Son Of SchmilssonE

The Artist

Harry Nilsson was a Los Angeles-born singer-songwriter who became one of the most singular voices of the early 1970s — a self-taught composer who never toured yet counted John Lennon and Paul McCartney among his most vocal admirers. His gift for melodic invention and his warm, multi-octave tenor set him apart from the singer-songwriter pack, and he built his reputation on albums that defied easy categorization, blending pop, vaudeville, Tin Pan Alley, and outright weirdness. He broke through commercially with Nilsson Schmilsson in 1971, winning two consecutive Grammy Awards for Best Male Pop Vocal Performance. Son of Schmilsson arrived the following year as the direct — and deliberately contrary — follow-up, a record that seemed almost designed to test the goodwill he had just earned.

The Album

Recorded in London in early 1972 at Trident Studios, Son of Schmilsson reunited Nilsson with producer Richard Perry, who had helmed the breakthrough success of Nilsson Schmilsson. The sessions featured a sprawling cast of guest musicians, including Keith Moon, Ringo Starr, and Klaus Voormann, giving the record a loose, party-atmosphere feel that was partly by design and partly a reflection of Nilsson's escalating appetite for excess. Where Nilsson Schmilsson was polished and commercially minded, this follow-up leaned into vulgarity, dark comedy, and self-indulgence — sometimes thrillingly, sometimes to the point of alienation. RCA was reportedly uneasy with the explicit content of tracks like "You're Breakin' My Heart," yet released the album in June 1972, where it sold respectably but baffled critics expecting a clean sequel.

Listen For

Vocal Strain as Expression. By 1972, Nilsson was beginning to push his voice into rawer, more abrasive territory than the silky instrument heard on earlier records. Notice how he leans into a husky, almost reckless delivery on tracks like "Turn On Your Radio," using imperfection as emotional texture rather than hiding it.

The Ensemble Cast. Keith Moon's drumming on several tracks brings a chaotic, muscular energy that pulls Nilsson's songs away from the studio-pop polish of his previous work. Listen for the way Moon's loose-limbed playing creates tension with the more controlled orchestral arrangements elsewhere on the record.

Tonal Whiplash. The album lurches between lush balladry and crude comedy without apology, and managing that tonal range is part of the listening experience. Pay attention to how "Spaceman" sits as a genuinely tender, melancholy centerpiece amid the surrounding carnage.

The Art of the Provocation. "You're Breakin' My Heart" opens with one of the most deliberately shocking lines in mainstream pop of the era, delivered with total deadpan commitment. It functions less as a joke and more as a test — Nilsson daring you to keep listening on his terms rather than yours.

Loneliness Beneath the Laughs. Strip away the shock value and the album quietly circles themes of disconnection, romantic disillusionment, and the cost of fame — "Spaceman" and "Remember (Christmas)" both carry a wistful, almost desperate longing beneath their surfaces.