Can't Live: the Tragedy of Harry Nilsson

This is something I'd have to file under "it seemed like a good idea at the time".

When I finally found the song 1941 by Harry Nilsson, it (of course) sent the detective in me on a search for more about Nilsson's life and work. I began to realize how many amazing songs he'd written, and how incredible his voice was, with its pure 3 1/2-octave range vibrating like glass in the heavens. So as I trudged through the archeological dig that is YouTube, I turned up a documentary called Who is Harry Nilsson (and why is everybody talking about him?) The title was based on the song Everybody's Talking from Midnight Cowboy, one of my favorite songs from one of my all-time-favorite movies (which I saw again recently, and which once again knocked me out of my chair with its soul-shattering depiction of life's desperate fringe-dwellers).

I instantly saw the biographical connection with the song 1941 - the only difference being "the circus" meant, presumably, the music industry, money and fame. That last line "but what will happen to the boy when the circus comes to town?" is one of those one-liners that packs a tremendous punch. And it all happened. He was born in 1941, and his father walked right out the door three years later, leaving a scar on his soul that never seems to have healed.

I was hooked immediately because as the doc unfolded, it became apparent that  his destiny and fortunes were intertwined with those of the Beatles, in particular John Lennon who was every bit as adept at monstrous self-destruction as Harry himself. He even famously got drunk and rowdy with Ringo Starr (who seems to have pulled himself out of the fire just in time). Most of the people who contributed to this thing were industry types, who were in accord with the general feeling that Harry Nilsson was hell-bent on destroying himself for reasons that only made sense to him. Though he was described by friends and loved ones as sweet and gentle and lovely and all the rest of it, that is not the way he acted and not the way he treated people who deserved infinitely better than his sometimes monstrous abuse.

It was getting depressing, and I knew how it ended, but I trudged on. When John Lennon was shot, Nilsson became obsessed with gun control laws, though all his crusading appears to have come to naught. After that his career fragmented as he careened from cocaine highs to alcoholic lows, generating enough nicotine fumes to poison a whole community. Before John died, they had a screaming contest which resulted in Nilsson rupturing a vocal cord. His voice never recovered. But he seems to have inexplicably chosen to destroy his instrument in a way that horrified me more than all the rest of it put together.

So when he was 54, his life walked out the door. He ruined his body, and collapsed and died from all his extremes. But I had to ask myself if the San Andreas fault in his personality stemmed from that early parental abandonment.

It must have.

Nothing else could crack a soul clean through, could it? Unless there was some kind of abuse we don't know about, but maybe this was enough. By the time I got to the end of the documentary I had a heavy feeling, but I also felt the familiar anger I experience when I hear of someone pissing away the kind of golden opportunities that less fortunate people would give their right arm for.

Does fame do this? Why do so many famous people self-destruct, usually from drugs and alcohol and the disastrous situations that inevitably result? Was I spared, do you think? I guess I wanted it, but I also didn't. When I get a comment on a YouTube video I posted six years ago, when I receive an email comment on a blog post I did in 2012, it reminds me of something important.  It makes me realize (once again) that the rewards of the creative life are not what you think.

The rewards of the creative life are NOT helling around in bars, snorting cocaine until you hit the ceiling, abandoning a wife and son (yes, folks, he DID abandon a wife and son, just like in the song, before siring another five children with another woman, whom he soon left a widow). The rewards of the creative life are - simply - the creating itself. Or maybe touching just ONE person and hearing about it many years later. And realizing there may have been many others who just never told you about it.

I stepped out of addiction just in time, and like Ringo (and Paul), I'm still here and savoring my life to a degree I never thought possible. I keep it simple now (though it's never easy), and if I think about drinking, I think about where it took me, and I can never go back there again. But when I think of Harry Nilsson, I just get angry. There's something so perverse about the whole thing. He got drunk "at" people, that much is plain, and maybe even "at" himself. But why not use a few particles of that genius brain to figure out just what you have to do to live a peaceful and fulfilling life (and to treat the people you love the way they deserve to be treated?)

It takes no great genius to fuck up, to destroy, to obliterate. No talent at all. And I'm sick of hearing about tortured geniuses and listening to people make endless excuses for them. This song, though - it's just eerie, because the raw need in it, the sense of catastrophic damage, is disturbing to me. Do people need to be so irreparably broken to communicate such grief? What a horrible deal. 

So what's the conclusion? If you're a legendary creator and performer, or just someone who needs to write and perform, and want to live a half-decent life, be careful who you choose as a role model. Shoot for Ringo or Paul, who are still here and still creating - not poor, beleaguered, self-annihilating Harry.

Deconstructing A Day In The Life (Isolated Tracks)

This song is primal, and without a doubt the Beatles' masterpiece. Every single element of it rings true, and every single element of it is necessary to the whole. As Salieri said in Amadeus, "Pull out the tiniest detail, and the whole thing would fall down." But it doesn't, and evokes the '60s more vividly than anything else I can think of. What leaps out at me instantly are the drums - and if anyone still underestimates Ringo's brilliance here, they will have to answer to ME!

Ringo was my first Beatle-love, back when drums were just a lot of pounding rather than the glue holding the entire thing together. The big nose, the floppy hair, the sad blue eyes and somewhat rueful smile - it KILLED me when I was only ten years old and supposedly far too young for those sorts of feelings. The Beatles made their first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964 - memorable because it happened to be my tenth birthday, for which we had actually gone to a restaurant (named Rossini's - and for some reason I remember seeing a mouse running along the sidewalk outside). This was rare, as most birthdays were home affairs - but my mother still made the cake. Restaurant desserts were deemed almost wicked back then, a near-shameful extravagance.

So we get home from my birthday dinner, turn on the TV as always, and whether or not I was prepared for what happened next has been lost to me. After the fact, it seemed that the sizzle and buzz around the Beatles must have been going on for weeks. But I was too young to play those 45 rpm pop records, and may or may not have heard them on the radio. Then the gangly, stiff-limbed Ed came on and announced something "for all you youngsters" - and then - BAM!

Everything changed.

The next day, all I was hearing about at school was Beatles, Beatles, Beatles. We had all been watching Ed Sullivan forever, and I had never seen any references to any of the other acts (not even Topo Gigio, the Little Italian Mouse). I remember the teacher could not keep order that day, and at one point made a remark about wigs, thinking that's what "Beatles" were. But suddenly it was Beatles everywhere, including bubble gum cards with four different  poses per ten-cent package (I had a nearly-complete set before THROWING THEM OUT when I turned 13 - how childish to collect such things!), shirts, lunch boxes, thermos flasks, and - most magical of all - Beatles dolls. I promptly got me a Ringo doll, and kept him in my desk.

The more you listen to this, the more impossible it all seems. These guys were just bloody geniuses. Paul and Ringo are now in their 80s, and like Bob Dylan, still performing, still going strong. Ringo has turned out to be the coolest Beatle, as I always suspected. Peace and love! His son Zak was drummer for The Who, which is not too shabby and proof that talent can be inherited, so long as you put in the hard work and dedication along with it.  I don't know a lot about drums, except that Ringo's accuracy was crystalline - combined with a slight shuffly effect which was deliberate. He has even talked about it, a way of slightly smearing the decay so that the beat was both diamond-hard and spookily underwater-ish.  I have always felt A Day in the Life would be nothing without Ringo. 

This is the Ringo doll I DIDN'T have. Magnificent! The little ones are worth a fortune now, so I can only imagine what this work of art would fetch on eBay nowadays.

Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

Behold. . . SIR RICHARD!

Ringo Starr receives knighthood: 'I'll wear it at breakfast'

By Mark Savage BBC Music reporter 20 March 2018

Former Beatles drummer Ringo Starr receives his knighthood for services to music 

Beatles drummer Ringo Starr has been knighted for his services to music. 

The Duke of Cambridge bestowed the honour on the Liverpool-born star at a ceremony at Buckingham Palace.

"It means a lot actually," the musician told the BBC. "It means recognition for the things we've done. I was really pleased to accept this.

The honour comes 53 years after the Beatles were all awarded the MBE - and Starr said he had missed his bandmates' companionship this time round.
"I was a bit shaky today on my own," he said.


 

Ringo joined The Beatles in 1962, shortly after they signed their record contract

When The Beatles received their MBEs in October 1965, the occasion was not without controversy.

Rock and roll was still viewed with suspicion by the establishment and several previous honourees returned their medals in disgust.

John Lennon later claimed that the Beatles were so nervous at the idea of meeting the Queen they sneaked into a bathroom at Buckingham Palace for a cigarette.

"Who said that?" laughed the drummer after Tuesday's ceremony. "I'm not keeping that rumour going."


 

The Beatles at Buckingham Palace in 1965 (left to right): Ringo Starr, John Lennon, Paul McCartney and George Harrison

He arrived at the investiture with his wife, Barbara Bach, offering his trademark peace sign for fans and photographers.

Asked whether he wanted to be known as Sir Ringo, the musician, whose real name is Richard Starkey, replied: "I don't know yet. It's new and I don't know how you use it properly."

Turning to BBC reporter Colin Paterson, he added: "But I expect you to use it."

The 77-year-old added he knew exactly what he'd do with his medal.

"I'll be wearing it at breakfast," he joked. 

BLOGGER'S HURRAY-IT'S-ABOUT-BLOODY-TIME: This was the best news I've had in a while. I don't think people realized then - and perhaps many don't realize now - the extent to which Ringo was the glue holding the Beatles together. He had to bear being the butt of jokes about the guy who tagged along behind all those geniuses, but Ringo's beat was so much a part of their signature sound that when you listen to YouTube tracks without his drumming, they sound almost insipid. Try to imagine She Loves You without that " bompa-da-bomp!" intro, or listen to A Day in the Life again and notice how much his drumming is the "bones" of the song. He was all about loving the beat and playing within the song rather than grabbing solo bits and playing the prima donna. Now he's come full circle and is that cheerful lad from Liverpool again, the one that kept his accent and his attitude. Ringo: I loved you then, I love you now, I'll love you always.

P. P S.: I think it's a little sad that when they run a photo of the Beatles for the BBC, they have to tell us what their names are. Time was, everyone knew, it was tattooed on our brains. But in this, I have hope. . . My kids knew every lyric of every Beatles song ever written, and they grew up in the '80s. Caitlin's best friend is a Beatlemaniac, though she can't really understand it. "God, she has every Beatles album, every Beatles poster, every Beatles t shirt and book and vintage trading card. . . " Caitlin's friend is 14, so perhaps the legend is fated to continue.

P. P. P. S.: If the BBC wants to sue me for lightly borrowing this before giving it back, well then go ahead. With the number of views I get (and I haven't even checked them for months, it's so disheartening) I don't think I am any threat to them. We'll call it "fair use" and leave it at that.

Rattle your jewelry

Ringo is the meaning of life

Ringo was late to the party

Ringo was late to the party - we all know that - but soon found his slot, or slid into it, and thus the Beatles were born. Prior to that, there was somehow a feeling that a piece was missing. Once he was on board, the whole thing exploded.

I loved Ringo first. I saw the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show on my tenth birthday - it was their first time on the show, and nobody quite knew what the hell was going on, except that this babyfaced quartet were generating incredible excitement. Elevated on a sort of throne behind the three others was none other than Ringo Starr, the only Beatle with a made-up name, and in some ways the runt of the litter. This guaranteed that all the girls would love him best (pardon the pun!).

 

Ringo was a bit of a mutt, with a big nose and sad blue eyes. He didn't have conventional good looks like Paul, or a slashing wit like John, or spiritual gravitas like George. He was the waif. Three of the four Beatles had abandonment issues around their parents (only George had a more-or-less normal working-class childhood). Ringo's father just walked out, as did John's (and we all know what happened to John's mother). Fatherless boys can go one way or the other. But both ended up lashed onto a comet which is still streaking across the heavens, even with two members gone.

Ringo's still around, and he's hip, he is so incredibly hip! He has waited all his life to be this hip. Paul is looking fragile and has had a little work done on that sweet, slightly overripe face, but Ringo seems twenty years younger than his age. Being a Beatle, being in that world, has been an education, and his joy has survived. 

I was delighted to hear that his eldest son Zak - remember Zak? - has done not-half-badly on his own, serving as drummer for the Who - THE WHO??? Yes. Them. And you don't get those kinds of gigs handed to you because you're a Starkey. Famous Dads can even be the end of your career. You get them because you are brilliant.

Ringo's virtuosity is subtle but irresistible, a savant power that he has always had, and which has evolved. If you doubt me, try to imagine the Beatles' masterpiece, A Day in the Life, without Ringo. This is the backbone of the whole thing.  Listen to it again.

Post blogservations. My Ringo doll! Everyone had a Beatles doll back then, which you smuggled to school and kept in your desk. Mine, of course, was Ringo. I don't still have the thing (how crazy do you think I am? Don't answer that), but of course was easily able to track down a photo of one. Nothing ever goes away on the Internet.

Doesn't look much like him, but no one was prepared for the Beatles back then, for what they would become. I thought that was a hat at first - some sort of fez, or a French foreign legion thing, which wouldn't make sense, would it? But I think it's a tambourine. They couldn't stick a set of drums on him too easily.

Singing in the dead of night

This started out as something else. Something about Twitter, Tweets, twights, twats (sorry, it's just too tempting) and other things I can't get used to. Not so much the three-or-four-syllable "communications" that people fling at each other, using splng tht lvs a bt t b dsrd. It's the whole concept of alarmingly shorter and shorter attention spans resulting in messages that have been reduced to a nanosecond-long chirp.

Worse than that: like the frog in the pot, the water temperature gradually increasing until the frog is quite contentedly cooked, nobody seems to notice or particularly care what we have lost.


Anyway, tweets. Why tweets? Somebody (now probably massively wealthy) thought up this idiotic avian name. Couldn't be more idiotic, unless it was Cow Pat or something. Airbrained. Lightweight. Imagine Keats ("My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness. . .") twittering, tweeting Ode to a Nightingale. Shakespeare ("Love tweets not with the eyes, but with the mind/ And therefore is winged Twitter painted blind") chirping like the bloody chirper he actually was ("chirper" being a nasty name for a blithering Englishman).

"You'll have to learn how to do it," my husband says to me, "because you won't be able to survive if you don't." That's worse than sex. I'll have to do it, as if it's some dire and unpleasant bodily function you nevertheless can't avoid. But what alarms me is what fun everyone else is having, doing something I just bleepin'ly dread.


So anyways. Somebody had the bright idea that we should all become birds, and just twitter and twatter, nitter and natter at each other all the day long. Birds chitter and chatter, but they also kill. They evolved from dinosaurs, more directly than any other living species. In fact, they are now known to be the only direct descendents. Dinos ran around with feathers on, you see, long before they learned how to fly. I can't imagine how creepy that must have been.

Given the shrill vocalizations of most birds, including Jasper my addle-headed lovebird who must think he's a full-sized Amazon parrot, those dino-birds must have been deafening. They probably had the same cold round beady black eyes my pet bird has, those scaly feet (some remnant of lizard scales, no doubt). My bird feels a strong attachment to me, but that's because he's convinced I'm either his mother or his mate. Without the steady flow of seed mix, he'd completely ignore me.

So anyways. What am I getting at here? Nothing much. Why not Bark-bark or Neigh-neigh or Worm-bluggh (or whatever worms do to communicate)? No, it had to be Twitter.


I'd call that Twittiotic.