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 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. Hello everyone. Rhonda Masson back with you again. Still going through all of Brian Wilson's archival tapes. This job is turning out to be bigger than I thought. There's hours and hours of studiotape that is just chatter, I mean, no music at all. I've tried to catalog these the best I can, but as you can imagine,
it's hard to work out where they came from. There's one session where Brian and his father are arguing for ages. Once again, these aren't always an easy listen, so please do bear that in mind. Dad, can you come out of the studio and back into the booth. What I can't hear you through the glass? Would you come in here, Dad, please? We can't carry on like this. We would like to record under an atmosphere of calm. What the mix is fine? Stop worrying about where to place the microphone. I can
hear the mix, just fine. I've got one good year left, haven't I. I'm not gonna do this now. This is a waste of time. You're you're not being very kind. Okay, you can behave like a child if you want. Just come in here. We're running out of time. Whatever you want, I'll do. Just please stop. Please. There's almost an hour of this. It gets pretty angry and pretty full on. There's a lot of tension, a lot of arguing, and a lot of blood on the tracks. Chapter five. Brian
Wilson M. It's a sun good morning. You're tuned into one oh five point four b R I A N F L. We're going all the way back today, all the way back in time. We're revisiting some big hits from yesteryear. It's time to rewind back in the glorious fifties. Planes. You know, every time I see a plane it reminds me of that house, that that moment, It reminds me of the piano, the thud ringing in my ears. I can feel it all again, the dull ache, the way
it's spread across my face, silence that followed, I'm rambling. Sorry, I guess we should get to the thing that we've been dancing around for a while. My old man, my dad, Murray Wilson. It's funny. I try not to think about it too much, but then it comes back. Like the other day, I found something paper I wrote in high school philosophy paper. As soon as I saw it, it all came flooding back. One sentence stood out the most
when I read it. I wrote, I think the type of character a person develops comes largely with the background of family living. Boy, I was right. A lot of good came from my family. My dad loved music, but he wasn't in the music industry, so he pushed me and my brothers to become one of the biggest groups in the world. Please, that wouldn't have happened without him, seriously, but he also caused the band's downfall before it even began. Hell, he even caused my downfall before I even began. In
some ways, I was very afraid of him. In other ways, I loved him because he knew where it was at. He had that competitive spirit which really blew my mind. The day I wrote that paper, I was at home in our house in Hawthorne. We lived right under the flight path of l A International. It was only a few miles away, but it felt like it was in a different world. I used to watch the planes from my window, and I wish I could get on one, you know, just get away to be anywhere, London, Hawaii, Tokyo.
I was watching a gateway to the world that I could never use. As I was working on that paper, I kept gazing up to the sky and watching the planes. I stared at one as it scribbled a white line on the massive blue But as soon as I heard our front door open, my head went straight down. My dad was home from work. Now he was always physical with us, which obviously isn't right. But I have to
tell you he wasn't a complete monster. This isn't a Hollywood film, but there's more than heroes and villains here. There are gray areas too. My dad did a lot of good, but there was a lot of bad in him. We can't carry on like this. That day, he crashed into my room and asked what I was doing homework? I told him. He took one look at it, and I could tell he was mad that part about a family. Brian, come on, what's that mean? I can't hear you? He
spoke softly. But did it through clenched teeth. Have we not given you enough? He asked. I could tell he was getting angry. I heard a jet pass over the house and turned to the window to see it. I felt like if I ignored him, he might just leave, leave and go find Carl or Dennis or I don't know anyone but me. I'm not gonna do this now, Brian, he shouted, are you listening to me? I knew what was about to happen. This always happened. Turn around, he said.
When I didn't move, he screamed with the request at me. I slowly turned. My eyes were fixed to the floor. Look at me, he said. I slowly moved my gaze up from his legs to his torso, then his neck, then to his eyes. They were fixed on me. Then he slowly moved his right hand up in the air and gripped his thumb and forefinger around his right eyeball and pulled it from its socket. It squelched and clicked as it came out. The glass surface caught the sunlight.
Come here, he said coldly. Then he leaned closer and whispered, look into it please. He rolled his head slightly so I could see the empty socket. It was wet and shiny, he laced with red scar tissue. I closed my own eyes, but it was all I could see. This is a waste of time. When I opened them again, I was sitting on my bed. I must have fainted or forgotten. I don't know. Dad was sitting next to me, his
glass eye back in its socket. You shouldn't be so afraid, he said, Now you rewrite that paper after you've made us dinner. You understand we can't carry on like this. As he left the room, I felt a rage build up inside of me. It wasn't the first time I had gotten the old eye trick, and I was sure it wouldn't be the last. But this time it really got to me. I was just so sick of it all. Maybe it was the planes goading me from the sky.
Maybe it was how proud I was of my writing in that paper, or maybe it was just because this was the millionth time he'd end bushed me like that. Whatever it was, I just snapped. I marched past him to the kitchen and grabbed a plate. I took it to my bedroom, dropped my trousers and took a massive ship on it. Yes, really, you can behave like a child if you want. The full plate was disgusting, I mean fucking disgusting. It. It was horrible to look at,
but I was strangely proud. Can you be proud when you've just defecated on a plate? It turns out you can. I carried into the living room, where my dad had installed himself in his chair. I thrust my prize in front of him. Here's your fucking dinner. I waited for him. I wanted him to try to come after me. I would have knocked him out. I could see myself doing it. But he didn't come after me. He just put the
plate to the side. He didn't even get up. I think you should go of the bathroom and clean yourself up, he said again, with that cold voice. It was there in the bathroom that he whipped me until I ended up on the floor crying. It was so bad, it hurts so much. I begged him to take his eye out again and let that be my punishment, but he just kept on whipping me with his belt. To be honest, though I kind of got off easy that day, other times his violence would have a much bigger effect. You know,
it's funny making smile. I felt safe. I felt really safe until I didn't. But despite everything that happened, everything that I told you about, for the longest time, I enjoyed smile. I thought it was going to work out great. Looking back, the music seemed to be the most solid thing about it all. It was other band members, of their family members, other voices. They were the things that were making the projects stall, not the music that kept coming. The mix is fine. But one day we were working
on a song called Vegetables. I liked working on that one. It was fun. I used to sprinkle the console with salt and seasoning before we started, just to set the mood. I can hear them makes it just fine. I also put out some real vegetables too. There was celery everywhere. I would dip the celery into a jar of salt and crunched down on it. We were doing a take. Paul McCartney even came by one of the sessions and he munched some salary right into the microphone. He enjoyed himself.
I think I'm not sure whatever happened to those tapes, but that was a blast to have a beatle to play the the celery. I was in the control room with Chuck Britts, our engineer. We were having a break and he turned to me and said, you know, Brian, I've always wondered why you talk out at the side of your mouth. I was a bit taken back. I paused for a moment for answering him. Honestly, it's my right ear, I told him, I can't hear anything out of it. I guess over time I've started speaking like
that because of my ear. I've got one good ear left, haven't I hang. Chuck waited a second before asking the next question. I knew he was going to ask it they always do. How did you lose your hearing? He asked politely. I must have answered him, but I don't remember it. I stared at the desk covered in salt, but that's not what I saw. I saw, my dad. I saw a lead pipe. I saw a lot of things. Now, do you want the truth or something easier? Okay, here's how I lost my hearing. In my readier, I was
just a kid playing outside in our neighborhood. There was this kid named Seymour. I think that was either his first or his last name, I can't remember. He had a lid pipe in his hands. You could behave like a child if you want. The sun was bright, and all I could see was his outline against the endless yellowy orange glow behind him. Everything from that moment seemed to go in slow motion. Without warning, he raised the pipe up and smashed it into the side of my head.
I never knew why. Shock was all I felt. I didn't even realize it had been hit until the pain was coursing through my bones. The sun was in my eyes. The pain spread from my ear across my head and then to my torso my knees weakened. I fell to the floor. It was a few days later I realized my hearing was changed forever. It wasn't coming back. My mother eventually took me to the doctor and he said that the hearing had gone all down to the eighth nerve in my head, being severed. Do you know? It
was strange. Though I spoke to my dad about it. I thought he would tell me to toughen up and go back and teach that kid a lesson. But he didn't dead please. He sat with me. He looked at my ear and asked me how I was doing. Then he told me the weirdest story. He said that when he was younger, his dad, a man called Buddy, took a swing at him with you guessed it, a lead pipe, didn't really took my dad's ear off. They rushed him to the emergency room and managed to save it. I
was shocked. I didn't know if it was a joke or if he was taunting me. But when I looked at him, I saw such pain, such sadness within him, I knew it was true. I never felt closer to him in that moment. My old man seemed to shrink, to pull back the curtain, to give me a glimpse into something else. Now, do you want the truth or something easier? Here's how I lost the hearing in my right ear. My dad had been drinking. He drank a lot.
He was mean when he drank. I was sitting at the family piano just messing around with the keys, playing something. My dad came in and sat down next to me. He'd been cutting some wood in the yard. He smelled like sweat and booze. What's that, he asked, smiling. What just a tune I'm making up? I mumbled, It's good, he replied. He seems so happy, content even he really loved music. He asked me to budge over, and he played a few notes of Rhapsody in Blue, the Gershwin masterpiece.
But he hit a bum note a couple of bars in. I laughed and pressed the key next to it, completing the sequence like this. I smiled up at him, but he turned away from me. He didn't say anything at all. It was like something blocked out of the sun, like rain clouds appeared out of nowhere. I could feel the shift within him. Hands up, he said. I immediately took my fingers off the keys, and he slammed the piano shut. He left the room in silence. I sat wondering what
had just happened. Seconds later, he reappeared with a block of wood two by four, and without warning, he swung it around and slammed it into my right ear. Do you think you're better than me, he screamed. You will have to practice a lot if you want to be anything, because right now you're nothing. You've got that. My brain felt like I was slashing around in my head. I couldn't think straight. I felt dizzy, like the world was spinning out of control. I knew some serious damage had
been done. I went to the emergency room a week later with my mother, and they told me I'd lost the hearing in that year. My son is a liar. He was born deaf. Nothing made him deaf apart from his own body. He came out like that. My dad was all I could think about in that control room with the salt covered desk. Chuck smiled at me empathetically. I'm used to seeing that look. I get it more and more as I've gotten older. To be honest, I don't care for it so much. I grabbed the celery
in front of me and took a huge bite. I smiled at Chuck, But what I didn't tell them was that the ringing in my right ear had started again. We'll be right back after this. We were were. Success is a funny thing. Sometimes you get to the top of the mountain and the view is still the same. Sometimes the end of the rainbow just takes you back to the start. I feel a little bit like that. Sometimes, no matter how successful you get, your problems are still there. Money, recognition, fame, Sure,
they all play their role in happiness. I'm not gonna sit here and blastom New Age bullshit at you. They can make you happy, but what those things can't do is cure wounds. You have to do that all for yourself. One night at my house in Laurel Canyon were having a huge party. It was dark and the pool lights were on. I've always liked how a pool looks at night, the way the light catches the water. It makes it seem magical. It looks so perfect, untouched, clean, peaceful, an
atmosphere of calm. That night, I was gazing at my pool as l a loomed in the background. It's twinkling lights mirroring the night sky. My brother Kyle came up to me and threw his arm around my shoulder. You've done it again, he said, We've done it, I corrected him. Someone across the pool yelled a second Beach Boys number one single, and everyone cheered. Al came over and joined us. Grinning just like Carl. You want to see it again, he asked, holding up a copy of Billboard magazine. I
flicked to the page the Billboard hot one. At the top, it read the Beach Boys Helped Me Rhonda, and next to that was a large black one. Dennis smiled at me and said it was all worth it. In the end, my brothers were called away to someone else and I was left on my own. Was it, i asked myself, Was it worth it? What you see helped me? Rhonda was a huge success for us, but it was also the culmination of years of tension. My dad came to
that session. He was often present in our recording sessions and pretty much any activity the band was engaged in. Even after we dismissed him as our manager. He managed in the same way he parented. He was hard and often cruel. You're you're not being very kind. He wouldn't let us talk to girls or even drink on tour. He'd find us a hundred dollars if we broke any of his rules, and I remember one tour of Australia
he even changed that fine to a thousand dollars. The day we cut helped me Rhonda, though finds and rules all shrank at the eyes of a p All of our frustrations, all of our differences and our similarities came out in that session. We were cutting the vocals, and I knew from the very second the tape was rolling it was going to be a long day. Dad turned up and immediately took a place in the control booth that we usually reserved for the producer, a place we
usually reserved for me come out of the studio. I sat next to him as the boys were in the main room. When they finished a take, he jumped up and strolled into the main studio. That wasn't good, he said to Al. No, really, that was a little you need to be more doo by Doobi duh. I couldn't believe he was singing to al singing to a man who, let me remind you, was in one of the biggest pop groups of the moment. Al kind of shrugged, Just loosen up and be happy. My dad shouted, we can't
carry on like this. That made me laugh, shouting at someone to be happy. We did another take, and when it was finished, I asked Alic we could have one more. Before he could reply, my dad said that one was fine, Well, let's move on. I couldn't believe it. I was in charge, This was my session, my band. This is a waste of time. I shouted on the microphone from the control booth that we were doing another take immediately. Dad came back into the room with me after that, but he
didn't stop, which wasn't a surprise. But what was a surprise is that from here on out he directed most of his anger at everyone else apart from me, although I suspected he was angry at them in order to get at me. Please, With every take he found a problem. Mike was flat, Dennis wasn't giving his all. Everyone was getting piste off. I couldn't stand it anymore, so I went into the main studio to get away from him.
I'm not going to do this now. We were slogging our guts out in this studio and he was just sitting in the control room barking into the microphone. After one take, he cried, Okay, so you guys are big stars now, but have you got any guts? You have to fight for success. Mike looked over at me, his face all screwed up. Dad didn't stop. You've got no guts, no guts. Come on, let's go. Let's hear you, he
yelled again in that dominaring, patronizing voice. Hey, I shouted, I've got one good ear left, and your fucking big voice is ruining that. I've got one good ear left, haven't I? He laughed, but I could tell he was shocked. I told him he was embarrassing me. Then I corrected myself, You're just embarrassing. I said, we would like to record under an atmosphere of a calm. I'd had enough. I stormed into the control room. I told him we didn't need his help. He ignored me. He grabbed the microphone
and kept delivering more direction to Al. I was so angry. I shoved him aside and grabbed the mic and told Al to give us a second. My dad slammed his body into me and yanked the mic back towards him. You need to make records like we used to, he bellowed at me. You could behave like a child if you want. I leaned my body back and held it there for a second. Do it, I thought to myself, Just fucking do it. I took a deep breath and slammed my entire body weight into him. He flew across
the console, toppling over and landing against a chair. He looked up at me, all weak and feeble from the floor. He said, do you think just because you've made some money, everything is going to be a hit. We're running out of time. I ignored him and demanded al to do another take out of time. You know what, though, I did think it was going to be a hit, because it was the fucking number one hit. There was only one producer credit for helping me, Rhonda, and it was
Brian Douglas Wilson. Cedar Sinai Medical Center, West Hollywood, two thousand four. Dr Emma Samuel examines an X ray of an ear. She knows something isn't right with her patient, but the X ray looks fine. She takes a large gulp of coffee from a styro phone cup. She checks her watch. It's been ours. She's going to have to talk to them, explaining that she just doesn't know what's wrong. She picks up the receiver of a phone on the wall and then just as quickly hangs it back up.
She has an idea. She walks quickly to Patient Room fourteen, full of hope, she pushes open the door labeled Baby Wilson. She creeps up to a small newborn lying sound asleep in a cot. She delicately moves his head to one side and uses her outoscope to take another look in the infant's ears. Nothing disappointed again. Moments later, Dr Samuel is back at the wall, clutching the phone, her heart rate increasing. She dials the number from her notes and waits.
Just under a mile away, Brian Wilson is sitting by his pool. He watches the calm water as it remains undisturbed by the still West coast air. Melinda, his wife, is in the house, anxiously twisting the cord of their phone around her finger. The accent Summer Olympics plays on a TV in the background, but no one is paying attention to it. She calls out to Bryant. You know my friend Samantha, She called her little boy Gauge. I don't mind that. Brian's eyes are still fixed on the pool.
His mouth curls up. My dad's middle name was Gauge, he replies. Melinda receives him loud and clear. Names are hard, especially with adoption. She says, I guess we should see him again before we decide. Although, what do you think about? The loud ring of the Wilson home phone erupts her. She's been waiting for that ring all day. She quickly picks up the receiver. Mrs Wilson comes to voice on the other end. This is Dr Emma Samuel. I'm just calling to give you an update. We Linda cuts her off.
Is he okay? The doctor takes a second. This is a tricky situation. If she goes too easy, she could undersell a serious problem later down the line. Too hard, and the whole thing will be clouded in fear. We have detected a slight issue with the baby's hearing. Dr Samuel says his right here, I think it's best if you come in like we said. Belinda's mind races, and before she knows it, she and Brian are in their Cadillac heading to West Hollywood. As Brian drives, he starts
to feel sick. Is that really what the doctor said? Did Melinda hear her right? A slight issue with the baby's hearing. Melinda could barely get the words out to respond. She's sure. At first. Brian doesn't speak, but his mind flashes back to the lead pipe and the hot Hawthorne son, his father playing Gershwin on the piano. His right ear starts to ring, and their sweat on his forehead. I don't understand, he says. Finally, what is this a joke?
A joke from God? Silence Melinda, he shouts. Melinda responds, tears in her eyes. She knows it's going to be hard for Brian to process, but he's gonna have to figure it out. He's gonna have to find a way to deal with this. Brian isn't listening. His eyes are fixed on the traffic moving in front of him, and that's when he sees it. That's when he see he's him. The man who just passed him at the busy junction and who is now parking is battered t one Triumph motorcycle.
It looks a lot like Bob Dylan. It's gotta be Dylan. Brian watches him shuffle down the sidewalk, a hoodie obscuring his head. Despite the l a heat, Brian's mind just to a Newsweek article that he still has in his office at home, an issue from Bob Dylan's words and big red pull quote type the ones that read Brian Wilson that a year. I mean, Jesus, he's got to will that to the Smithsonian. And just thinking about those words gives Brian goose bumps on his arms and butterflies
in his stomach. That year, That year, he thinks to himself. A few blocks later, Brian and Melinda are rushing into Cedar Sinai, where Dr Samuel stands waiting. She's clutching a beige file in her hand and looks relieved. I'm so sorry to rush you down here, she says. Turns out you don't need to come down after all, because we've we found the problem. Just some water in the year, is all not a long lasting issue we can easily. Melinda cuts the doctor off again, but this time it's
because she's hugging her. Dr Samuel continues to apologize and reassure them, but the Wilsons are lost to relief. Later the impatient room fourteen, Brian is holding his baby boy and suddenly he has an idea. What do you think about Dylan has a name? He asked Melinda. Her eyes light up. I love it, she says. Brian looks down at Dylan, taking a peek into his ear. It looks brand new, perfect. It reminds him of that still illuminated
swimming pool back home. He thinks about the sort of father he'll be to his first son, How he won't repeat the tragedies of the past. How for this young Wilson, Brian will make sure there's no blood on the Tracks. Ye Blood on the Tracks is 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 Sadly.
Zeth Lundi 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 as the voice of Brian Wilson. Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com
on the Blood on the Tracks series page. Follow Double Elvis on Instagram at double Elvis and on Twitch at s Grace and Talks, and you can talk to me per Usual on Instagram and Twitter at Disgrace Land Pond Rock and Roll Dye Crags over