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. I can't believe there's only a couple more of these Brian Wilson tapes. Oh hello, by the way, Rhonda Moss in here again. Like I was saying, we're right at the end of these tapes. Now I just found one that has Smiled two thousand four written on it. But maybe that's for next time. First, there's one that seems to be the final tape from Brian's home recordings. Let's have a listen to this one. Every
record I make comes with pressure. There's that expectation. How can you win if you only compete with yourself? Either way you lose. I sit in my room a lot these days. Dr Landy controls most things, but here late at night, I have some autonomy. I'm free for only a few hours. The silence is my companion, the darkness my only bedfellow. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I actually completely smile. What I'd be doing now? Would I be happy? Would I hear these voices? Who knows?
It's the what if us that are hard to shake when I'm in here. Someone once told me that you shouldn't be asking what if. You should be asking what's next. But that's hard to do when all you've gotten. Rear views, Blood on the Tracks, Chapter nine, Brian Wilson's Free. I think of him when I see the tide going out, when it's moving. That's when I see him, handsome, assured, happy. It's strange you can go your whole life with a
relationship to something and that can change almost overnight. Before he died, I would look at the ocean and feel nothing, no emotional connection, no jolt in my gut. But now all I see is his face. All I hear is his voice, and all I say is his name. Dennis recently I've been thinking about the album Dennis made. It's called Pacific Ocean Blue. I loved what he was doing on that album. My favorite song that he ever made was on that one You and I ever heard that.
It's just beautiful. He was a great songwriter, a heartbreaker too. The girls loved him. Dennis was the only beach boy who knew how to serve. People always find that funny when I tell them that, but it's true. Dennis died when I was still under the glare of Dr Landy and his people. It was too much to take. The silence is my companion. We've been through so many tough times,
even before the band, The Darkness my only bedfellow. When you get beat up as a kid by your dad, it turns you into something, not always the same thing. It turned me into one thing, Carl into another, and Dennis into something different. But it did change us. How could it not. When Dennis died, he'd been in and out of hospitals for drinking. He didn't want to stop drinking, or maybe he wanted to but couldn't. I don't know. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like either way.
It caught up with him in the end. He would drink bottle after bottle of vodka, and he got into coke too. He walked right into that Fleetwood Mac twister of cocaine that was whirring around for a while and never came out of it. He got pretty caught up with Christine McVeigh during that time, and she even wrote that song about him. What's it called? Hold Me? That's it. I still can't listen to that song, not anymore. It's funny. Dennis was such a ladies man, and being a ladies
man would kill him. Not in a literal sense, but it would kill him. It all started one day when he was on his boat, The Harmony. Dennis had just split from Karen, a woman he twice called his wife, and he was drinking, of course he was. He went down to the cabin and saw a silver picture frame that held their wedding picture. Dennis took a swig from his vodka bottle. Then he took the picture above deck and threw it as far as he could into the
Pacific Ocean. I have some autonomy. He ran back down to the cabin and gathered everything that reminded him of Karen and threw them into the sea. Necklaces, sweaters, more photos. All of it went overboard free. Dennis fell asleep on the boat that night. He slept the best he had slept in months. I'm sure it was a cathartic moment, but it was the beginning of the end. Three years later, it's Christmas. He was still drinking. In fact, someone saw
him drinking with a load of homeless guys downtown. Expectation. Dennis was a millionaire, but there he was, down on skid row. He'd been in and out of rehab too, the darkness, but now around Christmas, he was hanging out with his buddy Bill Oaster on his boat, partying with friends. Dennis had five bottles of vodka that day, along with who knows what else. I don't know why, but he was diving in the water almost constantly. Again and again he'd go in. Then at one point he surfaced with
something in his hands. He started shouting at everyone on the boat. I can't fucking believe it, he yelled. He pulled himself on to the deck and showed everyone when he'd found that silver frame with his wedding photo, the same one he tossed into the ocean. He couldn't believe it. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like. He must have known it was down there, He must have been looking for it, hoping to find it. I don't know if he had missed Karen or what. Maybe he'd missed
his old life, his old love. The two of them had a crazy relationship. But sometimes the past is a safe place. If it's already happened, you don't have to worry about it. Right would I be happy? I can see at safety in the past. Maybe that's what Dennis was looking for. Maybe he was trying to dive back into his past. Who after he found the wedding picture, he downed some more vodka, dove back in. Who knew what else he'd find down there? That are hard to shade.
I remember the way Bill Oster described to me what happened next. It stayed with me, and it'll stay in here forever. I have no doubt about that. He said. He saw Dennis come up towards the surface, probably with about two ft to go before at the top, but then he dove back down, swam around behind the boat, out of Bill's view. He thought Dennis was playing a game, But by the time he finished his cigarette and walked around to the other side of the boat. All he
saw was air bubbles, the silence. He was already gone. The silence is my companion. They found his body half an hour later. That's life. I guess if you're not careful, your present can be destroyed by your past. I missed him every day. At first I could barely carry on, but the band. The band did carry on without Dennis and for a while without me. I guess it was inevitable that I'd make a solo record. I mean that sounds came together like solo record, and that it was
me writing and producing it. My first proper solo LP, however, came out on Sire Records. It's self titled Looking Back. I do like that record, even if I don't like the circumstances of making it. Every record I made it comes with pressure. It was a funny album. I suppose. Some songs were made from bits I had laying around. One came from an old baseline I had hung on
too for years. You know, there are days when you go in the drawer and it all looks like a junk, And then there are other days when you find the exact right thing you need. Expectation. That's what songwriting is like sometimes. The song Love and Mercy came from that time, and it stayed with me ever since. It's become a mantra. I guess at that time in my life, Dr Landy was still keeping me from health, love and happiness. Dr Landing controls most things, and I needed Love and Mercy
so badly. I wrote it in forty five minutes, kind of buzzed just sitting at the piano thinking of that bird back Iraq and Hal David's song What the World Needs Now is love. I don't know if I took musical cues from it or message cues, but I wanted to write a song about what the world needed, what my world needed. We made that album all over New York, Boston, l A. I was getting on a plane to go to Boston and I bumped into Van Dyke Parks at
the airport. Where are you off to? I asked, It looked at me strangely, I'm coming back, he said, there's something I'm working on. I'm recording something. I don't know why, but I could tell something was up, something was wrong. Who knows. It's stuck with me on the entire flight It was all I thought about. What was he doing working on something new? You shouldn't be asking what if? My mind veered from saying I didn't give a fuck to crippling loneliness. I missed. My old friend Dr Landy
sat next to me for the whole flight. Of course, he was listed as the producer for that solo debut album. He wrote lyrics that I would have to put into songs. He even wrote songs too. One was called Love Attack. It was not good. When we landed, Landy held my hand as we walked through the airport like I was his child. I was fully ready to start recording, but it turns out I would have to wait. I didn't realize it that day, but it kind of perfectly summed up what was going on at that point with my
life and career. You see, while I'm in the air over here going to Boston, you have the Beach Boys over here recording in LA. They were late and telling me that they were recording at all right before they had the session booked. It's too late for me to attend, not that I would have anyway, because I have my solo record to worry about, and I do mean worry In l A, the boys sit in the control booth the two microphones set up in the studio in Boston.
Dr Landy can see him feeling anxious, so he tells me to whisper I love you to myself three times as we walked through the airport. He used to make me do that a lot. In l A, the Boys and their producer Terry Melcher sitting around listening to an instrumental cut of the song Kokomo. Everyone is smiling. Mike collapse his hands together and says, okay, I think we're ready at the airport. It feels like we've been walking
for miles, but then we finally see it. There's a man dressed smartly and he holds up a sign that reads Mr Eugene lay me in the studio. The boys all waved through the glass to a man who has just walked into the studio. It's Van Dyke Parks. He smiles back at the boys and takes his place in front of the microphone. As we exit the terminal building, Dr Landy suddenly explodes what the fund is that he screams. At first, I think it's me he's addressing, but then I see what he's looking at in l A, Mike
Love chats to Van Dyke, who lightly fingers his accordion. Okay, when you're ready, take it away, he says. The big red light goes on. In Boston. Dr Landy is standing looking at a Lincoln town Car. He's furious this isn't the stretch limo he requested. The driver tells us it's what the record company sent over. Landy doesn't care. He kicks the door in a rage, shouting that this is no way to travel when you're a genius. I think he means me, but he could be talking about himself,
just shouting in l A too. But it's Mike Love shouting great job to Van Dyke, who has just laid down his accordion part for the song Kokomo. Everyone in the booth is clapping as he comes into the room. In Boston, Dr Landy sarcastically claps as the driver tells him this is the only available car. He looks at it calls it a piece of ship. I look at my watch and sigh. In l A. They listen to the playback and al Jardine turns to Van Dyke and smiles. One take, he says, they all laugh. They know they've
just cut a hit in Boston. It's a hit of another kind. I'm worried about. Dr Landy is angrier than ever. He turns to me and says, are you going to take this, Brian? Tell the man what kind of car you want to travel in? Tell the man which car a rock star travels in. I'm fed up, tired of all this ship, tired of the conflict, constant battles, the battles with Dr Landy, the voices in my head, the band, everyone.
I just want to be free, to be with Melinda, to make music, but that all seems so far away. I'm here to record an album, but we're worrying about a fucking car. I look at him helplessly. I don't know. I say, a Cadillac Melinda is all I can think about. Dr Landy's eyes flicker. Forget it, he moans, and he violently throws open the car door. We got to the studio two hours late. I don't remember what we recorded that day, but it wasn't anything memorable. Dr Landy was
in the studio the whole time. It was frustrating. In fact, the engineers used to make up things to get him out of the room so we could actually work in l A. The Beach Boy has cut their first number one single in nearly twenty years. That day, I thought my solo album would get you back to where I wanted to be. But it didn't. That album didn't do it, but there was an album that would. And it all started one Christmas. We'll be right back after this we
were once again. It's a very merry Christmas from all of us here at one oh five point four b R I A n f M. Happy holidays everyone. I don't know about you, but the one thing I want for Christmas is a little dr Lindy left the scene by the time my solo career kicked into gear. I can't lie and say I didn't miss him, because I did. Someone told me it was Stockholm syndrome, which I disagreed with.
That's too simplistic. He did some terrible things, but he helped me too, and I did miss him after he went. After he was forced to go. After that debut album, I made a few more records. I finished a record called Imagination, which I could talk about all day, but I don't want to open that door today. Every album I made, Smile was in there somewhere, lurking in the background. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I actually completely smile. I heard it as I moved the
faders on a mixing desk. I saw it in every artwork pressing. I felt it in a glaring reflection of every CD. It wasn't always overt, sometimes it was just there. I could just sense it, like a low level hum. How can you win if you only compete with yourself? Have you over sat in silence and listened and heard that slight ringing, that sound of silence that's always there. Once you hear it, you can't help but notice it. It can be overrun by other sounds and voices, but
it's always there underneath it all. That's what smile was like. Some days I opened up a door in my mind thinking back to my childhood and hawthorn, and all of a sudden, smile would creep into my consciousness, even if it wasn't connected. Would I be happy? Other Times I'd be thinking of something mundane, like what I should have on my sandwich for lunch, and all of a sudden I'd hear a smile melody of flashback to a session in my mind for no reason would I hear these voices.
I tried to ignore these feelings or images, but there came a time where they would spill out into the world. I'd find myself humming our prayer while I walked around the house, or if I was fiddling around with a keyboard, I had all of a sudden find I'd programmed it to sound like the Good Vibrations organ. By the time Imagination came out, I was much more settled as a person. Dr Landy had stopped me from seeing Melinda, but since he was long gone, we reconnected and ended up getting married.
With these apparitions of smile becoming more common, I thought I was going backwards again, starting to slip and slide back to the old days. It got really bad. One Christmas. I started to go back further. I kept thinking about being on that plane all those years ago, about having that breakdown. I couldn't bear to do that again, not for me, not from Melinda. It filled me with such dread. I was scared, scared about the future all over again.
It felt like everything was falling apart again. I knew something was going to happen. One night, we were heading to a Christmas party that my keyboard is Scott Bennett's house. I didn't want to go. My head was spinning. All those old voices were flying around. A Christmas gift for you, Brian. In the car on the way over, Welinda turned the radio on, and White Christmas by Darlene Love came on from that Phil Specter Christmas record. I quickly flicked the
switch off. What's gotten into you? She asked, worried you haven't gotten me the right present. She laughed, but I could tell she was worried. She had been worried for a few weeks. I just slumped against the passenger window, my head against the cold glass. I just don't like that song, I said, at least I think I did. I may have just said it in my head. I don't know. Sometimes I wonder. When we arrived at Scott's house, it was hot. There was a sea of bodies inside, laughing, drinking,
telling stories. It's not my favorite situation to be in these days, but Melinda she thrives in situations like that. I watched her glide around the room, throwing witty lines at some people, these little waves across the room at others. The silence is my companion. She's almost a professional at it. We all ended up in Scott's large living room. The lights seemed so brightened there the darkness my only bedfellow. The drinks have been flowing for some time at this point,
so the chatter was louder than usual. I remember someone saying it's time for a song, and so we all huddled around Scott's baby grand He took us through Winter Wonderland and Oh Tann and Bomb and when they played White Christmas, we Linda squeezed my hand. Phil Spector's face flashed across my mind. Every everyone clapped as I started to think about leaving, and then Scott looked directly at me and said, do you want to play us something? Brian?
I froze. The partygoers seemed to all speak as one. Yeah, someone shouting come on, Brian said another. I shook my head expectation, Brian, Brian. They all began to chant. Well. Linda looked at me. She knew I was anxious. She began to tell the crowd that I just wasn't in the mood for that. But suddenly I jumped in. I don't know why, but I felt something, a freedom, a sense that I could do what I wanted. Why not? I felt safe here in this room with Scott and Melinda.
I felt like there was no judgment. I could play something. I yelled, half excited, half nervous. It seemed to take an age to get to the piano with all those eyes to me, I didn't know what to play. I closed my eyes and everything seemed to melt away. My hand felt like it was being moved by someone else, by something else. I hit an E flat, and then a G and then a B flat. I didn't know what I was doing at first, and then I recognized it.
There was my song, Heroes and Villains. My stomach lurched forward as my mind flashed back to Van Dyke turning up at my house all those years ago, with that policeman, the schoolboy smile, the angry face of the officer. Then I thought about how we sat and wrote the lyrics for that song around my pool that night. I felt a wave of fear creep over me as I remembered how the single flopped faces of the people at the record company, Mike Love's bitter look and Carl's arm around
my shoulder. How can you win if you only compete with yourself. I started to panic, so I opened my eyes. I was back in the room at Scott's house. The people at the party were all looking at me, grinning. I realized then that it didn't matter. That song didn't control me, that album didn't control me. I controlled me. I drew in a breath and sang the opening line to the song. I was worried that no one would sing along, but everyone joined in and we sang it
from start to finish. But Linda hugged me afterwards and whispered in my ear, why did you play that? I told her I didn't know. It just came to me. When we got home later that night, Melinda went to bed, but I went to sit at the piano. I played Heroes and Villains all the way through again. After I finished, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I smiled. Roy Simmons sits in his office at the
Martin Cadillac dealership in Los Angeles. He polishes his black dress shoes as he does every morning, even though it isn't company policy, it's routine left over from Roy's military days. He doesn't serve anymore, but he treats his job as a car salesman, just as seriously as he did his time in the military. Suddenly there's a flash from out of the main showroom of the dealership. But is it
that keeps catching his eye? He thought he was imagining it earlier, but he definitely saw something this time, not the morning sun, something else, a car's headlights. He jumps up from his chair and walks over to the window of his office. Sickis hum of you at the whole showroom. Sure enough, the latest model, a Seville and sky Blue is sitting in the middle of the showroom with the slights going on and off. He walks back to his
desk to sit down, but quickly changes his mind. He grabs the Seville's master key and walks out to the showroom. Moments later, he's opening the cars door. As he does, his blood runs cold. Five minutes earlier, Melinda Leadbetter brushes her hair carefully while gazing into the passenger side mirror of that same Seville. Today is a big day. A new car means a new selling point. It's not just a car, it's a car that other people don't have yet.
Melinda likes to give her clients the feeling that they're getting something that your average Joe isn't getting. She doesn't sell new cars. She sells a key to a v I P Room, a headstar, a moment of exclusivity. At least that's what she tells him. In reality, every Cadillac dealership on the West Coast test the new Sevilles, not that she would ever say that these Sevilles, well, these are fresh off the line, sitting in the showroom a day or two before they're available anywhere else. The sky
blue Seville she stands next to is spotless. It glows in the l a morning sunshine. She climbs inside the passenger seat and closes the door and sits for a moment in silence. She always thinks about Brian Wilson every time she sits in a car in the showroom, That time they sat in a car together on a day that wasn't that long ago. She replays their first meeting in her head. Then she checks the clock on the dash nine oh four am. Suddenly the back door of
the car opens. Melinda assumes it's her co worker Roy coming to take a look at the new model with her, but she's wrong. She sees the man in the rear view mirror, just as he pulls his forearm across her throat, and she knows exactly who this is. His name is Dr Eugene Landy. I got your letter, he spits into her ear as he tightens his grip. He throws the
letter under the seat next to her. She sees Carl Wilson's name at the bottom of it, along with phrases like unfit for practice, bullying in harassment in California law. She smiles, despite the fact that she's trying to grasp for air, knowing that the man she loves is almost free, even if she isn't. They're taking my fucking license away, he says, his arm getting even tighter. You think you've won, do you? You're gonna bleed him dry too, Are you
fucking slut? You're a fucking sales girl. He's a genius. You're not meant to be part of his world. My world, His words stuttered with a broken cadence that is lost to his. Sheer anger up here, a white hot rage she's never seen before, and that's when it hits her. He could kill her. He could kill her right now, right here in the Seville. He never really scared her
like this before, but now she can feel it. She panics as she remembers the accusation of sexual misconduct that, along with Brian's brother Carl, she brought to the attention of the authorities. Her heart pumps faster and faster as Landy continues, Well, Melinda, he says, I'm gonna fight you so fucking hard. By the end, will be more messed up than that fucking whack job used to call a boyfriend. Her oxygen reserves are low now she can feel it.
Her head begins to ache as the blood drains from her face, her eyes drooped as Landy's words start to fade. Then the edges of her vision begin to go white and distort it. She tries to kick and hit with her hands and legs, but it's no use. He's in the perfect position in the back seat. She can't get
anywhere near him. And then she has the idea. She pulls her knee up and flicks the lights of the car on, then off, on, and then off again, and the headlights light up the show room and the giant doors ahead, doors that she and Brian Wilson had driven through on that rainy l a day on off, on off, and then her body goes limp and Landy stops. Fuck may have gone too far. He thinks he's about to pull his arms away when he hears the car unlock and first to front and then the back door is open.
A man grabs his arms and removes them from Melinda's neck. Landy is pulled from the car and toss like a paper cup onto the hard show floor. He crashes against the polished surface and lies there for a second, not moving. He's relieved when he hears Melinda gasping for air and talking to the man in front of him. His relief disappears as the man turns around and walks towards the former doctor slowly. Landy closes his eyes as Roy Simmons draws his foot back and places that military grade polished
shoe right into Landy's stomach. Roy knows from his previous life that's the place where the bruises show the least, and he does it again and again, and then a final time, and Landy hears the contents of his stomach slash around amongst the pain. He knows it's the sound of come up. It's it's the sound of ut 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 Burro, mixing and 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 grayson and Talks, and you can talk to me per Usual on Instagram and Twitter at Disgrace Land Pond, Rock and Roll, d Graves our dand