2015

January 7th, 2015

Here's a short memory from my youth: It was either the late 70s or very early 80s I think, and Harry had signed up to write the songs for a new live action movie based on the Blondie comic strip. I was visiting him in LA, and went with him to the studio as he was working on the songs.

As it turned out on the day I was there, they needed a child's voice to say a line in one of the songs, so they asked me to do it and I said sure, not really understanding what was going on; I was probably only 8 or 9 years old at the time.

So they set me up in the vocal booth, adjusted the mic to my height, gave me some headphones and told me what to say. The song was about Blondie being overwhelmed with household chores, and the chorus was pretty much just listing all the things she had to deal with, and one of them was "and the children!" So it was the shopping and the laundry and the cooking "and the children!"

That was my line, and since it was only three words it didn't take me too long to memorize it. I remember doing multiple takes, and trying to say it enthusiastically and clearly, and at one point the producer asked me to say it with more energy and excitement, so I did it again a little louder and more excited, and they liked that take, and that was it.

The project was canceled at some point, I don't really know how far into it they got, I just know that song never saw the light of day, and I never heard it again. I tried looking it up, but never found a trace of it.

Comment: Holy crap, I believe that's it. "Shady Lane" sounds very familiar now that you've said it. Did I even get the timeframe right? Wow, maybe my memory isn't quite as bad as I thought it was. Still pretty leaky though, but I guess what I do remember is proving to be fairly accurate. Honestly it's really nice to have confirmation on some of these things because while I'm recalling them as well as I can, it was a solid 35 years ago.

Comment: Thank you guys. You know how sometimes when an old memory comes back, other things come back with it? Like smells, feelings, and it's a little bit like you're there again? Hearing the song again put me back there a little bit, and I've been remembering how Harry smelled, and what his voice felt like when I was resting my head on his chest. At that age, it felt to me like Harry was the only person in the world who really cared about me, and I'm having a bit of a moment reliving everything I went through when he died.

I wish so much that he was still alive.

January 15, 2015

·

January 15th, 1994

It was late Saturday morning in New Hampshire, when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

There was a slight pause, then I heard a woman's voice on the other end.

"Zak? It's Una," she said. I immediately knew there was something wrong, her voice was higher than usual and it sounded like she had been crying.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Harry," she sniffed. "He's gone."

She broke into tears, and I stood silent as I realized what she meant.

"What happened?" I asked softly.

"He was very sick. He... he passed in his sleep a few hours ago."

"Oh, god. I'm so sorry," I said, as I felt my face become numb. I had never lost a parent before, and I didn't know he was as sick as he was. It came as a surprise to me.

I didn't know what else to say. I was at a complete loss for words as it began to sink in that I would never be able to talk to him again, to see him again, to hear any of his jokes or simply to know that I had a father. I don't really remember what happened with Una on the phone after that, I think we finally somehow said our goodbyes and we hung up. I was in shock.

We had the TV on for the rest of the day, and all day long on news programs, talk shows etc. there were mentions of his death. I began to get phone calls in the afternoon, and emails, and people wanted to tell me they were sorry for me, and I was glad to have friends that cared at that time. I needed it.

Out of all of Harry's kids, I was the oldest at 23 years old. Oscar, the youngest, was only two. As hard as it was for me, I could only imagine how hard it must have been for them, all still teenagers or younger, and all still living at home. I felt horrible that we had all lost our father, a man who loved us all.

I called to get plane tickets to Los Angeles.

Monday, January 17th, 1994

We drove down to Logan airport in Boston to get our flight to LAX, and we boarded without incident. We had our luggage stowed, our seat belts on and we were waiting to taxi out to the runway when the captain’s voice came over the PA.

“Uh, folks, we’re going to be delayed for a bit here. We’ve just heard that there’s been a massive earthquake in Los Angeles, and we don’t know if LAX is still standing, we can’t raise them. Please bear with us, we’ll know more shortly.”

This was some kind of joke, right? I mean not to make it all about me, but the Northridge quake happens on the day of my dad’s funeral, AND it’s also my birthday? All on the same day?

Really?

I hate to even say that because it does such a disservice to the people who died in that quake, but at the time, sitting on that tiny plane and feeling very alone, it’s all I could come up with. It’s one of the only times in my life when I asked myself without a hint of hyperbole, “what else could possibly go wrong?”

A half hour later the pilot confirmed that LAX was reachable again and that they were clear to land there, so we took off into the wild blue yonder.

About 5 hours later, we landed at LAX. I don’t recall LAX looking too bad but it wasn’t particularly close to the epicenter of the quake. We were picked up by my cousin Louise, and she drove us back to my aunt Michelle’s house (Harry’s sister) where everyone was gathered. Una, the kids, cousin Doug were all there.

As we were talking, we were hit with an aftershock. We found out later it was one of the largest aftershocks produced by the Northridge quake, somewhere in the low 5 range on the richter scale. It made the whole house roll like it was on the ocean, and it lasted a solid 20 seconds. 20 seconds feels like an eternity when you’re not sure if the house is going to collapse on your head.

At some point after that we made our way to the funeral home. My memories are a chaotic jumble, I was so sad, and there were so many people, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was outside for a while as people arrived, and then it was time for the funeral to begin and I went inside. As I walked in, a large number of people recognized me, most of whom I didn’t know. I went to the bathroom, and even there, people were greeting me and expressing how sorry they were.

We were grown men weeping in a bathroom. We couldn’t help it. And I’ve always had a particular sensitivity to death. The sorrow it causes, the sense of loss, it’s hard for me to cope with under normal circumstances, and this was much worse. And there were so many people who loved Harry so much, who were all so sad. And all of this, in addition to the devastation of the earthquake, and indeed the intermittent rumbling the whole time we were there made the experience… almost like a form of insanity, where it was just too surreal to believe.

Harry’s music was playing softly over the speakers, and his voice, that voice, wafted through the air as we sat and looked at Harry for the last time, in his open casket. I couldn’t look at him. Earlier that day when we first arrived, I said my goodbyes. There were only a few people there, and I stood in front of my father and looked at his face. I wanted him to say something funny. Come on, just tell me this isn’t really happening. Tell me this isn’t the end, dad. Tell me a joke. Tell me a joke, dad. I’ll even laugh at it.

I’ll stop crying and I’ll laugh.

I was sitting next to my aunt Michelle, as words were spoken about Harry. Kind words, words meant to comfort and soothe. I didn’t really hear any of them, it was like white noise. Jimmy Webb gave a eulogy that I remember thinking was so poignant and so wonderful that it distracted me and made me feel better, for a time. And then the speaking was done and it was time to move Harry to his hole in the ground.

I was a pallbearer along with two of my brothers and Jimmy, and George Harrison, and at least one other person I’m sorry I don’t remember who it was. We carried Harry outside and up the hill and to his grave site, which was a lovely spot that afforded a nice view, and I was somewhat comforted that it would be there. We set him down and more words were spoken, none of which I can recall. I simply remember his casket, the grave site, the crowd of people all gathered around. People were sad, and then somebody recalled a funny moment with Harry and people were happy, and then people were sad again. And eventually it was all over.

I distinctly remember taking one last look at Harry’s casket. I wanted to remember it, because that was the last time I would see him, and I could not come to terms with that. I had to burn it into my memory so I could remember him before he went into the earth. I had to, I couldn’t let him go. It was too much, he meant too much to me and burying him was much too final for me to cope with.

And then I turned around, and we left. I was numb, and I had never felt so alone in my life.

We went to a restaurant for a family lunch, though I didn’t much feel like eating. After lunch I went back to aunt Michelle’s house to collapse into some furniture and listen to the ringing in my ears.

Later that day, we went to Harry and Una’s house for an Irish wake. Everybody from the funeral was there, and this memory is also mostly a blur but I do remember having some conversations with some startlingly famous people, and realizing that we’re all human. These people lost one of their best friends. The stories they told me came from the heart, and I found myself thinking that maybe Harry wasn’t dead after all. If these stories, told by people who knew and loved him, could make me smile then maybe he wasn’t completely gone.

Maybe, by telling stories about Harry, we could keep him alive.

Maybe, by telling stories about Harry, I can keep him alive.

January 20th, 2015

Well in 1971, a happy father had a son

And in 1974 the father walked right out the door

And in '75 the mom and son were still alive

But who could tell in '76 if the two were to survive

I made a reference to this in Who Is Harry Nilsson (And Why Is Everybody Talkin' About Him)?, about how events in our life almost exactly mirrored the events Harry wrote about in "1941", 30 years later.

And to be fair, Harry didn't just "walk out" on us, he tried very hard to make it work, and couldn't. And I don't blame him for that either, my mother was a difficult person to get along with. And Harry felt guilty about it for his whole life, and tried to make it up to me in any way he could.

This picture was taken probably in '71 or '72, not sure exactly when, but it's one of the only pics I have of the three of us together.

Comment: Actually I believe Harry said it best to our cousin Doug who repeated it in the documentary - "We tried very hard to love each other." That sounded about right to me.

Diane couldn't deal with Harry's partying, drinking, drugs, gone for days at a time superstar life, and Harry couldn't deal with Diane's controlling nature. I get that, because I experienced it first hand for many years, which is one of the main reasons I don't really blame Harry for not being able to make it work.

They cared for each other but their personalities were not compatible, is how I look at it. Harry needed somebody who was more forgiving, more understanding of both his strong points and his failings, and he found that in Una.

February 23, 2015

My youngest brother on my dad's side, Oscar, turned 24 today. When we all attended Harry's funeral on Jan 17th 1994, Oscar was only 2 years old, almost 3. I've always felt a little sad about that, I wish Oscar had been able to get to know Harry at least as much as the rest of us did.

April 21, 2015

New York, 1984

I was in New York to visit Harry, this is when he was living in Nyack. Now a lot of this trip is a blur, I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember this part very clearly.

Harry had his driver take us to the Dakota building. I knew what it was. I knew John Lennon had been shot there a few years prior. My eyes grew wide as I recognized the building, and there was a reverent silence as we got out of the car and walked towards the entrance, the very place where John had been killed.

Harry said nothing, and neither did I.

We somehow entered the building, I don’t know if somebody recognized Harry and let us in or if he buzzed in, or what - all I remember is the feeling of walking up to that spot. The chill I felt as I was standing right about where it happened, and the moment of loss I experienced as any Beatles fan would. As any compassionate human being would. I had never met John - something Harry told me he regretted - so I never knew him as a man, only as a Beatle. It didn’t make the loss any less profound for me.

We continued to the elevator and rode up. We exited on some floor I don’t remember, and we went to a door and knocked. Yoko Ono answered the door. What I remember is that she was so happy to see Harry, She was overjoyed to see him. And she was happy to see me, even though we had never met before. She was skinny, almost frail I thought, and she was busy. There were PR materials and packaging all over the floor and on the tables, and I didn’t know what it was for, but it all had the title Every Man Has A Woman.

Harry was immediately interested in the poster for the album, which had prints of all the artists’ signatures, including Sean Lennon’s and Harry’s.

“Oh, it came out good!” Harry said.

Yoko nodded. “I’m very happy with how it looks. They did a great job with it.”

That’s when I asked what it was about, and Yoko told me about this album of her songs that all these artists had performed. Harry had performed 3 songs, and there were some very heavy hitters on this album; Elvis Costello, Roseanne Cash, Roberta Flack, Eddie Money. I had no idea Harry had been working on anything like this, and I was happy to see that he was happy, and Yoko was happy.

Harry and Yoko talked for a while, and I half listened, and half just walked around and looked at things. Then it struck me that I hadn’t seen Sean at all.

“Hey, is Sean here?” I asked in that maybe slightly less than polite way that kids ask things.

Yoko shook her head. “He’s off having swimming lessons right now, sorry you didn’t get to meet him.”

I smiled. “That’s okay,” I said. I continued to look around.

An hour or so later Harry was ready to leave, so we began to say our goodbyes.

“Oh before you go, would you like a poster?” Yoko asked me.

“Sure!” I exclaimed. I knew who Yoko Ono was. I thought it would be cool to have something from Yoko Ono.

“Shall I sign it for you? What do you want it to say?” She reached over to a nearby table and picked up a gold marker.

“Um… um… can you say that I’m Ringo’s friend? And that I’m Harry’s son?”

Okay, look. I was young and stupid, all right? All I could think of in my head was how I was going to prove that Yoko gave me this poster, and how I was going to show it off to my friends. I was just a kid, and I didn’t know any better. But Yoko took it in stride, she thought it was funny.

She wrote:

“To Zak, Ringo’s friend, Harry Nilsson’s SON, love, Yoko Ono”

Yes, when I look back on that request it’s almost unbearably embarrassing. Can you believe the nerve of me? Yoko Ono is signing a poster for me, and I ask her to write stuff about OTHER PEOPLE.

But her generosity, her friendly personality and her willingness to kindly put up with my rudeness with humor and grace, is what has stayed with me for all these years. Yes, she’s eccentric. But as a person, as a human being, I thought she was amazing. And I don’t want to get too far into it, but this is why it hurts me when people disparage her, or call her crazy, or say she broke up the Beatles. In my admittedly limited experience with her, she proved herself to be kind, intelligent, and funny. Her beloved husband was murdered in front of her, and I would guess very few of us can understand that kind of pain.

All I know for sure is that she was nice to me, and she loved Harry. She has always had my respect.