Pilot

For the very first episode of Charlie vs. the Algorithm, we dive into the extraordinary—and sometimes heartbreaking—world of Harry Nilsson and the story behind his beautiful song “Don’t Forget Me.” 
We also dive into is unforgettable friendship with John Lennon. Along the way, we get into the stories, relationships, and moments surrounding the recording of Pussy Cats—a fascinating chapter in music history.
But at its heart, this episode is about something much bigger: aging, friendship, loneliness, love, and the fear of being forgotten.
Because sometimes a song isn't just a song. Sometimes it feels like someone is leaving a little piece of themselves behind and asking us to remember them.
I also rant a little about my frustrations of music algorithms.

Transcript

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I actually don't need a whole huh. You're listening to Charlie vs. the algorithm, where human taste fights back one song at a time. No skips, no data mining, just vibes, deep cuts, and whatever the robots forgot to recommend. Hi, I'm Charlie. I'm a lifelong music addict, occasional record hoarder, and your guide through a world of songs that no algorithm could predict. Here, we don't just talk about music. We dig into the stories, the accidents, and the moments in life that make certain tracks unforgettable. This show is about fighting back against the machine, sharing songs, albums, and stories that break out of predictable patterns. So every week, or I'll try to every week, I'll bring you a song story, an album deep dive, and maybe a slice of real life that somehow connects back to the music. So having that in mind, right now I'm on my third cup of coffee, so I'm caffeinated, feel really energized, good vibes. So having said that, let me tell you something right now about that robot AI, that algorithm. It doesn't know me. It definitely doesn't know you. And no, it thinks it knows me. Like I listen to one sad song at 2 a.m. and suddenly the algorithm decides I'm going through a divorce. Really, Spotify? Maybe I just like crying in the dark once in a while. And they call it a discovery tool. Discovery. If I wanted to rediscover the same ten songs I've been sick of since high school, I'd just hang out in my own car. That's not discovery, that's deja vu. The algorithm is basically that one friend that only knows one band, but he insists on making every road trip playlist. Oh, and the confidence of this algorithm. Here's something new you might like. The Beatles. Oh wow, thank you, robot overlord. Never would have cracked that code without you. And then it acts like it's evolving. Every week like clockwork. We've updated your personalized mix. Updated? You just moved one song down the list and called it innovation. That's not artificial intelligence. That's honestly just lazy intelligence. And it's always pretending to understand my vibe. No, it doesn't. My vibe changes every 15 minutes. I go from soul music to punk to lo-fi jazz, like I'm scoring three different movies at once. But the algorithm's like, nah, you're a melancholy indie acoustic guy now. And sometimes it even gets passive aggressive. Like it'll sneak in a breakup song between two love songs. I see what it's doing. It's trying to start something. It's like that one friend who stirs drama just to see what happens. And now, don't even get me started on Discover Weekly. That playlist should be renamed Stuff You Already Know. But slightly worse. Half the time it's just knockoff versions of the artist I actually like. It's like they couldn't afford the right, so they gave me the discount version. So at this point, I think the AI is trolling me. It's like, oh, you like that one live performance from 1973? Cool. Here's 40 hours of Norwegian Doom Folk. You're welcome. Bottom line is I don't like the algorithm. I genuinely despise it, and I feel like it cheats you out of discovering good music. So that's what this podcast is about. So today we start with a song that feels like a whisper in a crowded room, Harry Nilsson's Don't Forget Me and the broken, beautiful album it came from. So picture this. I'm digging through a stack of used CDs at this tiny thrift shop. You know the type. It smells like old furniture and regret. Pull on an album I've never seen before. The cover looks like someone's art school project. I buy it for a dollar. That's how I found the album Pussycats by Harry Nelson. In that CD is a song, Don't Forget Me. This song wasn't a single, but the backstory of this song and the album itself, hoo, wild. So listening to it felt like finding a secret letter meant only for me. And that's the thing. The algorithm wouldn't know to recommend it. It doesn't know I'm the kind of person who likes slightly out of tune horns or lyrics about vending machines at 2 a.m. So here's the scene. It's 1974. Harry Nielsen, the man with one of the most powerful voices in pop, has just shredded his vocal cords from hard partying and harder living. His marriage has fallen apart, his health is shaky. And in the middle of all that, he records Don't Forget Me. It's a simple piano ballad, no flashy production, no chart ambitions, just this heartbreaking farewell wrapped in tenderness. The lyrics aren't begging or dramatic. They're almost resigned. Like someone saying goodbye, but still caring enough to ask you to remember them when you're happy. The wild part, like I said earlier, this song was never a single. It's not on any greatest hits compilation. It just sits there. Track three on side one, quietly breaking hearts. That song lives on Pussycats, an album produced by John Lennon during his lost weekend in LA, a year and a half-long bender after he separated from Nyoko Ono. The sessions were chaos. We're talking drunken late nights, musicians coming and going, and Lennon and Nielsen competing to see who could stay up the longest. I have to admit, this album is messy. Some covers, some originals, but buried in there are moments of devastating beauty like Don't Forget Me. It's the sound of two geniuses in self-destruction mode, accidentally catching lightning in a bottle. Something romantic about imagining the early 1970s as this wild constellation of music giants just wandering into each other's studios. And in 1974, for a brief flickering moment, that wasn't entirely fantasy. It was real. So during that lost weekend, that name sounds chaotic. And yes, there was chaos, but it was also strangely productive. So one of the most important figures in that orbit was Harry Nielsen, and Nielsen wasn't just a drinking buddy, he was a deeply respected songwriter, admired by the Beatles long before this era. Lennon once called Nielsen his favorite American artist. That's why in 1974, Lennon produced Nielsen's album, Pussycats. They recorded it at Los Angeles at the branch of the record plant, a studio that at the time felt less like a workplace and more like cultural crossroads. The separation of Lennon and Yoko no gravely impacted John, and he drowned in drugs and alcohol, which he used as creative fuel with Nielsen. Now, Nielsen was dealing with his own demons. His constant partying had gotten to him. He even ruptured one of his vocal cords during one of the jam sessions, and he hid the condition from John Lennon. He literally spit blood on the mic. He didn't want Lennon to cancel the sessions because of it. So he went on straining and damaging it even more. Now, I don't know if any of you have had strep throat or any kind of like vocal damage, but that is super painful. You can't even swallow your own saliva. You can't do anything without it hurting. So just imagine that situation. Engineers later described the atmosphere as unpredictable, sometimes brilliant, sometimes completely unhinged. But here's the part that matters. Even in the chaos, music was happening. Real music. Songs being shaped, performances being captured, artists pushing through instability to make something permanent. And while Lennon and Nilsen were in Los Angeles, the larger 1974 music scene was still overlapping in extraordinary ways. Because that same year in March of 1974, something quietly historic happened in New York. At the New York location of the record plant, Lennon ended up in an informal late night jam session. And who was there? Paul McCartney. Also present was Stevie Wonder, along with Harry Nielsen and guitarist Jesse Ed Davis. I'll let that sink in. Lennon, McCartney, Stevie Wonder, Nielsen in one room. It wasn't scheduled, it wasn't polished, it wasn't meant for release. It was loose, alcohol fueled, chaotic. Bootleg recordings exist and they're rough. Almost shockingly so. Out of tune, half-formed, casual. But that's not the point. The point is this it was one of the last times John Lennon and Paul McCartney were known to play music together in any meaningful way. That was with no press release, no reunion tour, and there was no grand announcement. That's just an interesting little side note, even though it really had nothing to do with the recordings of Pussycats, it's just amazing that it happened. It's just part of the myth of the record. So now that you know a little bit about the making of the album, I want to focus back again on the track Don't Forget Me. So when I first heard this song, I was going through this really difficult phase in my life. Lots of changes were happening, things and people I had to say goodbye to. And I'm not going to get into too many details, honestly, but there was a lot of quiet goodbyes that you don't even realize you're saying at the time. And something about Nilsen's delivery, that mix of warmth and fragility, that just hit me. Now, whenever I hear that little piano intro, I'm right back in that moment. And that's what music does. It's a time machine. So here's why the algorithm would probably never recommend this track to you. It's nearly 50 years old. It was never a hit. And it doesn't fit neatly into a playlist mood like chill vibes or sad piano. But that's also why it's magic. You don't stumble on songs like this through a computer suggestion. You find them through friends, crate digging, late-night radio, or just pure accident. And when you do, they feel like they belong only to you. So that's my first battle against the algorithm. A 50-year-old deep cut that found me by accident, and it really stuck like a scar. And that's Harry Nielsen, a songwriter who proved you don't have to be loud to be unforgettable. His music reminds us that vulnerability can be a strength, that beauty often lies in the quiet places, and that sometimes the songs that hit us the hardest are the ones that don't try to impress at all. So next episode, we're stepping into a song that's been covered, dissected, misunderstood, and reborn more times than almost any other: Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen. We'll talk about where it came from, why it refuses to disappear, and how one song can mean something completely different to every person who hears it. But before I let you go, please, please remember to support your local record store. The brick and mortar stores that brings all music-loving individuals together. There's nothing quite like going to a record store and digging for that record and then finding a gem. Let's support these places. Let's keep them around. Thanks for listening to Charlie vs. the algorithm. I'm Charlie, and I'll see you next time.