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 Roder Moss in here. I'm still cataloging all these Brian Wilson tapes. There's only a few left from the Smile sessions. Most of them I've already marked and archived. But today I came across a box called home Recordings, and some of these are pretty dark. To be honest, Brian is at home in these. I'm assuming this is after the breakdown of the Mile sessions.
They're recorded on a dictaphone, and he seems to be suffering quite badly. This can be a hard listen, so fair warning. Well let me see, uh here's the first one. REME heard it today. I heard everything I wanted it to be. But I never made it. I never I never made it. We never made it. So what am I supposed to do now? I should have never tried? Have you ever failed failed at the thing your best at?
Where do you go from there? Where are you left with empty dreams, half formed ideas, broken promises, unrealized potential? I understand now all of that potential doesn't mean anything until it's realized. If it's not realized, then it's just nothing at all. It doesn't even exist, no matter how good you thought it was. This is it now, This is all I have nothing, no album, no purpose. Oh wait, there is one one thing. There is all that blood on the tracks. Chapter four, Brian Wilson is in the
deep end. Mhm h. This is one oh five point four b R I A n F M. Where we're all just floating away into nothingness. You have a good day or not, it doesn't matter. All they really remember standing by the stage and looking out at the audience. It put shivers into my bones just to think about it. We were in Hawaii to play a gig to make up for our no show at the Monterey Pop Festival. We were also going to record for a live album.
You see, we needed something to put out after the mess of Smile and the bigger mess of what happened after. But life has this way of well, you can go from success to success to success, but then when failure hits, sometimes that's all you get. Where do you go from there? You just have to hope that you get out the other side and back into another run of success. But that doesn't always happen. I think I already told you
that I don't like performing live. It scares me. But I agreed to do a few shows with the band, playing the organ and singing. Of course, it had been a while since I performed with the boys, and so to calm my nerves, I I got high. I was fine, but halfway through the set, I looked down at my hands and they seems so big. They were actually vibrating. I watched them as I played I Get Around. It
was like they were moving all on their own. I never made it, and the song itself, what an awful performance. Carl was flat, Mike was flat, I was all over the place. I heard the crowd cheer, but they were cheering out of politeness. I looked down at the set list. God, there it was again. What am I supposed to do now? Fifteen letters to words and a ship ton of history in front of me in cold black ink were the words of California Girls. I heard the notes in my
head again. My mind raised to Pickwick Books in that day with Louis Epstein, that day of the melting books. How they looked waxy, How I couldn't breathe. I looked at the crowd and it all started again. Not books melting as time, but faces, all of them blending into one another, all glossy and fluid, half formed ideas. Al yelled to ask if I was okay. I nodded and smiled. Just thinking of that word sets me off. Now, even just smiling, does it. I looked down at the keys.
They were moving all around the organ. I was trying to catch them, like a game of Whack a Mole continues yet une point. Once at stop, my eyes dashed around the keys in front of me. The crowd got loud and louder. I thought I heard someone shout, you'll never hear surf music again. I spun around and scanned the faces. Did you hear that, I yelled to Carl. He looked confused. Before I knew it, Dennis was counting us in in California. Girls had started. We limped through it,
and I mean limped. I managed to get it together, but what I was hearing wasn't the Beach Boys. It was something else, something much worse. I kept thinking about Jimmy Hendricks at Monterey and what he said about surf music. I was getting angry, angry for having to play this show, angry for having to record this live album, because my masterpiece had fallen apart. When we finished the show, I came off stage and marched up to Al straight away. You were flat, flat as a pancake. I yelled at him,
I'm fucking high and I could tell broken promises. Dennis laughed at me, you were too, I croaked. My voice was starting to go unrealized potential. Dennis stormed out, pasted our manager Nick Carrillo, who had appeared in the doorway. I saw Nick and shouted, if that ever ever makes it out into the public, I will never make surf music again. I should have never tried. The show was never released. I thought I was mad at the sound that day. But actually I was mad at the state
of things. All of the potential doesn't mean anything. It wasn't just on stage where things were going wrong. On the way home. In the airport lounge, Dennis disappeared into the bathroom. I could tell he was up to something, I just didn't know what. A few minutes later, he returned with a water pistol. Hey Mike, he shouted. Mike had been in a pretty foul mood since the show, and he barely looked up. Let Alone replied, you look
a little hot, Mike. You want to cool down. Then Dennis shot Mike with the water pistol right across his face. I rolled my eyes and sat down, But as I did, I saw Mike's face change from annoyance to outrage. Is this piss? He shouted as he wiped his face clean. Dennis just smirked. You fucking shot piss at me. Mike jumped up from his seat and crashed into Dennis, knocking him to the floor. I got up, but Al pushed me back down. Carl tried to play referee, but they
were already into it, throwing punches. Mike sank his teeth into this his wrist. It was a fucking joke. Dennis was howling as he rubbed the bite mark. Then he managed to get Mike into a headlock, but Mike's fists were free. He took one look at Dennis's groin and I could tell what was about to happen. Pretty soon they were both rolling around on the floor in agony, whimpering like babies. What a mess, I thought to myself,
What a fucking mess. One oh five point four b R I A N F M. Be careful out there. There are reports of surprise storms, wind, rain, and thunder. When did I know Smile was over? There are a few different answers to that question, lots of individual moments. But it's not Smiled that I'm thinking about right now. It's something else, someone else. There's this man, No, he was just a kid, really a teenager, but a young
teenager named Jonathan Johnny to his friends and family. He's that in his bedroom, scribbling on a piece of paper. There's pictures all around him of Orville and Wilbur Wrights three flight. He thought that flight was the best twelve seconds in the history of the world. He was in awe of air travel, obsessed with it, driven by it, he drew plans and blueprints for his own plane, steam powered by plane with a spruce and can his body. He knew we could get it into the air given
the right circumstances. As the weeks went on, the project grew. He worked and worked on his plane, going from a blueprint to a model to the actual physical thing. He built a tent in the garden of his parents house and began the construction. Neighbors came by and paid him a nickel to peek behind the curtain with Johnny would proudly show them his design. He loved the attention. Finally, after a few weeks, he set a test flight date.
His brother's distributed handbills to promote the event. Excitement grew. Some called the kid a genius, a bright future, beckoned, but well, you know how life is. The morning of the test flight, Johnny stood in a large field opposite his house, with an impressive crowd at his back, his aviator goggles strapped around his head. He stared proudly at his creation and just a you moments, it would be in the air and he would be there with it. Johnny would be famous all over town. But there was
something distracting him a sound dinging. He didn't know where it was coming from at first, but he eventually found it. One of the ropes he used to secure the plane to the ground was knocking against the wing. It was knocking because the wind was picking up. Johnny felt it now, the rush of air tossing his hair to the left side of his face. He looked up at the sky, and moving quickly from the east was a huge gray cloud. Then a single raindrop fell on his cheek. This is
it now, He turned to address the assembled crowd. Not to worry, he began to say, but he was cut off by a sudden gust of wind. It pulled out one of the steaks that was holding a rope into the group. The rope whipped into the air and violently smacked against Johnny's plane. Another whoosh took hats off the heads of men standing in the audience. The crowd began to disperse. This wasn't meant to happen. Johnny had checked
the weather reports time and time again. It's fine, he shouted, over the increased winds, but the people were already moving. Failed the thing your best. Twenty minutes later, Johnny was inside his house staring out the window while God wreaked havoc on his creation. There, Tornado swirled into sight, picking up the plane, spun it around, and snapped it clean into broken promises. Johnny cried out. He ran to the front door, but his three brothers stopped him. It took
all of them to hold Johnny back. Johnny never built another plane, and it's just nothing at all. The next time he was in one was World War One, where the French trenches claimed his mind, like the minds of so many others. How do I know Johnny story because he was my well, our great uncle, a great uncle to Dennis, Carl and me. He's all I can think about is I drive down Hollywood Boulevard. It's I'm throwing pills down my throat. I pretend they're Eminem's. I even
chuckling up in the air. It hits the roof of the car, and as it comes back down, I moved my head to catch it in my mouth. I've forgotten about the steering wheel. The car throws itself violently to the right, but I grab it just in time and steer the thing straight. I watch a plane fly overhead. I shout, great job. Johnny at it. I'm so high that the road is a blur on either side. My vision is one long, fuzzy tunnel. I ignore it. I start thinking about the sessions from earlier in that day.
Maybe Smile will be okay after all, I tell myself, of course I'm lying, but I shout the affirmation out loud to make it seem more real. Maybe it'll be okay. I think about the overdub session for Heroes and Villains that we have coming up. That's the session, I tell myself. That's the one, the one where we get this album back on track. I'm excited. All of a sudden, I feel like a king, no a god. I turned the radio on after checking some more pills down my throat.
I flicked the dial, and the static burns my ears. As I go from station to station, Nothing, and I mean nothing sounded as good as good vibrations. Nothing, Brian, he might be is ten times that song? Really? Brian, isn't it a big, big edit? Do you want to lay up those pills? All of a sudden, I'm nervous. This bad feeling creeps in. I quickly turned the radio dial. I find k ear at one oh one, the legendary l A station. I'm safe again. I turn it up
as loud as possible. They're playing Aretha Franklin's Respect I listened right up until it ends, and then then today the next record comes on. Remember what I said about vibrations. How you know when something bad is going to happen? I know it then, right before I even hear it. At first, I think it's aliens interrupting the broadcast. The sound is different, strange, it's it's a melotron. I finally realize a mellotron beamed in from space. Then I hear
that voice, John Lennon's voice, no mistaking that. But the music around him, it's so clever, so advanced. Where do you go from there? The car starts to feel like a pressure cooker, like someone is sucking all the air out of it. I throw another pill into my mouth, but it sticks in my throat. The car swerves and I hit the curb. I slam on the brakes, and moments later I'm on the sidewalk Where do you Love? The song ends and the DJ comes on Strawberry Forever
from the Battles. My heart jumps. I gasped for air. I look up and I see the sign above the storefront, Pickwick Books. The notes from California Girls are in my head again, but they all sound so simple, so rudimentary, so boring. Louis Epstein comes running out of his shop and asks if I'm okay. They did it already. I tell him what I wanted to do with smile. They did it. It's too late, this is it? Who did it, Brian, Louis asked me. I don't have anything else to say,
so I just laugh. I laugh and laugh. Louis smiles and says that he's glad. I'm okay, but I'm not laughing because I'm okay. I'm laughing because nothing matters anymore. And you know what, it is quite funny. Really, we'll be right back after this. We were were. That was when I started to spend more and more time and here in my mind, you can get lost in a place like this lost. I can remember being in the water.
I never wanted to leave it underwater. It felt like I was away from at all, but you know, you always have to come up to the surface sooner or later. We used to meet in the pool. In the pool at my house, we held all our band meetings there in the deep end. Why because no one can bug you in the deep end. You're away from anyone who might want to hear your plans, people like Phil Specter or my dad. The day Smile ended was also the day something began the rest of my life. To tell
you the truth, I was glad it was over. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle on a wall instead of a tabletop. The whole thing had falling apart. With the sessions over, the pressure decreased, but I was left with the same old voices. My dad, what's the matter, buddy? Nope, guts too scared, defsion, you can't do it, can't hear food? I told you that so called masterpiece of yours was going nowhere. And some new ones failure. Yeah, I had
to wrestle with them more and more. Today we were supposed to meet and plan what would become the follow up to Pet Sounds, a record we were now calling Smiley Smile. It was also the very day that I first listened to the Beatles Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club band. I had a copy sent over from the UK before it even came out in the states. I remember looking at the sleeve in my living room, taking it all in while the memory of hearing Strawberry Fields Forever for
the first time rang in my ears. Across from me, just out of sight, was a large box with printed album covers for Smile. There was no music inside them, not even a record, just the artwork of that shop front that Frank Holmes, a friend of Van Dyke's, did for US. Capital Records printed a half a million of them. They sent a box over to my house too. I don't know inspire me. Maybe that was weeks ago, months even I can't remember. Time is pretty slow these days.
I could feel those covers in the room as I stared hard at the Beatles Masterpiece. I felt the box growing bigger and bigger, an invisible siren occupying the space in my mind, even though it was out of my eye line. It was overwhelming. I heard everything I wanted it to be. I felt like I was about to pass out. And then someone shouted, Brian, it was Carl. He was in the pool. Brian, or are you coming in? He asked. I walked past my grand piano, which was
installed in a huge sandbox. Okay, people thought that was madness, a piano and a sandbox, but it was just creativity. Sand actually man to get inside the piano. At some point, I just love the sound it made. People also thought having band meetings in the deep end of my pool was madness, but like I said, I had my reasons. Even the guys in the band thought it was nuts, but I had proof, proof that we were being tracked, spied on listen to. I jumped into the pool with
the rest of the band. They all looked gloom as their heads all bobbed above the water. I apologized about the rough stretch, but we could get past it. We were the beach Boys, after all, and we made great records, so let's make a record. We could even make it right there at my house. But I thought your home studio wasn't finished, Mike asked me, and then it came to me we didn't need a studio, who just used the house. The idea was met with silence. Look, I said,
this pool has a leak. We can drain it and use it as a reverb chamber. Dennis's eyes lit up the bathroom. He shouted, remember when we were playing in Japan and we recorded in the bathroom. Man the acoustics were perfect. We can do that here. Brian's got a bathroom the size of Malibu. Mike broke into a smile straight away. Thirty minutes later, we were in my bathroom, microphones everywhere today. The floor was soaked from the pool water,
since none of us dried off properly. I felt like we were back on track, that the creativity that originally drove the smile sessions was back, but this time the entire group was involved, and the pressure was off and everything I wanted it to be. We were having fun. I remember Mike laughing so much before a take. Then someone had the idea that it would sound better in the shower, so all five of us squeezed into my tiled shower and did another take. It turned out just great,
all of that potential. We finished, and I looked around at the boys faces. They all looked happy, content, even it had been years since I had seen them all like this. But later, after the boys left, I couldn't shake this feeling that lingered in my gut. I went back to the bathroom and stood there for almost an hour. I stared at the tiles and the lights and the faucets. I thought about the Beatles and Abbey Roads Studio and Phil Spector at gold Star, And here I was in
my bathroom, no album, no purpose. I always hope that Smile would rise from the ashes like a phoenix, rise up and knock Sergeant Pepper's off the top, and we'd regain our crown that we'd worn during good vibrations. My housekeeper Lucy knocked on the door, or interrupting my train of thought. She was carrying the large box of Smile album sleeves. I found these by the door. She said, do you need them? Yeah? I told her they're just trash,
throw them out. March two one, Elton John stands in the middle of the stage at Radio City Music Hall. His eyes are drawn to a ray of lights that spills through a door at the top of the hall. Almost as quickly as it appears, it's gone. In its place, a large shadow moves slowly through the auditorium. The band behind him begins to play the song again from the top, and Alton's attention turns to the task at hand. He has no piano to hide behind. He's just the singer
singing someone else's song. He pulls the microphone close. He currns into the mic, not like it's a rehearsal, which it is, but like it's the final show of his life. His eyes are closed. He thinks back to when he was a teenager sitting on the floor of his bedroom in Middlesex listening to these melodies. Then his mind flashes forward to the time he met one of his musical heroes in a huge purple house on Bellaggio Road in bel Air. There was cocaine on top of a piano.
The conversation was awkward. When he opens his eyes again, Elton is back on the Radio City stage and the song is over. I wrote that you know. Comes a voice from the side of the stage. Elton looks over to see Brian Wilson, dressed in a sky blue Ralph Lawrence shirt. Still sounds great, Elton replies, who walks over to give Brian a hug, and as he does, he can sense that the man of the hour is a
little unsure, possibly even frightened. You okay, Elton? Nast sure, sure, Brian says, as he looks over a sheet of names due to perform that night, Billy Joel, Paul Simon, David Crosby, Vince gill All singing Brian's songs and all star tribute show. You know George Martin is coming to Elton says. Brian's mind begins to play Strawberry Fields Forever, as it always
does when he hears that name mentioned. He thinks of the Sergeant Pepper's album and the Empty Smile album sleeves, of the shower of vocal sessions at his house, and how when it was finally released, Smiley Smile piqued at a disastrous number forty one on the Billboard charts. Elton brings Brian back to reality quickly. Brian, are you sure you're okay? Brian looks up in mumbles, I'm just a
bit nervous. Six hours later, Brian Wilson is looking into the same set of eyes, except this time there's another six thousand sets looking at them too. Brian sits at the side of the stage and the wings, watching Elton John perform. God only knows. Brian is in awe of Elton's talent, just as he has been in awe at all the other performers from that night. Elton finishes, takes about because it's the stage, and hugs Brian. Wants again you're still so tense, Elton shouts about the dinner of
the crowd. No, just a little nervous, Brian says. The audience's applause seems like it will never end. Brian watches as Sir George Martin walks onto the stage from the other side. He approaches the microphone, takes it from the stand, and paces back and forth as he waits for the audience to settle down. And when they finally do, he begins to speak in that chilly, upper class English accent. I know you've all come here tonight for one man, but I'm here to tell you. Brian's heart begins to race.
He's getting a vibration. He knows something awful is about to happen, but he can't stop looking at it. I'm here to tell you that Brian Wilson is a fraud. George Martin shouts, his words echo throughout Radio City Music Hall. Brian waits for the booze. Surely the audience that had shown him so much love wasn't going to stand for this. He waits and waits. Here they call me things, but no, it's something else. You can hear. The audience is cheering.
People are clapping. They begin to rise out of their seats. Someone shouts out that George Martin is a hero. Someone else, ye else Finally, and Brian turns to his right and Billy Joel is right there, clapping and nodding his head wildly. Brian's head spins. The applause is thunderous. He feels like he's about to pass out, Brian. Brian is still so tense. When Brian looks to his right and Elton John is still standing there, and Brian apologizes. He must have drifted
away for a moment. He's just so so nervous. He watches as Sir George Martin walks onto the stage from the other side. He's impeccably dressed. He is respectful in tone and confident in his delivery. Brian Wilson made music speak with a greater authority than any classical music from that period. Martin says, if Mozart was alive at that time, he would have done what Brian did. Brian's heart begins to beat faster. I fully believe Martin continues without pet sounds,
Sergeant Peppers wouldn't have happened. Brian's breathing is heavy now, his heart rattles in his chest. His feels like it's going to burst with joy. As George Martin says his next words, I have no doubt about that. His eyes are fixed on the legendary producers standing on stage, and the edges of his vision start to blur as his eyes fill with tears. Elton feels the man in his embrace lower his shoulders and tilt his head up, and
for the first time that day, he is relaxed. And before they know it, and they're both watching Good Vibrations performed by an all star band. As George Martin, having left the stage, appears to Brian's right to complete a legendary trio, Martin whispers into Brian's ear, you know these Smile songs, they still sound great. It would be great to hear the whole thing live. Brian watches the crowd sing along the Good Vibrations bombastic chorus. Now, now there
was an idea. Suddenly he feels ready to reconnect with his failed he had unforgotten masterpiece, even if he knows it won't be easy, even if he knows will require a lot of Blood on the Tracks. 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 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 senz Alone is the voice of Brian Wilson. Sources for this episode are available at double Elvis dot com on the Blood in the Tracks series page, follow Double Elvis on Instagram at double Elvis and on Twitch at s Grace Slant Talks, and you can talk to me per Usual on Instagram and Twitter at Disgrace land Pond, Rock and Roll, or Dead