September 19, 2022 • 31 mins
Brian continues to lose control. And not just of his band and the music he makes. He loses self-control and becomes so dependent on drugs that he pays someone to deliver them to him. He loses control of his car and nearly kills himself in a crash. And then he loses control of himself – in front of one of the biggest rock ‘n roll stars of all time.
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:04):
Double Elvis. Blood on the tracks is a production of
I heart radio and Double Elvis. Brian Wilson was a
musical genius and one of the greatest songwriters of all time.
He caught melodies like they were waves. He bottled good
vibrations like no one else, and he picked up bad
vibrations too. He broke down, he tripped hard. He didn't
(00:28):
just hear music, he heard voices. He tried to lose
those voices by making a teenage symphony to God called smile,
but somewhere along the way Brian Wilson lost his mind instead.
This is his story. Okay, here we go again. It's
(00:51):
Rhonda Masson, still working my way through the Sea of
Brian Wilson's home tapes. When I first started this task,
I assumed there would only be a few tapes from
Brian at home, but he recorded so much during that time.
Like I said before, these can get a little bleak
at times. Brian doesn't make too much sense. There seems
(01:12):
to be a lot of drugs consumed around the recording
of some of these. There's one in particular I've been
listening to recently which seems to be a demo for
the song sale on sailor. Have a listen. Hi, Van Dyke,
(01:34):
I hope everyone at Warner Brothers likes this demo for
sale on sailor. Sorry it's so late. You know, this
took me a while and I know it's not finished.
We can work on that when we meet up. You know,
I have been feeling like myself recently. To be honest,
I haven't been doing so greavy. I feel like the
(01:54):
band is slipping away from me. I feel like I'm
slipping away from myself. I used to be so confident,
so confident in the studio, but those days are gone.
I don't know if that will ever come back. I pray,
I pray, I pray it does. Sorry, I'm rambling. Forgive me.
(02:17):
I hope you like the demo. I hope it's good enough.
I hope it's not just more blood on the tracks.
(02:45):
Chapter Seven. Brian Wilson is sailing on. H here's your
time report on B R I. A N F M.
(03:06):
Look a little choppy out there. It's a little breezy
in the air. The Ocean is unsettled with reports of thunderstorms.
But do sail on. I'm back in here. I'm always
in here. I've been in my head for years here,
along with all those other voices. The most time I
(03:29):
spent in here was in the early nineteen seventies my dad.
My Dad, died in seventy three. He had been in
the hospital and he seemed serious about changing his life
and living healthy. I even thought he might change as
a person. I thought perhaps our relationship would change, perhaps
we could repair what had been broken. He was terrible
(03:51):
to me, but I was bad to him in return.
You know. You know I haven't been feeling like myself recently.
I thought that time might bring us closer, but time, well,
time has a habit of making fools of men. Soon
after he left the hospital, he suffered a sudden massive
(04:11):
heart attack June four. I'll always remember that day. My
mom was with him at the time and managed to
call an ambulance, but it was already too late. I
couldn't bear the funeral. Dennis stayed home too. He played
the piano, apparently. I went to New York with my wife, Marilyn,
(04:35):
who was promoting an album she'd made with her group spring.
We'd gone to a radio station in New York called
W N E WFM, and Pete Fomatale, one of their djs,
who had always been supportive of the beach boys. He
was working there Maryland was being interviewed in the next room,
so I went to see Pete in his studio. I've
(04:56):
always loved radio, the excitement of it. It's always live.
I've always going on and on. It reminds me of
my brain. It never stops broadcasting. There's never any dead air. Sorry,
I'm rambling. That day I was a little out of sorts.
The News of my dad had I don't know, it
(05:17):
was all that was on my mind. It was all
that I could think about. To be honest, I haven't
been doing so gravy. I walked into the studio and
Pete ran up to me with his headphone still around
his neck, still plugged into the desk, that long cord
snaking around the room. What are you doing here, Brian,
he asked. My mind went blank. I didn't know who
(05:40):
I really was for a second. It was like I
was standing inside someone else, like the person I was
was a stranger to me, like I'm sleeping away from
my cell. I honestly couldn't remember. I said something like
I'm I'm here for the Ed Sullivan Show. He looked
at me strangely. Brian, he said, but that show has
(06:03):
been canceled for two years. I laughed, but Pete just
stood there. He looks so sad. I felt like I
had vertigo. I honestly felt like in the space of minutes,
I had forgotten who I was or what I was
doing there. It was the strangest feeling. I burst out
of the room and I threw up in the bathroom.
(06:25):
I remember looking at myself in the mirror afterwards and
I don't know, the person standing in front of me
looks so different from the person I was in my mind.
I haven't been feeling like myself. As I stared at myself,
I heard the radio station start to play a song
I recognized. Slowly I realized it was a beach boys song,
a song called sale on sailor. Even though we'd only
(06:49):
recorded it six months before, it felt like a decade
or more had passed since we were in the studio
with it. I used to be so confident, so confident
in the studio. It was a song got me back
with Van Dyke Parks. I think everyone thought we'd conceive
a new smile, but it didn't quite work like that.
Van Dyke came over to my house and asked if
(07:10):
we could write something together. The record company, which he
now worked for, by the way, wanted me on the
new beach boys album. They were getting ready. I was
lying in bed with the TV just playing static. Van
Dyke was next to me. I want you to sit
down at the piano and I want you to write
a song for me, he said. Lyrics, melody, everything. I
(07:33):
want you to do it right on the spot. This
took me a while. He smiled. I was kind of
happy that someone wanted me to do something like that,
but I couldn't sum up the motivation. I do anything
for you, man, but would you do something for me?
I asked him. I'd do anything for you, Brian, he replied.
(07:54):
I started to get very emotional. I could feel my
throat clothes up in my eyes start to water. You
got to convince me, Van Dyke, I said. Convince me
that I'm not insane. Please hypnotize me into thinking that
I'm not insane. I haven't been feeling like myself recently.
I was being serious, but he didn't understand. He told
(08:15):
me to cut the ship. Forgive me. We wrote it
of course. We spent a couple of days getting it
right and then I demoed the thing and it made
it onto the album. As I listened to it while
standing in the toilets at W N E WFM, looking
into the mirror, I struggled to process the song. Who
(08:35):
wrote it? Who Sang it? I don't know, I don't know,
I don't know. Suddenly Marilyn banged on the door and
asked if I was okay. Sure, I shouted back. I
washed my hands and wiped my mouth. When I came out,
Pete was standing with her. He pointed to the speaker
that was still blasting out sail on sailor and said
(08:56):
good song. Se I was just thinking that. I told
him WHO's it? Bye. He laughed, but I didn't get
the joke. Good Morning, Sunshine, B R I A N
(09:39):
F bounty. It's another sunny day here in Bam Bruggie
and it will stay that way. So sail on sailor,
sale on sailor. They got me to do that for
the money. It's always about the money. Capital spent so
much money a new beach boys album called Holland, around
(10:03):
a quarter of a million dollars. That's a lot of
money now, but back then it was a fortune. I
hope it's good enough. The record company needed a return
on their investments, so they wanted to hit single. Hit
singles helped sell albums, and that's why they sent Van
Dyke over. They wanted me to rustle up a little
(10:23):
good vibrations or a fun, fun, fun like. I had
those sort of songs ready to go like a TV
dinner ready in three minutes. Sale on sailors. It's not
a song I care for. I mean, how can it be?
became not from a place of creativity but from a
place of business. Gone recording the album wasn't much better.
(10:49):
We were due to cut it in that's right, in Holland.
We went to a place called Bam Brugie. I wasn't
all that interested in recording. I thought I might be,
but it was just like being in L A. I
couldn't get into the right head space for it. I
was just lost, like the band is slipping away from me.
(11:11):
I used to just sit all day in this villa
we rented, just sit and look at the countryside. I
found it calming but also sort of numbing, just staring
at this landscape which didn't change felt like it was protective,
like nothing happened, therefore nothing could hurt me. It was
good for me, but it also made me not want
(11:31):
to do anything. I was taking a lot of drugs.
There too. I'd wake up and Snore the line and
just sit there as it fizzed in my nostrils. I
repeated that hour after hour, with different drugs. One day
I felt that I needed to snap out of it.
Maybe I'll go to the studio, I thought. Studio, but
(11:52):
I opted to drive around the countryside I'd spent days
staring at. I took a huge bag of coke with me,
at it safely into the inside pocket of my jacket
and patted it like it was my child. I haven't
been feeling like myself. I jumped into the huge Mercedes
I rented and sat in the driver's seat ready to go,
(12:13):
but something was missing. A little bump. I thought that
was it. I pulled out the bag of coke from
my jacket, wrapped up a line on the Dash. Up
it went. The fizzing was back. I started the engine
and through the car into gear. But wait, another little
line might be in order. So that's what I did.
(12:35):
The next thing I remember is cutting through the Dutch countryside.
There were beautiful trees and flowers everywhere. It was hot,
but not too hot, not like L A. I pushed
down on the accelerator hard. The car felt so powerful.
Pounded the pavement. The steering wheel felt sturdy. I felt
a control for the first time. I used to be
(12:56):
so confident. I flicked the radio on and those familiar
notes sang back at me. Be My baby. I couldn't
believe it. I was halfway around the world and this
song was still there, soundtracking my every moment. I turned
it up as loud as possible and sang along from
start to finish. As the final note rang out and
(13:17):
DJ started talking, before I knew it, the voice had
morphed from Dutch to English right then and there. I
looked down at the radio. I couldn't understand what was
going on, and then I heard it, the voice of
Phil Specter. Sail on, sailor, but the hell is that?
Let me remind you, you never reach the highs of me,
(13:40):
my baby, and you never will. I slammed on the
car's brakes and skidded to the side of the road.
I was trying to catch my breath. The DJ was
back to speaking in Dutch, introducing some Song I've never
heard before. I pulled out the bag of coke, my
hands trembling, I racked up another line, spilling a load
(14:02):
of it all over the seats. I'm slipping away. I
turned the radio off and slammed the car into gear.
The coke kicked in and I was feeling much better.
Fuck you, I shouted to the Voice of Phil Specter.
As I sang be my baby to myself again, I
watched the spiedometer go up and up as I got
closer to the chorus, and then the dial shivered a
(14:23):
little as the song launched into its Hook. I felt
so alive, so present, like I finally found the old
me again. took me a while. I licked my finger
and then felt for the bag of coke in my pocket.
I stuck my finger inside and pulled out the tip,
covered in the powder, and rammed it into my gums.
Be My baby, I shouted, throwing both of my hands
(14:46):
into the air. As I did, I noticed the bend
in the road up ahead. I grabbed a steering wheel,
but it was too late. I went off the road,
kicking up dirt on the side of the car and
suddenly there were bushes and a tree came out of
nowhere and the car went right into it. The tree
(15:07):
branch smashed through the window and stabbed the passenger seat.
I heard the dull thud of the bumper as it
slammed into the trunk of the tree, and then it
all went black. I'm dead, I thought. Fuck, I'm dead. No, no,
I'm alive, but I must be injured, surely. I tried
(15:31):
to move my legs and I found I could. Then
my arms all fine, then my neck still fine. I
pushed open the car door with all my might and
stumbled out through the bushes into a field. I staggered forward,
but then it hit me, the fear, the dread. I
felt all around in my pocket for the coke, but
(15:53):
it wasn't there. I don't know if that will ever
come back. I sprinted back to the car. My arm
caught some broken glass. Smoke coming from the car was
thick now I felt around for the bag under the
passenger seat. Man, I was crying, forgive me. I was devastated.
(16:14):
It wasn't anywhere, and then I found it wedged under
the passenger seat. I rammed my hand under and grabbed it,
my knuckles painfully grinding against the underside of the seat,
but I didn't care. All that mattered was that bag.
I pulled it out and managed to get out of
the car again. When I was back in the field,
(16:36):
I fell to my knees hugging the bag as behind
me the car burst into flames. Nothing mattered apart from
me and this bag. We'll be right back after this,
we were. I still remember my daily routine from around
(17:01):
that time. It's funny what sticks around in here, both
good and bad. I remember a lot of late nights.
I stayed up, but I did absolutely nothing. It's not finished.
I couldn't tell you what I've been up to. I
just said at home in L A, just kind of
wasting away my days would start around eleven am, walk
(17:26):
down the back staircase in my house and into the den,
sit in my bright red chair and pick at the
upholstery with the TV on in front of me. I
waited a while and then I heard the ring and
the click of the mailbox outside twelve fourteen. Every single day,
every single day, it was the service I paid for.
(17:46):
It was expensive, but you pay for quality, you know,
even when it comes to logistics. I requested a twelve
fifteen drop off every day, but they always came a
minute early. I never knew why. Trying to please the customer,
I guess. The person that used my mailbox every day.
I never knew his name, but it was always the
same guy. Not a postman, but a ringer. That's what
(18:10):
they called them anyway. They delivered drugs, whatever you wanted,
right to your door. Coke, ephetamines, even heroin. I had
them all delivered. You could get them daily if you wanted,
and I did. They called them ringers because they would
travel on bikes. When the drop was done, they ring
their bicycle bells as they cycled off. There was one
(18:33):
day when I was sitting in my red chair, staring
off into space and my eyes darted to our clock
on the wall. I watched the second hand tick by tick,
tick tick. I watched the second hand clicked jaggedly around
the clock face and then the minute hand brought us
(18:54):
to twelve fourteen. Me To my precious treasure. Tick tick tick.
Wait for it, I thought, here comes the bell any second,
but there was nothing. I don't know if that will
ever come back. The clock seemed to get louder and
(19:16):
louder in the absence of the ringer's bell. Just a
little late, I thought. As I picked up the chair.
It bit my teeth together ground them to a rhythm.
I was flicking my foot quickly back and forth as
I watched the second hand of the clock come background again.
Where the FUNK was he? I pray, I pray, this
(19:38):
had never happened before. The clock's minute hand swept to
twelve and it sounded like a crash of thunder. I
pulled myself out of the chair and made my way
quickly to the front door. I was about to throw
it open and anger ready to unleash hell, but I stopped.
I stood silently upstairs. I heard something. No one else
(20:00):
was in the house apart from me. I was sure
that I heard someone walking around quietly, but they were
definitely moving around. But then I heard voices. I froze.
I feel like I'm sleeping away from my cell I
started to hear my heart beat pounding in my ear.
(20:20):
At first I thought it was the ringer taking a
chance and grabbing some jewelry or something else valuable. But
why would he do that? I was his best client.
I walked quietly up the stairs, taking each one with
minimal impact. I pray, I pray. The voices were hushed
and aggressive. Higher I climbed with even more softness. Then
(20:43):
I heard someone mutter. I don't fucking know. I stopped
at the top of the stairs and picked up an
old walking cane. I lifted it up outstretched across my body,
ready to fight. I heard the voices again, a little
clearer time. They were coming from my bedroom. I walked
(21:03):
there quickly, while gripping the cane tightly. I stood outside
the door, took a deep breath in and then I
kicked it open. I flew inside the cane ready to strike,
but I stopped the face and there was one I
knew when. I knew well, it was my wife, Marylyn.
(21:24):
Don't hurt me, she cried. For now, obviously I've never
heard her, but it's probably quite a good thing to
say when a renowned drug abuser standing in front of
you with a wooden cane held up high. She had
told me she'd gone out, but clearly that was a lie.
Marilyn and I, we'd always had an unconventional relationship, I guess,
(21:47):
but recently we've been having problems those days. She had
threatened to leave me if my drug taken continued. She
threatened to take the kids as well. Brian, she said,
there were tears in her eyes. We need to do this,
to do this for you. She looked over at Stephen Love,
(22:08):
who was part of the beach boys team at the time.
He was halfway in our closet pulling stuff out of it.
Stephen was Mike's Brother and of course Mike was there too.
He never missed a moment to embarrass me. So, confident,
became storming out of the bathroom. Where are they, Brian?
Stephen was asking me. I don't want to have to
(22:29):
call the cops. Fuck, I thought, this is a drug raid,
a drug rade from my own fucking family. I explained
that I didn't keep drugs in the house, which was
sort of true. He was aggressive and angry, but I
really couldn't help then Mike cut in. Look, Brian, you're
getting a cut of our touring money and you're getting
(22:52):
a cut of our music money. You haven't properly toured
with us in forever, and it's been what two three
years since you were fully involved in a musical project.
I didn't answer. I feel like I'm slipping away from
my cell. Then Maryland started in. said they were going
to put me in a mental institution if I didn't
stop with the drugs. She was crying. I looked at
(23:15):
her and felt nothing. I was numb to it all,
to what Mike was saying, to what Marilyn was saying,
to what Stephen was saying. It didn't really mean much
to me. It was just all so boring. They swept
the whole house, but I didn't care. There were no
drugs anywhere. They were in my blood stream and that's
about it. I have been feeling like myself. As they
(23:39):
were going through the cupboards and knocking on dry wall,
I went outside, walked down the path in the morning
California Sun and stood next to my mailbox. That's when
I saw him, my ringer. He was sitting just down
the street on his bike, looking right at the house.
I waved him over. I didn't want to. He started
(24:00):
own confused. They told me not to drop if someone
else could see me. I smiled and told him not
to worry, I'll take them now, I said. He produced
a brown envelope and handed it to me. I clutched
it tightly to my chest. As I turned to go
back to the house, I stopped say I said where
are you heading? Downtown, he told me. Can I catch
(24:23):
your ride? I asked. Sure, he replied, and before I
knew it we were off. I rang the bell as
we left. Brian Wilson is seated behind the mixing desk
(25:02):
at our CIA studios in Hollywood. His beard is the
longest it's ever been, his hair is shaggy and his
eyes appeared to droop down his face. The one slender
frame of his youth is lost to a body that
has been fed junk food in illegal substances for a decade,
and the faders in front of him are all down
covered in cocaine residue. He takes a long, deep breath
(25:24):
before pulling a large bag of coke from his pocket.
He thinks of the ringer who dropped it off for
him at his house just earlier that day, and he
readies a line on the mixing desk, pushing it together
with the side of his little finger, shaking as he does.
He then pulls an already rolled note from his shirt
pocket and hoovers it up quickly. Brian slumps back into
(25:45):
the chair, itches his nostril and presses the play button.
The track honeycomb fills the air. He listens to the
lead vocal. It's not his voice, but his wife Marylyn's.
He stares at the speaker for a moment. He picks
himself up from his chair, using his hands to gain
the right amount of leverage to lift his massive frame.
He Shuffles over to a corner of the room where
(26:06):
he spins off the top of a bottle of vodka.
After a couple of shots, he suddenly becomes angry. He
Darts over to the mixing desk and pulls down the
fader quickly. In the process he drops the vodka bottle
onto the expensive equipment. Fuck, he murmurs, as the liquid
fizzles in the electronics. And that'll cost you. Comes a
voice from behind him. Brian swings around. It's the guitarist
(26:30):
James Burton. His mind flashes back to making smile and
there's Burton playing on a track, but he can't remember
which track. He swallows hard, like he's trying to get
the difficult memory of that aborted masterpiece down his throat.
He thinks of the Song Mrs O'Leary's cow, and here's
a fire crackle in his ears. Brian, you okay, Burton
(26:51):
ass and suddenly Brian is back in the now Brian
lies and says he's fine. Then he asked Burton wise
here in the Dutio with him? Well, I'm in the
studio next door, Burton says with somebody might have heard
of Jesus Christ. It's not Phil Specter, is it? Burton
shakes his head. Ah, man, it's Elvis. Next thing Brian
(27:14):
knows he's walking down the corridor with James Burton to
meet Elvis Presley. As they arrive at our CIER's biggest room,
Burton pauses. There's a couple of things you should know,
he says, but Brian isn't listening. Somewhere between his anxiety
and his excitement, he forgets his manners and burst straight
through the large door. There's Elvis, shiny multi colored shirt
(27:35):
tucked into black pants, huge gold sunglasses, swallowing his face,
and the king looks up and for the first time
in a long time he looks a little perplexed. Hi,
I'm Brian, Brian Shouts. Jerry shilling, prominent member of the
Memphis mafia, grabs brian as he moves towards Elvis, whoa
(27:56):
he says, will you boy? Brian repeats his name and
sticks his hand out to Elvis, but shilling aggressively pulls
him back. I said, who the hell are you? Shilling?
Strength is overpowering. Brian can tell immediately that this guy
isn't fucking around. Brian timidly informs them both that he's
a beach boy and he's working on an album in
the next studio. Oh Yeah, man, yeah, I know, Elvis says,
(28:18):
removing his huge sunglasses and offering half a smile. Brian
Watches him as he speaks, studies his mouth and the
way it draws the words, the way it moves a
little slow. And then he looks up at Elvis's eyes
and sees something in there he recognizes. He can't quite
put his finger on it, and then he realizes they're
dilated and tired. He sees it all, the foggy look
(28:41):
on Elvis's face, the way everyone in the room is
looking at him, waiting for something. There's an undercarrent of sadness,
of disillusion, even to the way he moves and the
way he seems so big yet so vulnerable still, and
shilling his grip. Brian asked Elvis if you would like
to come and listen to the song monkeys mixing, and
(29:01):
the King Cox his head to one side. I guess
we could, he says. Brian can barely contain his joy.
You can let go of from Jerry, Elvis says, putting
his glasses back on. As Brian is freed from the
grip of the handler, he feels an overwhelming sense of happiness.
That in the cocaine pumping around in his body. And
then he does it. He doesn't know why he does it,
(29:22):
but he does self sabotage. Brian looks at Elvis and
then at shilling and then back to Elvis. He smiles,
points at shilling and says this guy thought I was
gonna hurt you. I don't have a violent bone in
my body. Brian raises his arm up and swiftly and
suddenly karate chops the King of rock and roll, right
there in the middle of our CIA studios. The Room
(29:44):
is stunned and for a few seconds there was only silence.
And then Elvis looks over at shilling and says maybe
we don't have time to listen to that track. As
Brian makes his way back to his studio alone, he
thinks about what a mess elvis looked like, how tired,
how burnt out and how ghostly he seemed. He last
(30:05):
to himself as he re enacts his karate chop, shaking
his head in disbelief. But once back inside the control
booth of his studio, he promises himself he'll never get
like that cliche rock star who's high all the time,
who's lost touch with reality. He flicks play on honeycomb,
runs his hands through his long beard and racks up
another line of cocaine. The track rings around the room.
(30:28):
Brian Wilson sounds perfect. To everyone else, it just sounds
like the blood on the tracks. Blood on the tracks
(30:50):
produced by double Elvis in partnership with I heart radio.
It's hosted an executive produced by me Jake Brennan, also
executive produced by Brady Out Zeth Lundie is lead editor
and producer. This episode was written by Ben Burrow, mixing
on sound designed by Colin Fleming. Additional music and score
elements by Ryan spraaker. This season features Chris Anzaloni, is
(31:14):
the voice of Brian Wilson. Sources for this episode are
available at Double Elvis Dot com on the blood in
the track series page. Follow Double Elvis on instagram at
double elvis and on twitch at s graceland talks, and
you can talk to me per usual on instagram and
twitter at disgrace land pod. Rock and roll or dead
Double Elvis. Blood on the tracks is a production of
I heart radio and Double Elvis. Brian Wilson was a
musical genius and one of the greatest songwriters of all time.
He caught melodies like they were waves. He bottled good
vibrations like no one else, and he picked up bad
vibrations too. He broke down, he tripped hard. He didn't
(00:28):
just hear music, he heard voices. He tried to lose
those voices by making a teenage symphony to God called smile,
but somewhere along the way Brian Wilson lost his mind instead.
This is his story. Okay, here we go again. It's
(00:51):
Rhonda Masson, still working my way through the Sea of
Brian Wilson's home tapes. When I first started this task,
I assumed there would only be a few tapes from
Brian at home, but he recorded so much during that time.
Like I said before, these can get a little bleak
at times. Brian doesn't make too much sense. There seems
(01:12):
to be a lot of drugs consumed around the recording
of some of these. There's one in particular I've been
listening to recently which seems to be a demo for
the song sale on sailor. Have a listen. Hi, Van Dyke,
(01:34):
I hope everyone at Warner Brothers likes this demo for
sale on sailor. Sorry it's so late. You know, this
took me a while and I know it's not finished.
We can work on that when we meet up. You know,
I have been feeling like myself recently. To be honest,
I haven't been doing so greavy. I feel like the
(01:54):
band is slipping away from me. I feel like I'm
slipping away from myself. I used to be so confident,
so confident in the studio, but those days are gone.
I don't know if that will ever come back. I pray,
I pray, I pray it does. Sorry, I'm rambling. Forgive me.
(02:17):
I hope you like the demo. I hope it's good enough.
I hope it's not just more blood on the tracks.
(02:45):
Chapter Seven. Brian Wilson is sailing on. H here's your
time report on B R I. A N F M.
(03:06):
Look a little choppy out there. It's a little breezy
in the air. The Ocean is unsettled with reports of thunderstorms.
But do sail on. I'm back in here. I'm always
in here. I've been in my head for years here,
along with all those other voices. The most time I
(03:29):
spent in here was in the early nineteen seventies my dad.
My Dad, died in seventy three. He had been in
the hospital and he seemed serious about changing his life
and living healthy. I even thought he might change as
a person. I thought perhaps our relationship would change, perhaps
we could repair what had been broken. He was terrible
(03:51):
to me, but I was bad to him in return.
You know. You know I haven't been feeling like myself recently.
I thought that time might bring us closer, but time, well,
time has a habit of making fools of men. Soon
after he left the hospital, he suffered a sudden massive
(04:11):
heart attack June four. I'll always remember that day. My
mom was with him at the time and managed to
call an ambulance, but it was already too late. I
couldn't bear the funeral. Dennis stayed home too. He played
the piano, apparently. I went to New York with my wife, Marilyn,
(04:35):
who was promoting an album she'd made with her group spring.
We'd gone to a radio station in New York called
W N E WFM, and Pete Fomatale, one of their djs,
who had always been supportive of the beach boys. He
was working there Maryland was being interviewed in the next room,
so I went to see Pete in his studio. I've
(04:56):
always loved radio, the excitement of it. It's always live.
I've always going on and on. It reminds me of
my brain. It never stops broadcasting. There's never any dead air. Sorry,
I'm rambling. That day I was a little out of sorts.
The News of my dad had I don't know, it
(05:17):
was all that was on my mind. It was all
that I could think about. To be honest, I haven't
been doing so gravy. I walked into the studio and
Pete ran up to me with his headphone still around
his neck, still plugged into the desk, that long cord
snaking around the room. What are you doing here, Brian,
he asked. My mind went blank. I didn't know who
(05:40):
I really was for a second. It was like I
was standing inside someone else, like the person I was
was a stranger to me, like I'm sleeping away from
my cell. I honestly couldn't remember. I said something like
I'm I'm here for the Ed Sullivan Show. He looked
at me strangely. Brian, he said, but that show has
(06:03):
been canceled for two years. I laughed, but Pete just
stood there. He looks so sad. I felt like I
had vertigo. I honestly felt like in the space of minutes,
I had forgotten who I was or what I was
doing there. It was the strangest feeling. I burst out
of the room and I threw up in the bathroom.
(06:25):
I remember looking at myself in the mirror afterwards and
I don't know, the person standing in front of me
looks so different from the person I was in my mind.
I haven't been feeling like myself. As I stared at myself,
I heard the radio station start to play a song
I recognized. Slowly I realized it was a beach boys song,
a song called sale on sailor. Even though we'd only
(06:49):
recorded it six months before, it felt like a decade
or more had passed since we were in the studio
with it. I used to be so confident, so confident
in the studio. It was a song got me back
with Van Dyke Parks. I think everyone thought we'd conceive
a new smile, but it didn't quite work like that.
Van Dyke came over to my house and asked if
(07:10):
we could write something together. The record company, which he
now worked for, by the way, wanted me on the
new beach boys album. They were getting ready. I was
lying in bed with the TV just playing static. Van
Dyke was next to me. I want you to sit
down at the piano and I want you to write
a song for me, he said. Lyrics, melody, everything. I
(07:33):
want you to do it right on the spot. This
took me a while. He smiled. I was kind of
happy that someone wanted me to do something like that,
but I couldn't sum up the motivation. I do anything
for you, man, but would you do something for me?
I asked him. I'd do anything for you, Brian, he replied.
(07:54):
I started to get very emotional. I could feel my
throat clothes up in my eyes start to water. You
got to convince me, Van Dyke, I said. Convince me
that I'm not insane. Please hypnotize me into thinking that
I'm not insane. I haven't been feeling like myself recently.
I was being serious, but he didn't understand. He told
(08:15):
me to cut the ship. Forgive me. We wrote it
of course. We spent a couple of days getting it
right and then I demoed the thing and it made
it onto the album. As I listened to it while
standing in the toilets at W N E WFM, looking
into the mirror, I struggled to process the song. Who
(08:35):
wrote it? Who Sang it? I don't know, I don't know,
I don't know. Suddenly Marilyn banged on the door and
asked if I was okay. Sure, I shouted back. I
washed my hands and wiped my mouth. When I came out,
Pete was standing with her. He pointed to the speaker
that was still blasting out sail on sailor and said
(08:56):
good song. Se I was just thinking that. I told
him WHO's it? Bye. He laughed, but I didn't get
the joke. Good Morning, Sunshine, B R I A N
(09:39):
F bounty. It's another sunny day here in Bam Bruggie
and it will stay that way. So sail on sailor,
sale on sailor. They got me to do that for
the money. It's always about the money. Capital spent so
much money a new beach boys album called Holland, around
(10:03):
a quarter of a million dollars. That's a lot of
money now, but back then it was a fortune. I
hope it's good enough. The record company needed a return
on their investments, so they wanted to hit single. Hit
singles helped sell albums, and that's why they sent Van
Dyke over. They wanted me to rustle up a little
(10:23):
good vibrations or a fun, fun, fun like. I had
those sort of songs ready to go like a TV
dinner ready in three minutes. Sale on sailors. It's not
a song I care for. I mean, how can it be?
became not from a place of creativity but from a
place of business. Gone recording the album wasn't much better.
(10:49):
We were due to cut it in that's right, in Holland.
We went to a place called Bam Brugie. I wasn't
all that interested in recording. I thought I might be,
but it was just like being in L A. I
couldn't get into the right head space for it. I
was just lost, like the band is slipping away from me.
(11:11):
I used to just sit all day in this villa
we rented, just sit and look at the countryside. I
found it calming but also sort of numbing, just staring
at this landscape which didn't change felt like it was protective,
like nothing happened, therefore nothing could hurt me. It was
good for me, but it also made me not want
(11:31):
to do anything. I was taking a lot of drugs.
There too. I'd wake up and Snore the line and
just sit there as it fizzed in my nostrils. I
repeated that hour after hour, with different drugs. One day
I felt that I needed to snap out of it.
Maybe I'll go to the studio, I thought. Studio, but
(11:52):
I opted to drive around the countryside I'd spent days
staring at. I took a huge bag of coke with me,
at it safely into the inside pocket of my jacket
and patted it like it was my child. I haven't
been feeling like myself. I jumped into the huge Mercedes
I rented and sat in the driver's seat ready to go,
(12:13):
but something was missing. A little bump. I thought that
was it. I pulled out the bag of coke from
my jacket, wrapped up a line on the Dash. Up
it went. The fizzing was back. I started the engine
and through the car into gear. But wait, another little
line might be in order. So that's what I did.
(12:35):
The next thing I remember is cutting through the Dutch countryside.
There were beautiful trees and flowers everywhere. It was hot,
but not too hot, not like L A. I pushed
down on the accelerator hard. The car felt so powerful.
Pounded the pavement. The steering wheel felt sturdy. I felt
a control for the first time. I used to be
(12:56):
so confident. I flicked the radio on and those familiar
notes sang back at me. Be My baby. I couldn't
believe it. I was halfway around the world and this
song was still there, soundtracking my every moment. I turned
it up as loud as possible and sang along from
start to finish. As the final note rang out and
(13:17):
DJ started talking, before I knew it, the voice had
morphed from Dutch to English right then and there. I
looked down at the radio. I couldn't understand what was
going on, and then I heard it, the voice of
Phil Specter. Sail on, sailor, but the hell is that?
Let me remind you, you never reach the highs of me,
(13:40):
my baby, and you never will. I slammed on the
car's brakes and skidded to the side of the road.
I was trying to catch my breath. The DJ was
back to speaking in Dutch, introducing some Song I've never
heard before. I pulled out the bag of coke, my
hands trembling, I racked up another line, spilling a load
(14:02):
of it all over the seats. I'm slipping away. I
turned the radio off and slammed the car into gear.
The coke kicked in and I was feeling much better.
Fuck you, I shouted to the Voice of Phil Specter.
As I sang be my baby to myself again, I
watched the spiedometer go up and up as I got
closer to the chorus, and then the dial shivered a
(14:23):
little as the song launched into its Hook. I felt
so alive, so present, like I finally found the old
me again. took me a while. I licked my finger
and then felt for the bag of coke in my pocket.
I stuck my finger inside and pulled out the tip,
covered in the powder, and rammed it into my gums.
Be My baby, I shouted, throwing both of my hands
(14:46):
into the air. As I did, I noticed the bend
in the road up ahead. I grabbed a steering wheel,
but it was too late. I went off the road,
kicking up dirt on the side of the car and
suddenly there were bushes and a tree came out of
nowhere and the car went right into it. The tree
(15:07):
branch smashed through the window and stabbed the passenger seat.
I heard the dull thud of the bumper as it
slammed into the trunk of the tree, and then it
all went black. I'm dead, I thought. Fuck, I'm dead. No, no,
I'm alive, but I must be injured, surely. I tried
(15:31):
to move my legs and I found I could. Then
my arms all fine, then my neck still fine. I
pushed open the car door with all my might and
stumbled out through the bushes into a field. I staggered forward,
but then it hit me, the fear, the dread. I
felt all around in my pocket for the coke, but
(15:53):
it wasn't there. I don't know if that will ever
come back. I sprinted back to the car. My arm
caught some broken glass. Smoke coming from the car was
thick now I felt around for the bag under the
passenger seat. Man, I was crying, forgive me. I was devastated.
(16:14):
It wasn't anywhere, and then I found it wedged under
the passenger seat. I rammed my hand under and grabbed it,
my knuckles painfully grinding against the underside of the seat,
but I didn't care. All that mattered was that bag.
I pulled it out and managed to get out of
the car again. When I was back in the field,
(16:36):
I fell to my knees hugging the bag as behind
me the car burst into flames. Nothing mattered apart from
me and this bag. We'll be right back after this,
we were. I still remember my daily routine from around
(17:01):
that time. It's funny what sticks around in here, both
good and bad. I remember a lot of late nights.
I stayed up, but I did absolutely nothing. It's not finished.
I couldn't tell you what I've been up to. I
just said at home in L A, just kind of
wasting away my days would start around eleven am, walk
(17:26):
down the back staircase in my house and into the den,
sit in my bright red chair and pick at the
upholstery with the TV on in front of me. I
waited a while and then I heard the ring and
the click of the mailbox outside twelve fourteen. Every single day,
every single day, it was the service I paid for.
(17:46):
It was expensive, but you pay for quality, you know,
even when it comes to logistics. I requested a twelve
fifteen drop off every day, but they always came a
minute early. I never knew why. Trying to please the customer,
I guess. The person that used my mailbox every day.
I never knew his name, but it was always the
same guy. Not a postman, but a ringer. That's what
(18:10):
they called them anyway. They delivered drugs, whatever you wanted,
right to your door. Coke, ephetamines, even heroin. I had
them all delivered. You could get them daily if you wanted,
and I did. They called them ringers because they would
travel on bikes. When the drop was done, they ring
their bicycle bells as they cycled off. There was one
(18:33):
day when I was sitting in my red chair, staring
off into space and my eyes darted to our clock
on the wall. I watched the second hand tick by tick,
tick tick. I watched the second hand clicked jaggedly around
the clock face and then the minute hand brought us
(18:54):
to twelve fourteen. Me To my precious treasure. Tick tick tick.
Wait for it, I thought, here comes the bell any second,
but there was nothing. I don't know if that will
ever come back. The clock seemed to get louder and
(19:16):
louder in the absence of the ringer's bell. Just a
little late, I thought. As I picked up the chair.
It bit my teeth together ground them to a rhythm.
I was flicking my foot quickly back and forth as
I watched the second hand of the clock come background again.
Where the FUNK was he? I pray, I pray, this
(19:38):
had never happened before. The clock's minute hand swept to
twelve and it sounded like a crash of thunder. I
pulled myself out of the chair and made my way
quickly to the front door. I was about to throw
it open and anger ready to unleash hell, but I stopped.
I stood silently upstairs. I heard something. No one else
(20:00):
was in the house apart from me. I was sure
that I heard someone walking around quietly, but they were
definitely moving around. But then I heard voices. I froze.
I feel like I'm sleeping away from my cell I
started to hear my heart beat pounding in my ear.
(20:20):
At first I thought it was the ringer taking a
chance and grabbing some jewelry or something else valuable. But
why would he do that? I was his best client.
I walked quietly up the stairs, taking each one with
minimal impact. I pray, I pray. The voices were hushed
and aggressive. Higher I climbed with even more softness. Then
(20:43):
I heard someone mutter. I don't fucking know. I stopped
at the top of the stairs and picked up an
old walking cane. I lifted it up outstretched across my body,
ready to fight. I heard the voices again, a little
clearer time. They were coming from my bedroom. I walked
(21:03):
there quickly, while gripping the cane tightly. I stood outside
the door, took a deep breath in and then I
kicked it open. I flew inside the cane ready to strike,
but I stopped the face and there was one I
knew when. I knew well, it was my wife, Marylyn.
(21:24):
Don't hurt me, she cried. For now, obviously I've never
heard her, but it's probably quite a good thing to
say when a renowned drug abuser standing in front of
you with a wooden cane held up high. She had
told me she'd gone out, but clearly that was a lie.
Marilyn and I, we'd always had an unconventional relationship, I guess,
(21:47):
but recently we've been having problems those days. She had
threatened to leave me if my drug taken continued. She
threatened to take the kids as well. Brian, she said,
there were tears in her eyes. We need to do this,
to do this for you. She looked over at Stephen Love,
(22:08):
who was part of the beach boys team at the time.
He was halfway in our closet pulling stuff out of it.
Stephen was Mike's Brother and of course Mike was there too.
He never missed a moment to embarrass me. So, confident,
became storming out of the bathroom. Where are they, Brian?
Stephen was asking me. I don't want to have to
(22:29):
call the cops. Fuck, I thought, this is a drug raid,
a drug rade from my own fucking family. I explained
that I didn't keep drugs in the house, which was
sort of true. He was aggressive and angry, but I
really couldn't help then Mike cut in. Look, Brian, you're
getting a cut of our touring money and you're getting
(22:52):
a cut of our music money. You haven't properly toured
with us in forever, and it's been what two three
years since you were fully involved in a musical project.
I didn't answer. I feel like I'm slipping away from
my cell. Then Maryland started in. said they were going
to put me in a mental institution if I didn't
stop with the drugs. She was crying. I looked at
(23:15):
her and felt nothing. I was numb to it all,
to what Mike was saying, to what Marilyn was saying,
to what Stephen was saying. It didn't really mean much
to me. It was just all so boring. They swept
the whole house, but I didn't care. There were no
drugs anywhere. They were in my blood stream and that's
about it. I have been feeling like myself. As they
(23:39):
were going through the cupboards and knocking on dry wall,
I went outside, walked down the path in the morning
California Sun and stood next to my mailbox. That's when
I saw him, my ringer. He was sitting just down
the street on his bike, looking right at the house.
I waved him over. I didn't want to. He started
(24:00):
own confused. They told me not to drop if someone
else could see me. I smiled and told him not
to worry, I'll take them now, I said. He produced
a brown envelope and handed it to me. I clutched
it tightly to my chest. As I turned to go
back to the house, I stopped say I said where
are you heading? Downtown, he told me. Can I catch
(24:23):
your ride? I asked. Sure, he replied, and before I
knew it we were off. I rang the bell as
we left. Brian Wilson is seated behind the mixing desk
(25:02):
at our CIA studios in Hollywood. His beard is the
longest it's ever been, his hair is shaggy and his
eyes appeared to droop down his face. The one slender
frame of his youth is lost to a body that
has been fed junk food in illegal substances for a decade,
and the faders in front of him are all down
covered in cocaine residue. He takes a long, deep breath
(25:24):
before pulling a large bag of coke from his pocket.
He thinks of the ringer who dropped it off for
him at his house just earlier that day, and he
readies a line on the mixing desk, pushing it together
with the side of his little finger, shaking as he does.
He then pulls an already rolled note from his shirt
pocket and hoovers it up quickly. Brian slumps back into
(25:45):
the chair, itches his nostril and presses the play button.
The track honeycomb fills the air. He listens to the
lead vocal. It's not his voice, but his wife Marylyn's.
He stares at the speaker for a moment. He picks
himself up from his chair, using his hands to gain
the right amount of leverage to lift his massive frame.
He Shuffles over to a corner of the room where
(26:06):
he spins off the top of a bottle of vodka.
After a couple of shots, he suddenly becomes angry. He
Darts over to the mixing desk and pulls down the
fader quickly. In the process he drops the vodka bottle
onto the expensive equipment. Fuck, he murmurs, as the liquid
fizzles in the electronics. And that'll cost you. Comes a
voice from behind him. Brian swings around. It's the guitarist
(26:30):
James Burton. His mind flashes back to making smile and
there's Burton playing on a track, but he can't remember
which track. He swallows hard, like he's trying to get
the difficult memory of that aborted masterpiece down his throat.
He thinks of the Song Mrs O'Leary's cow, and here's
a fire crackle in his ears. Brian, you okay, Burton
(26:51):
ass and suddenly Brian is back in the now Brian
lies and says he's fine. Then he asked Burton wise
here in the Dutio with him? Well, I'm in the
studio next door, Burton says with somebody might have heard
of Jesus Christ. It's not Phil Specter, is it? Burton
shakes his head. Ah, man, it's Elvis. Next thing Brian
(27:14):
knows he's walking down the corridor with James Burton to
meet Elvis Presley. As they arrive at our CIER's biggest room,
Burton pauses. There's a couple of things you should know,
he says, but Brian isn't listening. Somewhere between his anxiety
and his excitement, he forgets his manners and burst straight
through the large door. There's Elvis, shiny multi colored shirt
(27:35):
tucked into black pants, huge gold sunglasses, swallowing his face,
and the king looks up and for the first time
in a long time he looks a little perplexed. Hi,
I'm Brian, Brian Shouts. Jerry shilling, prominent member of the
Memphis mafia, grabs brian as he moves towards Elvis, whoa
(27:56):
he says, will you boy? Brian repeats his name and
sticks his hand out to Elvis, but shilling aggressively pulls
him back. I said, who the hell are you? Shilling?
Strength is overpowering. Brian can tell immediately that this guy
isn't fucking around. Brian timidly informs them both that he's
a beach boy and he's working on an album in
the next studio. Oh Yeah, man, yeah, I know, Elvis says,
(28:18):
removing his huge sunglasses and offering half a smile. Brian
Watches him as he speaks, studies his mouth and the
way it draws the words, the way it moves a
little slow. And then he looks up at Elvis's eyes
and sees something in there he recognizes. He can't quite
put his finger on it, and then he realizes they're
dilated and tired. He sees it all, the foggy look
(28:41):
on Elvis's face, the way everyone in the room is
looking at him, waiting for something. There's an undercarrent of sadness,
of disillusion, even to the way he moves and the
way he seems so big yet so vulnerable still, and
shilling his grip. Brian asked Elvis if you would like
to come and listen to the song monkeys mixing, and
(29:01):
the King Cox his head to one side. I guess
we could, he says. Brian can barely contain his joy.
You can let go of from Jerry, Elvis says, putting
his glasses back on. As Brian is freed from the
grip of the handler, he feels an overwhelming sense of happiness.
That in the cocaine pumping around in his body. And
then he does it. He doesn't know why he does it,
(29:22):
but he does self sabotage. Brian looks at Elvis and
then at shilling and then back to Elvis. He smiles,
points at shilling and says this guy thought I was
gonna hurt you. I don't have a violent bone in
my body. Brian raises his arm up and swiftly and
suddenly karate chops the King of rock and roll, right
there in the middle of our CIA studios. The Room
(29:44):
is stunned and for a few seconds there was only silence.
And then Elvis looks over at shilling and says maybe
we don't have time to listen to that track. As
Brian makes his way back to his studio alone, he
thinks about what a mess elvis looked like, how tired,
how burnt out and how ghostly he seemed. He last
(30:05):
to himself as he re enacts his karate chop, shaking
his head in disbelief. But once back inside the control
booth of his studio, he promises himself he'll never get
like that cliche rock star who's high all the time,
who's lost touch with reality. He flicks play on honeycomb,
runs his hands through his long beard and racks up
another line of cocaine. The track rings around the room.
(30:28):
Brian Wilson sounds perfect. To everyone else, it just sounds
like the blood on the tracks. Blood on the tracks
(30:50):
produced by double Elvis in partnership with I heart radio.
It's hosted an executive produced by me Jake Brennan, also
executive produced by Brady Out Zeth Lundie is lead editor
and producer. This episode was written by Ben Burrow, mixing
on sound designed by Colin Fleming. Additional music and score
elements by Ryan spraaker. This season features Chris Anzaloni, is
(31:14):
the voice of Brian Wilson. Sources for this episode are
available at Double Elvis Dot com on the blood in
the track series page. Follow Double Elvis on instagram at
double elvis and on twitch at s graceland talks, and
you can talk to me per usual on instagram and
twitter at disgrace land pod. Rock and roll or dead
Popular Podcasts
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com
24/7 News: The Latest
The latest news in 4 minutes updated every hour, every day.
Therapy Gecko
An unlicensed lizard psychologist travels the universe talking to strangers about absolutely nothing. TO CALL THE GECKO: follow me on https://www.twitch.tv/lyleforever to get a notification for when I am taking calls. I am usually live Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays but lately a lot of other times too. I am a gecko.