Brian Wilson Is…Back? (The Brian Wilson Story, Chapter 8)

along the way, Brian Wilson lost his mind instead. This is his story. Hello to whoever is listening to this, it's Rhonda again. We're slowly coming to the end of all of these Brian Wilson tapes. There's only a few left now. This batch I'm going through at the moment seems to be from Brian's home recordings, and if I'm not mistaken, they make up most of the entire collection. These, just like some we've already seen, appear to be recorded on a dictaphone. He talks of pretty undane tasks and

sounds confused even introspective at times. Here have a listen. I'm going to buy a new car today, but I can't do it on my own. They come everywhere with me, these people, these minders or captors is maybe more appropriate, their Dr Landy's people. Landy is like a god, his omnipresent everywhere in my life. I can't escape, and freedom seems like an abstract concept to me now, like a dream, although maybe I wouldn't even want to if I could. Maybe I can exist without someone like that. I've been

trying to write songs, but it's hit and miss. Sometimes the days just slide by, like a bad dream. Some days I feel like I'm getting better, but other days I feel like I'm falling apart. I feel like I don't have a single friend in the world except for the addictive phone these words. My only friends are these thoughts. Now all I have is myself, my thoughts, and a whole load of blood on the tracks. Chapter eight. Brian Wilson is back. This is one oh five point four b R I A n f M. I'm sorry to

tell you this, but we're shutting down our broadcast. We've been forced to buy the people in charge. This is b R I A n f M signing off for forever Goodbye. I still remember waking up in my bed. The world seemed fuzzy, colder, and more real than it had been for years. It was scary. The last thing I remember is a handful of pills. Then the radio that was playing sounded strange. Then it all went black, like I was totally submerged into the darkness. Then I

woke up here. I felt like I'd woken from the deepest sleep, imaginable, like a dream. I didn't know if I was alive or dead, if this was some form of an afterlife, but I understood where I was the second I turned my head and laid eyes on him. The moment I saw him, I knew this wasn't some afterlife. This was very much the world. I knew I can't. He looked at me and smiled. He spoke softly, but there was a hard edge to his tone. I'm back, Brian, he said, I'm going to take care of you. I

can't escape. I closed my eyes and prayed for some release. I guess I should explain. This all started a while ago. I got a phone call at home. It was al the band wanted to meet. Nothing unusual there, but the meeting was being held at our lawyer's office. That was unusual. It didn't sit well with me. I knew something was up. I grabbed a bag of coke I had lying around and fixed myself the biggest milkshake you've ever seen, and then I glugged it on the car on the way.

I was pretty big back then. Drugs and food. They were my only companions. I feel like I don't have a single friend in the world. I arrived at the lawyer's building, sort of place that lacks any kind of personality, any kind of architecture, a place void of creativity. I headed into the office and saw the whole band, our lawyers, and our manager. These I knew what it was before they even spoke. Dennis started it off. Brian, thanks for coming, he said. He looked sheepish, but sad too, kind of

tired sadness. He handed me this letter. I pulled it open and saw words like regretfully, substance, abuse, and assets. One giant word stood out so big it seemed to fill the paper. Dismissed. They were firing me from the band, the guy who gave them all those hits, all those albums. It was like ice water in my veins. Freedom seems like an abstract concept al spoke before I could say anything. We want you to see a doctor, he said. I looked down at his hands and saw he was holding

a tape recorder. You're recording this, I shouted, recording, my my. I lost my words, and then I spat out the only word on my mind, murder. It did feel like that, like they were killing off a part of me, No, not a part, the whole of me, myself, my thoughts, and a whole load of blood. I felt trapped. I suspected for years my dad was bugging me, recording and

listening to me. Here I was again with people who should have loved me, being recorded and monitored, and and why so some quack can tell me what he thinks is going on in my head. I grabbed the recorder and smashed it against the wall. It ran out of the office into my car. I snorted some coke and drove home straight away. What I didn't know is the band had done this as a ruse to get me some care. They thought if they made it seem like I was out of the band, i'd get help. And

I guess it worked. But before it did, something awful happened. I ran into the house, coke ping ponging around in my bloodstream. I was indestructible, like a god. I ran up to my bedroom, where I had this large pot on the nightstand. I pulled the lid off. There were loads of pills inside. Man, it must have been over a hundred in there. I grabbed a handful and stuffed them into my mouth. Some felone floor, but most went

into my mouth. I thrust my hand back into the pot and grabbed more than I did it again and again. I was swallowing hard, no water, just dry pills. They felt terrible in my throat, but I didn't care. My eyes were watering so much, partly from the pills getting stuck, but mainly because I couldn't stop thinking about the letter. Then I gagged. The pills filled the back of my mouth and I couldn't get my breath. I stumbled and fell on the bed. Then everything went black, like a dream,

so black, bad dream. I remember spending a lot of time in here in my mind. Some days I feel like I'm getting better in that blackness. Other days I feel like I'm falling apart. Things were so quiet, no voices, no worries, no memories. It was just black and silent, like I was walking through my mind. But no matter how much I walked, I never ended up anywhere. It was like walking on a treadmill. I did that for

a while. Soon it seemed to get slower and slower, until finally it stopped, and all that remained was blackness and silence, like a vacuum of thought, an infinite nothingness, like a dream. After a while, there was a slither of horizontal light, small at first, but then it grew and grew. It burned so brightly. As this chasm opened up and light flowed in like a burst pipe, I realized it was my eyes opening and adjusting to that California sunlight I'd known my whole life, and the warmth

of the sun. You know. I was awake, alive, back on earth. They told me later I overdosed, but I wasn't aware of that. As I woke up, it turned my head and I saw a man next to my bed. He smiled at me and said, I'm back, Brian. I'm going to take care of you. That man was Dr Eugene Landy. Land is like a god. I felt like I'd been saved. Is omnipresent joy filled my body. I had a sense of safety that I hadn't had for such a long time everywhere in my life. It turns

out that was a false sense of security. I can't escape because Dr Landy would soon push me closer to that infinite blackness than those pills ever did. In the beginning, Dr Landy was good for me. You got my weight down, He made the days better and the night's bearable. He got me off drugs. He made my eyes clear again. Look, there's no two ways about it. He saved my life, and I love him is like a god. I still love him for that. The first time I was in

his care, it was good for all of us. But when he came back into my life after that overdose, it wasn't as good. Falling apart, he stopped my contact with almost everyone, all the other guys, girlfriends, anyone, everyone. Like a god. He called it twenty four hour therapy. I read once in his book that he needed complete control over every aspect of a patient's physical, personal, social, and sexual environments. He wasn't wrong. I couldn't even pick up the phone. Maybe I wouldn't even want to if

I could. Everywhere I went, I was taken there by Dr Landy's assistance. I wore a beeper so I could be summoned back by him whenever he needed. There was a strict daily routine, wake up, early, run, God, I was always running. Dr Landy would drive me to a track and I'd run around it while he was in his car. Then home for a hearty breakfast, and then I was at the piano writing, always writing. I've been

trying to write songs. In the evenings. I was made to show my face around town, charity events, concerts, anything. He wanted to show the world how well I was doing, how good I was looking. And I was looking good. But everything, everything was under his control. His people were always close. They come everywhere with me. I came home one night I had been at some show downtown and Dr Landy was there in the kitchen, the lights down low. He asked me if I had a good time. It

was the best dad, I said. I didn't even realize what I had said until I saw his face screw up. I apologized. He smiled and said, don't mention it, Brian. Then he told me to go to bed. The next morning, I came down to the kitchen and he informed me that the schedule that day was going to be a bit different. Remind me of that story you told me the other day, he said. I recounted this moment from my childhood. We had discussed about a dog I had when we were kids' Chihuahua named Chico. Man I love

that dog. Chico ended up running away from home. We didn't where he went. I was distraught. Then one day I was walking home from school with Dennis and we saw a Chico lying in the gutter dead. We both broke down, crying all I have with myself. I told Dr Landy Howard's stuck with me. He smiled as I told him the story, and then said, well, and as if by magic pulled out this little puppy from under the counter is like a god. I couldn't believe it. It was a cha just like Chico. I held him

so tightly. What do you want to call him? He asked Buddy. I said right away, I feel like I don't have a single friend. Dr Landy motioned me to the piano. He asked if maybe I could play a new song for our new friend. I placed Buddy on the top of the piano and played some chords. I watched him walk around slowly and then rest, laying down facing me. My heart was phil with ecstasy. Come on, Brian,

let's hear something good, something new, the doctor said. I tried to conjure up a new melody or even a chord sequence, but I couldn't capture anything. I've been trying to write songs. Concentrate. Dr Landy said, putting his hand on my shoulder. That's what we did for the next six hours. I just sat there as he told me to concentrate. Sometime around that six hour mark, he changed fucking focus. He screamed, it's not that difficult. I was scared.

He had been scaring me quite a lot recently, and this wasn't uncommon, but that day I just felt so vulnerable. He yelled at me again, told me I was letting Buddy down. I just kept saying that I was sorry, kept hitting the keys, hoping something would come, but nothing did. This is a waste of time, waste of energy, he said, you don't deserve a present. I can't do it on my own. He grabbed Buddy by the scruff of his neck. Little dog yelped. His little brown eyes had such fear

in them. Dr Landy carried him like that across the room. As I begged him to stop, please, I shouted, I can do it, I promise. I began to frantically hit the keys. Dr Landy turned to me and told me if it didn't come after six hours, it wouldn't ever come. I can't. He opened the front door of the house and threw Buddy to the ground. I felt to my knees and begged him not to throw my new friend out these people, but it was too late. Dr Landy

kicked the dog hard. It ran for its life, and I watched it go down the drive, under the gate to the road beyond. I screamed and cried, lying there on the floor like a child. He slammed the door and told me I only had myself to blame. I feel like I don't have a single friend in the world. As he walked off, my housekeeper Glorious, stood there, her mouth hanging open. She came to me and held me close, told me it was okay, but it didn't feel okay. I felt like my only friend in the world. It

just deserted me. I don't have a single friend. Later that night, I was lying in bed with TV on static and all the lights off. There was a knock at my door. It was Gloria. There was panic in her eyes. Mr Wilson, she said, whispering so quietly I could barely hear her. I'm sorry to tell you this, but I was cleaning the other day and I saw some papers. Her voice drifted off. She nervously looked around the corridor. I told her to come inside my room.

She stood in my bedroom that night and spoke so fast I had to ask her to repeat what she said a couple of times. She told me Dr Landy had raised his fees, that he was charging a crazy amount of money for his care like a god. She further told me she saw that our manager to Tom, had sanctioned him to receive of the copyright to all my songs too, regardless of whether he contributed to them or not. I couldn't believe it. I was so mad, mad about this, mad about buddy, mad about it all

everywhere in my life. I stormed out of my room and headed for Dr Landy's bedroom. Gloria tried to hold me back, but she couldn't stop me. I crashed through the door to his bedroom. He was standing there looking at some papers. Brian, whatever is the matter, he asked me. I screamed to him, I threw those ridiculous figures his way, told him how hard I had worked on the songs, told him how he had no right. Freedom seems like

an abstract concept. He told me that I'd signed my rights over to him, and then he asked, is this all over a damned dog? With that, I lost it. I flew through the air and punched him, first in the ribs to miss, then repeatedly in the stomachs, shouting with every hit, what have you done to me? Gloria was behind me in the doorway, screaming for me to stop. Dr Landy raised his hands up and looked her dead in the eyes and said, don't, no, no, let him do it. He needs to do it, he needs to release.

Sweat was pouring off my head. My knuckles ached. Hit me, Brian, he screamed, hit me. I drew my arm back, clamped my teeth together and smashed him right in the face. His lips split open, blood spilled out, fell back onto the bed. When I looked down it him, he was smiling. Then he looked up at me, very calmly, he said, very good. We'll be right back after this. We were. I said that the first time under Dr Landy's care was good, and it was, but there were red flags.

I should have seen. An offer came in from Saturday Night Live, directly from its creator and Lauren Michael's no Less, and Landy said it was the perfect opportunity to promote fifteen Big Ones, a new Beach Boys album that was doing well on the charts. I've been to SNL before with the Boys and it was fine. This time, Lauren wanted me and me alone. I didn't want to go. I can't do it on my own, but Landy forced me to do it. We arrived late. I asked not

to rehear. They granted my request. I was so nervous. Everyone seemed to think it was going to be so funny and cool, but I could barely talk. Slide by like a bad dream. I remember John Belushi came up to talk to me, but I didn't say a word, not one. I just couldn't. I was too nervous. At one point, the director came up to me and introduced himself. I'm Dennis Wilson, he said, Another Wilson. Another dentist and he left his head off, but I just stared into space.

Freedom seems like an abstract concept. He walked off after that. The whole day I felt like I had snakes in my stomach. I hated the idea of doing the show. I was scared of performing, scared of the people in the audience, scared of the people watching back home. I feared that a panic attack was about to set in. As I sat in my dressing room, but Landy grabbed me and looked me in the eye. Mom Brian, He said,

where are your guts? Hey, you wouldn't even want you if I could in my mind, my dad's face flashed onto his and I had to shake my head to get rid of the image. He produced these huge cards from the back of the room and showed them to me. They look like those cards Dylan holds up in the video for Subterranean Homesick Blues. The cards all had different things on them like laugh, wink or hold for applause. He said he was going to direct me through the

whole thing present. Then I remembered the conversation we had on the car right over you told them right. I asked about not having the He looked at me annoyed. Yes, he said, I've spoken to them about it. They're getting rid of it. It won't be on stage. I felt a shiver run down my back all the way to my ankles. It was interrupted by a knock at the door. Landy opened it to reveal Jodie Foster standing on the other side. She was hosting that night and came in

to say hello. Landy practically leapt on her. I'm Eugene Landy, he said, smiling. She asked him who he was. I influenced all of Brian's thinking, he laughed proudly. But you're not a beach boy, she said. She was confused. I thought it was all a huge joke. I'm practically a member of the band, he exclaimed, like it was a known fact before I knew it. We were on the side of the stage, my least favorite place. I can't do it on my own. Landy told me I was

up next. He tapped his cards and pointed to where he was going to be, right in front of the stage. I heard the director yell okay, commercial break is ending in thirty My heart rattled in my ribs. Then he turned to me and shouted, don't forget, this is live, Brian. I felt like I couldn't breathe, and he said his goodbyes and made his way to his position. That's when I saw it. They wheeled out this grand piano. But

that's not what was taking my focus. The thing that was dragging all the oxygen from my lungs and the steadiness from my feet. It was what the piano was sitting in a huge sandbox, bad dreaming. I asked him not to do it, I pleaded, Landy promised me. Twenty three seconds, the director called out. My mind flashed back to writing Smile, to being in that sandbox on that piano. I blinked and saw the tapes from Mrs O'Leary's cow burning fires in l A. Then I heard my dad

screaming at me for being useless. Then I heard Phil Specter. Eighteen seconds now came the director's voice again. My throat tightened. Can't escape, Landy, I shouted, you promised they wouldn't use the sandbox. He shrugged, We're live and twelve the director shouted. I feel like I'm falling apart. Someone pushed me on stage and I gingerly walked into the sand pit and sat at the piano while the director made the final

countdown live and five four three. Then he went silent and counted the last two seconds with just his fingers. I thought those two seconds would never end. All I heard was my heart. All I felt was that damn sand under my feet. I've always hated the beach. Have I told you that already? I fucking hated. Someone must have introduced me, because the crowd was cheering and the director was pointing at me. I started good vibrations by missing around half of the opening notes, but I quickly recovered.

The fear had started to subside, and I thought I might be able to put out a performance to make Landy proud, to make myself proud. Like a dream. He was holding up his cards constantly. Good one read, another one read don't forget to look at the audience. I hated that one, but I did it anyway. He fumbled a card, and there was a second or two where he was holding up nothing. I suddenly thought, I don't need Landy in his cards. I can do this by myself. I drew in another breath and moved on to the

second section of the song. Almost enjoying myself. By this point, Landy held into the card, but I didn't look at it. I scanned the audience and then went back to the piano. As I looked up, the card came into view. It was just a word, a small word, only five letters, but it filled both my eyes. It seemed to fill the entire auditorium. No, the entire world, my entire world. All I have is myself, my thoughts. I read it

and heard screeching. I saw it all again. I looked down at the sandbox, and it only made it worse, bad dreaming. I was panicking, even more scared than before. I didn't want to do this anymore. There were too many memories, too many bad memories. Landy still held the card up high. He moved it closer to me, motioning hard do it. He mouthed, like a god. The word on the cards simply said smile. But I couldn't. I felt like maybe I never would again. Maybe I wouldn't

even want to if I could. That word, that was the thing that had ruined it all. It brought me here, It brought me Landy. It had brought me to drugs and alcohol and those never ending voices. I never wanted to see the words smile ever again. As I limped to the end of that performance, I swore to myself that I had erased that word from my life. But it's funny. Sometimes the thing that haunts you can save you. It turns out smile wasn't the end. Maybe we'll get

to that soon. Los Angeles, well Inda Leadbetter is standing on the showroom floor of the Martin Cadillac dealership, gazing out to the huge floor to ceiling windows. She watches his rain drops fall onto the window. Can I I've been seeing weather this bad and forever? Her colleague gales at her, l a in the rain like this. He continues to talk, but Melinda is only half listening. She's watching a man outside and moves slowly down the street.

He walks with little confidence, like he's only learned how just recently. He appears scared to take every step. And behind them are two other men, both dressed in blazers, with their sleeves pushed up to their elbows and sunglasses dangling from their breast pockets. Suddenly, all three men make a bee line for the dealership door. Melinda puts on her game face, Hello, gentlemen, she beams as they walk inside,

water dripping onto the polished floor. This is the dance she's done a thousand times before, and it's a dance she's the best to have. She engages the men in some small talk about the weather and then the Los Angeles Lakers, and then she drops the line, so what can I do for you today? This is her golden line. It continues the fiction that she's not just there to sell them a car, but it also moves the conversation

not to just that the sale. The man in the middle, who has said almost nothing so far, finally looks around the eye. I need a car, he says, Cadillac. He walks over to a mud brown Seville and points to it. This one, he shrugs. Melinda looks at the man properly for the first time and sees how unhappy he looks, how jaded he appears. And the other two men walk slowly around the showroom as Melinda opens the door of the Seville. Jump in and take a look before you

drive off. I don't want to get rid of you that quickly, she jokes, tapping him on the shoulder. Melinda and the man slide into the car's front seats, puts his head into the headrest and closes his eyes. Comfy, right, she says, but he doesn't reply. She fills the silence with another question. You know, before we go any further, I should probably ask your name. The man's eyes are still closed. He breathes out slowly and almost painfully, says

Brian Wilson. Melinda smiles and begins to ask if he wants to take it for a test drive, but she's cut off as Brian loudly slams the door and then he locks the car. There's an automatic lock feature, as you can see, she says, half joking, but entirely anxious, and she calmly moves her hand to her pocket and feels around for the bottle of mace she keeps there. She begins to ask him to unlock the car, but

he turns to her with tears in his eyes. He positions the rear view mirror to look at the men with him, and those men he loses his train of thought. Melinda asks if there is friends. No, not friends, he says, co workers, bodyguards. Brian shakes his head to answer both questions. No, he replies, my captors Molinda looks around, expecting to see that she's on a hidden camera show, but the showroom is still. Then she sees one of the men in the side mirror, his eyes burning as he stares at

the car. She tells Brian that she can call the police if needed, no cops he as he does. Molinda sees the two men talk to each other as they continue to look at the car. Get me out of here, Brian pleads. Melinda doesn't know why she believes Brian, but she does. The many is with give her a bad feeling, while the man sitting next to her seems nervous and vulnerable. She doesn't think. She just acts okay, Brian, She says,

I want you to start the car. She looks at the floor to ceiling windows of the dealership and at the l a rain outside. Brian turns the key and the motor kicks in. She pulls the handbrake off and tells him to put it in drive, and for the first time, she hears the tension in her own voice. She glances in the side mirror and watches the two

men start to walk over. She moves her hand at the back of the rear view mirror when she presses the bulky red button, and the large motorized window in front of her begins to slowly move to its left, revealing the l a downpour. She knows they have twenty three seconds before the thing is fully open. The two men begin to move more quickly, now dodging other Cadillacs as they come in their direction. As soon as I shout, now, you're gonna want to drive as fast as you can,

she says to Brian, right through that open window. Brian nods. The rain sounds loud in the showroom. Now not yet, Melanda whispers. Brian stares ahead. Not yet. Her voice raises as she watches the window move achingly slow. Not yet, she shouts, this time, as Brian's hand grips the wheels so tightly as knuckles go white, and the two men are close, now so close that one of them reaches out just about touch the car. Melinda can't hold it any longer. Now, she shouts. The car screeches into life,

throwing itself forward. One of Brian's captors slams his fist into the window and moving the side as the car moves forward and the other falls. He tries to grab the door handle on Brian's side. Melinda's co workers stand and watch. Brian rounds the corner and they're off out of a lot. Their celebrations are short lived. Brian Wilson screw each is the car to a halt because standing in the road in front of them as a man, a man soaked from the rain, smiling ear to ear.

Do you know that guy? Only? The cries. Brian nodds his head, he looks devastated. Yeah, he says, that's Dr Eugene Landy. The man in the road moves to the car, and as he does, Melinda listens to the rain on the window. Only moments ago, and it sounded like a victory song. Now it sounds like it's just blood on the Tracks. Blood on the Tracks 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 Lundy is lead editor and producer. This episode was written by Ben Burrow, mixing and sound designed by Colin Fleming. Additional music and score elements by Ryan Spraaker. This season

features Chris Anzaloni is 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 Graceland Talks, and you can talk to me per usual on Instagram and Twitter at disgrace Land, Pod, Rock and Roll, or dead