The first 171 lines.
You have all the time you need, sir,
and not a second extra.
Oh, beautiful.
Thank you.
25 years ago, I had the good fortune
of playing a character
in a film called "Midnight Cowboy."
- I was rehearsing this speech here yesterday.
And I came in here today,
and just found out that the wonderful,
lovely, talented man who sang,
"Everybody's Talking, in that movie,
Harry Nilsson died today.
And it would seem weird
not to have an appropriate moment for him.
He was a great artist.
- Most of the time when I mention him people go, "Who?"
When you say, Harry Nilsson,
everybody says, "No, Harry Nilsson?"
Either they get it right away, or they have no idea.
He brought originality to the...
I mean, no copying anybody.
He was the closest thing to an American
version of the Beatles.
Beautiful, beautiful voice.
Soft, velvety.
And you'd have your headphones on
and that voice would come through.
You almost couldn't play,
'cause it was so beautiful, seriously, beautiful.
To me he was always like a fallen angel.
So there was this weird combination
of something heavenly and beatific about him,
and then just dirt (laughs)
And darkness.
Harry would turn up at your door,
at four o'clock in the morning,
and you kinda knew that the next three days
of your life were gonna be an adventure.
I defer, Harry.
Man, I don't know how far you want me to go with this!
- Harry was a big bunny with really sharp teeth.
Just the sweetest wonderful guy
that could be the nastiest son of bitch in two seconds
right after that.
He was his own worst enemy.
I mean, just the drink and the drugs alone.
- He spent most of his life in pursuit of a good time
and he caught it,
and it caught him in the end.
- I was born Harry Edward Nilsson the third,
on father's day, 1941.
It seems to me that it's pretty clear,
that Harry was profoundly disturbed
by the fact that he was abandoned by his father.
To not have had all the conversations,
with a father that one would want
creates quite a longing heart,
and he had that.
Harry who I think really fought for legitimacy in many ways,
fought hard for.
- My mother and I lived in an upstairs apartment
with six rooms.
We lived with my grandmother, my grandfather,
two uncles, my sister when she was born.
That's the way we live.
Crowded, but busy enough not to get bored.
- I think my mother was always sort of like,
she wasn't a stage mother or anything
but I think she herself
wanted to be a chauvinist at one time.
I think that's sort of rubbed off on me.
And when I was a little child,
they used to put me on the piano
and have me sing songs to the adults, you know.
- I used to lay in bed when I was about 10 or 11,
in the solitude of the small, dark room in Brooklyn.
If I wasn't counting to a million
or or to infinity,
I would put a pillow over my head,
and put on a show for an invisible audience.
And now presenting, me,
doing my impression of the great Al Jolson.
And then I would mime Al Jolson,
Mammy, how I love you, now I love you
Let me ask you, Harry Nilsson, can you do James Cagney?
You dirty rat.
I have been Crosby
But it's amazing.
How about this guy?
- One time Harry and I were both in New York
at the same time,
and he called me and asked me
if I'd like to go out
and see where he was born.
It was a highly charged emotional event for both of us.
That limousine took us out to Brooklyn.
He couldn't give the directions,
but he knew them when he got to the intersections.
And we got lower and lower through more bridges
and tunnels and dank alleys and back streets and garbage.
And finally, we got to a place with a city brick wall
and, a sign that said, "Starve a rat.
Cover your garbage."
He was shaking and weeping in the car,
because this was where he came from.
It was obvious this was a very big reconciliation for Harry,
something that he had been shelving for so long.
It was the very thing that drove him a sense of poverty.
They had financial troubles,
that had serious repercussions.
When he was a kid,
he had to eat dog food at one point.
That's all I could afford.
I know it was difficult for him.
I mean, his mom was an alcoholic.
She ultimately got sober
and very fascinating woman.
When you met her, you can see where Harry came from,
'cause she was like a bigger version
of Harry in a lot of ways,
that same kind of outwardness and interest.
- She did pretty much whatever she had to do to survive.
She took whatever job she had to,
she lived where she had to.
She even had to write some checks,
that didn't always find their way
to the bank and get paid.
- But at one point they needed to rent money,
and he held up a liquor store.
I don't know if you know that story or not?
For $17, and, give me $17, you know.
He was forced to do a lot of things as a young man,
that made him I suppose, stronger.
And then we come just made him stronger,
and more self-reliant and more confident.
- My dad was like probably the only real father figure
he had, you know, 'cause he spent a few years with us
and my dad was just a regular
you know, regular dad, you know?
And it was like a stable kind of thing
in his life, you know?
And he always had fond memories of that.
It was 1957.
It was June, a hot June.
I lost my job as a caddy,
because of a fight
pushing and shoving, nothing bad,
but enough for the Caddy Master to fire me.
When I went home that night,
I told my aunt and uncle what had happened.
And during dinner, my uncle said,
"Skeeter, I don't know how to say this gracefully,
but I don't think we can afford you."
I didn't hesitate.
I simply said, "You won't have to worry about me any more."
I left the house feeling like Holden Caulfield,
half sad, half scared, half itching to get on the road
and start an adventure across country,
which would last me a lifetime.
I was 15.
I moved to California,
to East LA, great improvement.
And then my best friend at the time,
we were like the poor man's Everly brothers.
We had an old tape recorder,
and we used to sing Everly type tunes.
Then we found out we were making up lyrics,
then we started adding changing melodies.
So we find out though that,
now we're writing tunes, you know.
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