Randy Newman once wrote a song called "That's Why I Love Mankind" told from the perspective of God. It's as good a reason as any for me to write about the re-release of Harry Nilsson's Nilsson Sings Newman from the perspective of a biased, adoring fan of anything Newman-related. (NB—I mean this literally. When Randy's cousin Thomas got snubbed for his American Beauty score at the Oscars, I ranted and raved for a day and a half.)

"Nilsson Sings Newman" is 30 years old, and, with the exception of the Incense-and-Peppermints-style harpsichord during the fadeout of "Cowboy," it sounds like it could have been recorded last week. And I'm not just saying that because the liner notes by Curtis Armstrong (the Curtis Armstrong?) makes just this point. Newman's songs have always been written in a pre-rock style. Nilsson's dynamic vocal ability (few today match it, though David Driver and Rufus Wainwright are doing their best to stake their claim) takes these ageless and timeless songs and tears away layers of irony an self-deprecation. The very ones Newman worked so hard to get in on his own recordings.

And That's Why I Love Randy Newman. Because his songs, like those of his closest contemporaries, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, exist in complete parallel universes when interpreted by other artists.

And then there are those who bring wonderful energy and life to other artists' songs. (see: Sex Mob. Okay, maybe this isn't the best example.)

Whenever I make it into O'Hanlon's Barn and Grill on 31st St, it's usually after a long night of poor decision-making with the usual results. I invariably play the same three songs for my dollar, all of them covers: Van Morrison's salute to Eddie Jefferson, "Moody's Mood For Love"; Anne Lennox's version of the Clash's "Train In Vain"; and Harry Nilsson's Midnight Cowboy theme, Fred Neil's "Everybody's Talkin'."

The song is pat, a cliché, and, frankly, the lyrics don't make all that much sense. But the pain in Nilsson's voice acts as point of projection for the whole night's stupidity. He's not a singer, he's not a blues singer, he's sure as hell not a rock singer. In 1930s England, he may have been called Music Hall.

Randy Newman, forever obsessed with the ragtime, music hall and vaudeville modes, finds his perfect vehicle in Harry Nilsson's voice. Newman himself praised Nilsson's virtuosity ("he could do so many things as a vocalist that I couldn't do, like hold a note.")

Randy Newman's songwriting is the work of divine inspiration, an Honest To God Professional. His singing, like that of Dylan's and Cohen's, is an add-on for those who can take it. Like the hops in an India Pale Ale. If you "get it" it makes the song that much better. The grasping for those high notes in "I Miss You" and "Marie" make me want to collapse on the carpet in a heap of broken heart. Most people will raise their eyebrow and think, "Jesus, this guy can't sing for shit."

There will be no such response to "Nilsson Sings Newman." What's so surprising is that for every emotional beat the new style loses, it gains an entirely different one back from the new form. Nilsson sings straight, earnestly, but he doesn't kill the essence. "So Long Dad" is still an over-the-top and what-the-hell number. "Cowboy," originally recorded on "Randy Newman Creates Something New Under The Sun" with a brutish full orchestra, is near a capella for the first half on this version. Nilsson dominates his vocal range and volume like a melancholy Coltrane. And I defy anyone not to get misty eyed during "Living Without You." It's so hard, it's so hard, it's sooooo hard living without you Nilsson repeats. Over and over. I mean, why bullshit? He's got the talent to show you he ain't kidding.

"The Beehive State," a classic Newman curio about, um, midwestern Congressmen filibustering (I think) is given a dark urgency with a driving cadence. It's tempered by Beatles-esque "La-la-las." It's said there are over 115 vocal tracks on this record, and Nilsson harmonizes with himself beautifully.

The 30th Anniversary re-release features five cuts not on the original album. One is "Snow," which was lost in a vault somewhere. The other four are demo recordings of some of the album's highlights. While I stick by the finished product for their stellar production value, these four cuts offer a more intimate portrait of solo voice and piano.

This is a wonderful album, and belongs in the collection of any serious music fan of almost any genre. These are golden performances of eternal songs recorded with top inspiration. In a word, without hyperbole: Masterpiece.