bouncy rocker with a long jam at the end and a chance for Harry to show off his truly impressive voice.  Dude had a 3 1/2 octave vocal range and total control over his voice.  It's really fucking impressive.

As you can kind of glean, Nilsson was kind of a weirdo.  (In fact, there's a great Pitchfork piece about him and Randy Newman called "L.A. Weirdos.")  He appears on the cover of this album wearing a bathrobe and supposedly holding a hash pipe (although it's hard to tell from the picture).  He didn't play concerts because he didn't want to.  And in an unbelievable coincidence, Cass Eliott and Keith Moon both died in Harry's London apartment, which he then sold to Pete Townsend.  WHAT THE FUCK.

Does this album deserve to be in the Top 500? Yes.

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