Brian Wilson Is Sailing On (The Brian Wilson Story, Chapter 7)

just hear music, he heard voices. He tried to lose those voices by making a teenage symphony to God called smile, but somewhere along the way Brian Wilson lost his mind instead. This is his story. Okay, here we go again. It's Rhonda Masson, still working my way through the Sea of Brian Wilson's home tapes. When I first started this task, I assumed there would only be a few tapes from Brian at home, but he recorded so much during that time. Like I said before, these can get a little bleak

at times. Brian doesn't make too much sense. There seems to be a lot of drugs consumed around the recording of some of these. There's one in particular I've been listening to recently which seems to be a demo for the song sale on sailor. Have a listen. Hi, Van Dyke, I hope everyone at Warner Brothers likes this demo for sale on sailor. Sorry it's so late. You know, this took me a while and I know it's not finished. We can work on that when we meet up. You know,

I have been feeling like myself recently. To be honest, I haven't been doing so greavy. I feel like the band is slipping away from me. I feel like I'm slipping away from myself. I used to be so confident, so confident in the studio, but those days are gone. I don't know if that will ever come back. I pray, I pray, I pray it does. Sorry, I'm rambling. Forgive me. I hope you like the demo. I hope it's good enough. I hope it's not just more blood on the tracks.

Chapter Seven. Brian Wilson is sailing on. H here's your time report on B R I. A N F M. Look a little choppy out there. It's a little breezy in the air. The Ocean is unsettled with reports of thunderstorms. But do sail on. I'm back in here. I'm always in here. I've been in my head for years here, along with all those other voices. The most time I spent in here was in the early nineteen seventies my dad.

My Dad, died in seventy three. He had been in the hospital and he seemed serious about changing his life and living healthy. I even thought he might change as a person. I thought perhaps our relationship would change, perhaps we could repair what had been broken. He was terrible to me, but I was bad to him in return. You know. You know I haven't been feeling like myself recently. I thought that time might bring us closer, but time, well,

time has a habit of making fools of men. Soon after he left the hospital, he suffered a sudden massive heart attack June four. I'll always remember that day. My mom was with him at the time and managed to call an ambulance, but it was already too late. I couldn't bear the funeral. Dennis stayed home too. He played the piano, apparently. I went to New York with my wife, Marilyn, who was promoting an album she'd made with her group spring.

We'd gone to a radio station in New York called W N E WFM, and Pete Fomatale, one of their djs, who had always been supportive of the beach boys. He was working there Maryland was being interviewed in the next room, so I went to see Pete in his studio. I've always loved radio, the excitement of it. It's always live. I've always going on and on. It reminds me of my brain. It never stops broadcasting. There's never any dead air. Sorry, I'm rambling. That day I was a little out of sorts.

The News of my dad had I don't know, it was all that was on my mind. It was all that I could think about. To be honest, I haven't been doing so gravy. I walked into the studio and Pete ran up to me with his headphone still around his neck, still plugged into the desk, that long cord snaking around the room. What are you doing here, Brian, he asked. My mind went blank. I didn't know who

I really was for a second. It was like I was standing inside someone else, like the person I was was a stranger to me, like I'm sleeping away from my cell. I honestly couldn't remember. I said something like I'm I'm here for the Ed Sullivan Show. He looked at me strangely. Brian, he said, but that show has been canceled for two years. I laughed, but Pete just stood there. He looks so sad. I felt like I

had vertigo. I honestly felt like in the space of minutes, I had forgotten who I was or what I was doing there. It was the strangest feeling. I burst out of the room and I threw up in the bathroom. I remember looking at myself in the mirror afterwards and I don't know, the person standing in front of me looks so different from the person I was in my mind. I haven't been feeling like myself. As I stared at myself, I heard the radio station start to play a song

I recognized. Slowly I realized it was a beach boys song, a song called sale on sailor. Even though we'd only recorded it six months before, it felt like a decade or more had passed since we were in the studio with it. I used to be so confident, so confident in the studio. It was a song got me back with Van Dyke Parks. I think everyone thought we'd conceive a new smile, but it didn't quite work like that. Van Dyke came over to my house and asked if

we could write something together. The record company, which he now worked for, by the way, wanted me on the new beach boys album. They were getting ready. I was lying in bed with the TV just playing static. Van Dyke was next to me. I want you to sit down at the piano and I want you to write a song for me, he said. Lyrics, melody, everything. I want you to do it right on the spot. This took me a while. He smiled. I was kind of happy that someone wanted me to do something like that,

but I couldn't sum up the motivation. I do anything for you, man, but would you do something for me? I asked him. I'd do anything for you, Brian, he replied. I started to get very emotional. I could feel my throat clothes up in my eyes start to water. You got to convince me, Van Dyke, I said. Convince me that I'm not insane. Please hypnotize me into thinking that I'm not insane. I haven't been feeling like myself recently. I was being serious, but he didn't understand. He told

me to cut the ship. Forgive me. We wrote it of course. We spent a couple of days getting it right and then I demoed the thing and it made it onto the album. As I listened to it while standing in the toilets at W N E WFM, looking into the mirror, I struggled to process the song. Who wrote it? Who Sang it? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Suddenly Marilyn banged on the door and asked if I was okay. Sure, I shouted back. I washed my hands and wiped my mouth. When I came out,

Pete was standing with her. He pointed to the speaker that was still blasting out sail on sailor and said good song. Se I was just thinking that. I told him WHO's it? Bye. He laughed, but I didn't get the joke. Good Morning, Sunshine, B R I A N F bounty. It's another sunny day here in Bam Bruggie and it will stay that way. So sail on sailor, sale on sailor. They got me to do that for the money. It's always about the money. Capital spent so much money a new beach boys album called Holland, around

a quarter of a million dollars. That's a lot of money now, but back then it was a fortune. I hope it's good enough. The record company needed a return on their investments, so they wanted to hit single. Hit singles helped sell albums, and that's why they sent Van Dyke over. They wanted me to rustle up a little good vibrations or a fun, fun, fun like. I had those sort of songs ready to go like a TV dinner ready in three minutes. Sale on sailors. It's not a song I care for. I mean, how can it be?

became not from a place of creativity but from a place of business. Gone recording the album wasn't much better. We were due to cut it in that's right, in Holland. We went to a place called Bam Brugie. I wasn't all that interested in recording. I thought I might be, but it was just like being in L A. I couldn't get into the right head space for it. I was just lost, like the band is slipping away from me. I used to just sit all day in this villa

we rented, just sit and look at the countryside. I found it calming but also sort of numbing, just staring at this landscape which didn't change felt like it was protective, like nothing happened, therefore nothing could hurt me. It was good for me, but it also made me not want to do anything. I was taking a lot of drugs. There too. I'd wake up and Snore the line and just sit there as it fizzed in my nostrils. I

repeated that hour after hour, with different drugs. One day I felt that I needed to snap out of it. Maybe I'll go to the studio, I thought. Studio, but I opted to drive around the countryside I'd spent days staring at. I took a huge bag of coke with me, at it safely into the inside pocket of my jacket and patted it like it was my child. I haven't been feeling like myself. I jumped into the huge Mercedes I rented and sat in the driver's seat ready to go,

but something was missing. A little bump. I thought that was it. I pulled out the bag of coke from my jacket, wrapped up a line on the Dash. Up it went. The fizzing was back. I started the engine and through the car into gear. But wait, another little line might be in order. So that's what I did. The next thing I remember is cutting through the Dutch countryside. There were beautiful trees and flowers everywhere. It was hot, but not too hot, not like L A. I pushed

down on the accelerator hard. The car felt so powerful. Pounded the pavement. The steering wheel felt sturdy. I felt a control for the first time. I used to be so confident. I flicked the radio on and those familiar notes sang back at me. Be My baby. I couldn't believe it. I was halfway around the world and this song was still there, soundtracking my every moment. I turned it up as loud as possible and sang along from

start to finish. As the final note rang out and DJ started talking, before I knew it, the voice had morphed from Dutch to English right then and there. I looked down at the radio. I couldn't understand what was going on, and then I heard it, the voice of Phil Specter. Sail on, sailor, but the hell is that? Let me remind you, you never reach the highs of me, my baby, and you never will. I slammed on the car's brakes and skidded to the side of the road.

I was trying to catch my breath. The DJ was back to speaking in Dutch, introducing some Song I've never heard before. I pulled out the bag of coke, my hands trembling, I racked up another line, spilling a load of it all over the seats. I'm slipping away. I turned the radio off and slammed the car into gear. The coke kicked in and I was feeling much better. Fuck you, I shouted to the Voice of Phil Specter.

As I sang be my baby to myself again, I watched the spiedometer go up and up as I got closer to the chorus, and then the dial shivered a little as the song launched into its Hook. I felt so alive, so present, like I finally found the old me again. took me a while. I licked my finger and then felt for the bag of coke in my pocket. I stuck my finger inside and pulled out the tip, covered in the powder, and rammed it into my gums. Be My baby, I shouted, throwing both of my hands

into the air. As I did, I noticed the bend in the road up ahead. I grabbed a steering wheel, but it was too late. I went off the road, kicking up dirt on the side of the car and suddenly there were bushes and a tree came out of nowhere and the car went right into it. The tree branch smashed through the window and stabbed the passenger seat. I heard the dull thud of the bumper as it slammed into the trunk of the tree, and then it all went black. I'm dead, I thought. Fuck, I'm dead. No, no,

I'm alive, but I must be injured, surely. I tried to move my legs and I found I could. Then my arms all fine, then my neck still fine. I pushed open the car door with all my might and stumbled out through the bushes into a field. I staggered forward, but then it hit me, the fear, the dread. I felt all around in my pocket for the coke, but it wasn't there. I don't know if that will ever come back. I sprinted back to the car. My arm

caught some broken glass. Smoke coming from the car was thick now I felt around for the bag under the passenger seat. Man, I was crying, forgive me. I was devastated. It wasn't anywhere, and then I found it wedged under the passenger seat. I rammed my hand under and grabbed it, my knuckles painfully grinding against the underside of the seat, but I didn't care. All that mattered was that bag. I pulled it out and managed to get out of

the car again. When I was back in the field, I fell to my knees hugging the bag as behind me the car burst into flames. Nothing mattered apart from me and this bag. We'll be right back after this, we were. I still remember my daily routine from around that time. It's funny what sticks around in here, both good and bad. I remember a lot of late nights. I stayed up, but I did absolutely nothing. It's not finished.

I couldn't tell you what I've been up to. I just said at home in L A, just kind of wasting away my days would start around eleven am, walk down the back staircase in my house and into the den, sit in my bright red chair and pick at the upholstery with the TV on in front of me. I waited a while and then I heard the ring and the click of the mailbox outside twelve fourteen. Every single day, every single day, it was the service I paid for. It was expensive, but you pay for quality, you know,

even when it comes to logistics. I requested a twelve fifteen drop off every day, but they always came a minute early. I never knew why. Trying to please the customer, I guess. The person that used my mailbox every day. I never knew his name, but it was always the same guy. Not a postman, but a ringer. That's what they called them anyway. They delivered drugs, whatever you wanted, right to your door. Coke, ephetamines, even heroin. I had

them all delivered. You could get them daily if you wanted, and I did. They called them ringers because they would travel on bikes. When the drop was done, they ring their bicycle bells as they cycled off. There was one day when I was sitting in my red chair, staring off into space and my eyes darted to our clock on the wall. I watched the second hand tick by tick, tick tick. I watched the second hand clicked jaggedly around the clock face and then the minute hand brought us

to twelve fourteen. Me To my precious treasure. Tick tick tick. Wait for it, I thought, here comes the bell any second, but there was nothing. I don't know if that will ever come back. The clock seemed to get louder and louder in the absence of the ringer's bell. Just a little late, I thought. As I picked up the chair. It bit my teeth together ground them to a rhythm. I was flicking my foot quickly back and forth as I watched the second hand of the clock come background again.

Where the FUNK was he? I pray, I pray, this had never happened before. The clock's minute hand swept to twelve and it sounded like a crash of thunder. I pulled myself out of the chair and made my way quickly to the front door. I was about to throw it open and anger ready to unleash hell, but I stopped. I stood silently upstairs. I heard something. No one else was in the house apart from me. I was sure that I heard someone walking around quietly, but they were

definitely moving around. But then I heard voices. I froze. I feel like I'm sleeping away from my cell I started to hear my heart beat pounding in my ear. At first I thought it was the ringer taking a chance and grabbing some jewelry or something else valuable. But why would he do that? I was his best client. I walked quietly up the stairs, taking each one with minimal impact. I pray, I pray. The voices were hushed and aggressive. Higher I climbed with even more softness. Then

I heard someone mutter. I don't fucking know. I stopped at the top of the stairs and picked up an old walking cane. I lifted it up outstretched across my body, ready to fight. I heard the voices again, a little clearer time. They were coming from my bedroom. I walked there quickly, while gripping the cane tightly. I stood outside the door, took a deep breath in and then I kicked it open. I flew inside the cane ready to strike, but I stopped the face and there was one I

knew when. I knew well, it was my wife, Marylyn. Don't hurt me, she cried. For now, obviously I've never heard her, but it's probably quite a good thing to say when a renowned drug abuser standing in front of you with a wooden cane held up high. She had told me she'd gone out, but clearly that was a lie. Marilyn and I, we'd always had an unconventional relationship, I guess, but recently we've been having problems those days. She had threatened to leave me if my drug taken continued. She

threatened to take the kids as well. Brian, she said, there were tears in her eyes. We need to do this, to do this for you. She looked over at Stephen Love, who was part of the beach boys team at the time. He was halfway in our closet pulling stuff out of it. Stephen was Mike's Brother and of course Mike was there too. He never missed a moment to embarrass me. So, confident, became storming out of the bathroom. Where are they, Brian? Stephen was asking me. I don't want to have to

call the cops. Fuck, I thought, this is a drug raid, a drug rade from my own fucking family. I explained that I didn't keep drugs in the house, which was sort of true. He was aggressive and angry, but I really couldn't help then Mike cut in. Look, Brian, you're getting a cut of our touring money and you're getting a cut of our music money. You haven't properly toured with us in forever, and it's been what two three years since you were fully involved in a musical project.

I didn't answer. I feel like I'm slipping away from my cell. Then Maryland started in. said they were going to put me in a mental institution if I didn't stop with the drugs. She was crying. I looked at her and felt nothing. I was numb to it all, to what Mike was saying, to what Marilyn was saying, to what Stephen was saying. It didn't really mean much to me. It was just all so boring. They swept the whole house, but I didn't care. There were no

drugs anywhere. They were in my blood stream and that's about it. I have been feeling like myself. As they were going through the cupboards and knocking on dry wall, I went outside, walked down the path in the morning California Sun and stood next to my mailbox. That's when I saw him, my ringer. He was sitting just down the street on his bike, looking right at the house. I waved him over. I didn't want to. He started own confused. They told me not to drop if someone

else could see me. I smiled and told him not to worry, I'll take them now, I said. He produced a brown envelope and handed it to me. I clutched it tightly to my chest. As I turned to go back to the house, I stopped say I said where are you heading? Downtown, he told me. Can I catch your ride? I asked. Sure, he replied, and before I knew it we were off. I rang the bell as we left. Brian Wilson is seated behind the mixing desk

at our CIA studios in Hollywood. His beard is the longest it's ever been, his hair is shaggy and his eyes appeared to droop down his face. The one slender frame of his youth is lost to a body that has been fed junk food in illegal substances for a decade, and the faders in front of him are all down covered in cocaine residue. He takes a long, deep breath before pulling a large bag of coke from his pocket.

He thinks of the ringer who dropped it off for him at his house just earlier that day, and he readies a line on the mixing desk, pushing it together with the side of his little finger, shaking as he does. He then pulls an already rolled note from his shirt pocket and hoovers it up quickly. Brian slumps back into the chair, itches his nostril and presses the play button. The track honeycomb fills the air. He listens to the lead vocal. It's not his voice, but his wife Marylyn's.

He stares at the speaker for a moment. He picks himself up from his chair, using his hands to gain the right amount of leverage to lift his massive frame. He Shuffles over to a corner of the room where he spins off the top of a bottle of vodka. After a couple of shots, he suddenly becomes angry. He Darts over to the mixing desk and pulls down the fader quickly. In the process he drops the vodka bottle onto the expensive equipment. Fuck, he murmurs, as the liquid

fizzles in the electronics. And that'll cost you. Comes a voice from behind him. Brian swings around. It's the guitarist James Burton. His mind flashes back to making smile and there's Burton playing on a track, but he can't remember which track. He swallows hard, like he's trying to get the difficult memory of that aborted masterpiece down his throat. He thinks of the Song Mrs O'Leary's cow, and here's

a fire crackle in his ears. Brian, you okay, Burton ass and suddenly Brian is back in the now Brian lies and says he's fine. Then he asked Burton wise here in the Dutio with him? Well, I'm in the studio next door, Burton says with somebody might have heard of Jesus Christ. It's not Phil Specter, is it? Burton shakes his head. Ah, man, it's Elvis. Next thing Brian knows he's walking down the corridor with James Burton to meet Elvis Presley. As they arrive at our CIER's biggest room,

Burton pauses. There's a couple of things you should know, he says, but Brian isn't listening. Somewhere between his anxiety and his excitement, he forgets his manners and burst straight through the large door. There's Elvis, shiny multi colored shirt tucked into black pants, huge gold sunglasses, swallowing his face, and the king looks up and for the first time in a long time he looks a little perplexed. Hi,

I'm Brian, Brian Shouts. Jerry shilling, prominent member of the Memphis mafia, grabs brian as he moves towards Elvis, whoa he says, will you boy? Brian repeats his name and sticks his hand out to Elvis, but shilling aggressively pulls him back. I said, who the hell are you? Shilling? Strength is overpowering. Brian can tell immediately that this guy isn't fucking around. Brian timidly informs them both that he's a beach boy and he's working on an album in

the next studio. Oh Yeah, man, yeah, I know, Elvis says, removing his huge sunglasses and offering half a smile. Brian Watches him as he speaks, studies his mouth and the way it draws the words, the way it moves a little slow. And then he looks up at Elvis's eyes and sees something in there he recognizes. He can't quite put his finger on it, and then he realizes they're dilated and tired. He sees it all, the foggy look on Elvis's face, the way everyone in the room is

looking at him, waiting for something. There's an undercarrent of sadness, of disillusion, even to the way he moves and the way he seems so big yet so vulnerable still, and shilling his grip. Brian asked Elvis if you would like to come and listen to the song monkeys mixing, and the King Cox his head to one side. I guess we could, he says. Brian can barely contain his joy. You can let go of from Jerry, Elvis says, putting

his glasses back on. As Brian is freed from the grip of the handler, he feels an overwhelming sense of happiness. That in the cocaine pumping around in his body. And then he does it. He doesn't know why he does it, but he does self sabotage. Brian looks at Elvis and then at shilling and then back to Elvis. He smiles, points at shilling and says this guy thought I was gonna hurt you. I don't have a violent bone in

my body. Brian raises his arm up and swiftly and suddenly karate chops the King of rock and roll, right there in the middle of our CIA studios. The Room is stunned and for a few seconds there was only silence. And then Elvis looks over at shilling and says maybe we don't have time to listen to that track. As Brian makes his way back to his studio alone, he thinks about what a mess elvis looked like, how tired,

how burnt out and how ghostly he seemed. He last to himself as he re enacts his karate chop, shaking his head in disbelief. But once back inside the control booth of his studio, he promises himself he'll never get like that cliche rock star who's high all the time, who's lost touch with reality. He flicks play on honeycomb, runs his hands through his long beard and racks up another line of cocaine. The track rings around the room. Brian Wilson sounds perfect. To everyone else, it just sounds

like the 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 Out Zeth Lundie is lead editor and producer. This episode was written by Ben Burrow, mixing on sound designed by Colin Fleming. Additional music and score elements by Ryan spraaker. This season features Chris Anzaloni, is

the voice of Brian Wilson. Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis Dot com on the blood in the track series page. Follow Double Elvis on instagram at double elvis and on twitch at s graceland talks, and you can talk to me per usual on instagram and twitter at disgrace land pod. Rock and roll or dead