Everybody’s Talkin’ ‘bout me

A muted carpet square covers the stage, on it a desk, a drinks table, a leather armchair and a baby grand. A digital alarm clock on the desk is just hitting 12 midnight as the lights come up. The alarm buzzes and Tim Freedman, in striped pyjama pants and toweling bathrobe (cf the cover of Nilsson Schmilsson 1971) wanders in from a door stage right. His beard is similar to Nilsson’s – and when he picks up and dons a grey flat cap from a bust on the drinks table, the transformation is pretty damn good!

So begins his tribute inhabitation of the man who was Harry Nilsson – singer, songwriter, reluctant performer, friend of the Beatles, Grammy Award winner, drinker, drug taker, lost to the music world in 1994 when he suffered a heart attack at the age of 52.

Compiled with co-writer David Mitchell, Freedman’s interpretation of the man that was Nilsson is laconic, laid back, just a little shy, sharing his songs a little hesitantly – after all he is not used to performing for an audience! As he turns off the alarm, he pours a cognac (his first for the day!), settles in the easy chair and begins his story. Predictably, as he tells of his first few years, he moves to the piano and sings from his autobiographical hit, 1941…

Well in 1941, the happy father had a son

And in 1944, the father walked right out the door

From those early days, Freedman takes his audience through Nilsson’s early career, from working on computers at a bank at night and writing songs during the day, until his musical career takes off and he finds popularity, fame – and cognac and cocaine. Interspersed with songs pertinent to particular anecdotes or events, this is good, old fashioned story telling done well.

Freedman appears natural and at ease in his performance. His accent doesn’t falter as, quietly, conversationally, with humour and a little self-deprecation, he depicts the highs (and some lows) of the man who gave the world such hits as Cuddly Toy, One (is the loneliest number), Me and My Arrow (from the movie ‘The Point’), Without You  … and the hit recording of Fred Neil’s song Everybody’s Talkin’.

As Freedman sings these songs (and many more) the ghost of Harry Nilsson, and his characteristic timing and improvisation, sound through practised and carefully judged notes. Gently telling Nilsson’s story, or sitting at the piano, looking into or beyond the audience as he sings, Freedman recreates the essence of an artist whose work he obviously reveres. It is a warm, honest performance that really works in this intimate venue.

Carol Wimmer