 "Photo:")
 "Photo:")
 "Photo:")
The single most prolific recording artist of our time is dead of leukemia at the age of 40. And although the 6'2", 350-pound Wesley Willis was most widely appreciated as a cult oddity, it is important that people also remember the man as being successful where 99.9 percent of those who try fail. Willis overcame abject poverty, physical abuse, and verbal abuse ¾ both from without and from the schizophrenic demons in his head who took him on what he called his "hell rides" ¾ and became the self-made personification of the American Myth. Yes that sounds cheesy. Yes, it sounds like a "Corky Goes to College" after-school special. But, when an obese, schizophrenic, poor black man in America becomes a cult icon with over 50 recorded full-length albums, I think everyone can do their part to trade in hipster cynicism for some overdue reverence.
I first read about Wesley Willis in Big Brother magazine about six years ago. The issue had a feature article describing the man complete with barely decipherable interview and a free CD that blew the minds of everyone I could get to listen to it. Every song sounded the same. And I don't mean that it was derivative and boring, I mean that every song was composed using the same exact canned Casio keyboard drum beat and minimal synthesized accompaniment. The only thing that changed from one track to the next were the lyrics, and I couldn't believe my fucking ears.
The words that came out of my speakers when I popped that CD in for the first time made me laugh out loud for their sheer absurdity. While I scratched my head as Willis would pay homage to KRS-1 by gruffly chanting lyrics like "You are a good rap artist / You are my favorite rap star / Rock over London Rock out Chicago Pepsi / the choice of a generation." I couldn't help but wonder what kind of drugs this guy was on and if they were illegal yet. I found the answer to my question a few months later when I read that Willis would play a show at the Raven.
After watching this round, 6'2" man play the same loop on his keyboard for fifteen to twenty two-minute intervals, chant his verses, and sing his one-line repeating choruses discussing anything from the benefits of Pepsi Cola to how much something he liked "whipped a snow camels ass" or instructed the collective audience to "Lick a honey badger's balls," I was only more curious. After the show, I went up to him with my CD in hand for an autographing and closer glimpse into the purpose behind this man's work.
There must be some deep statement about popular music or culture here, I thought. He must be commenting on the repetitive and inane nature of what the corporate music monoliths feed the masses. I walked up to the man with 16-year-old visions dancing in my head of him smiling at me with a subtle nod as if to say "Yeah kid you get it and you are cooler and smarter than the rest of your suburban counterparts for it. Let us now adjourn to the bar and discuss just how we can damn The Man for all his privatizing, consolidationary evils."
"Hey Wesley..." before I could say anything, he grabbed the CD from my hands, opened the case and scrawled his initials on the CD.
"About your album, man I was..."
As he thrust the CD back at me with the insistence and patience of a three-year-old, he looked at me blankly and then grabbed my head on both sides of my face. I admit that as a 16-year-old suburban white kid I was a little intimidated that a 350-pound black man who sang songs about whipping camels' asses had me by the head. But before I had time to run, he stared me down and demanded that I say 'Rock'. I obliged and was more than surprised when I was swiftly awarded a head butt for my compliance. I was then instructed to say "Roll," and I did as I closed my eyes and braced for yet another patented Wesley Willis head-butt of love. And I could tell right there that he meant every deranged syllable that dropped from his considerably well-adjusted insane lips.
For those of you who never got to see and hear Willis play live, you missed out. He was insane, and I must admit appreciating the man's art for its sheer ridiculousness on more than one occasion, but I have to think there was something deeper there. The man fully embraced what he loved with every fiber of his being, and damn it he meant it when he would grab your forehead and bash it against his third-eye-chakra-callous. He loved music and used it keep the demons in his head quiet. Now those demons will be quiet forever, and though I believe most people will remember the man as the ultimate outsider artist freakshow, I think we should all remember this one very important piece of Wesley Willis insight: "The mullet is the reason why people hate you / they are sick of looking at your nappy weed-sack." True.
Be the first to comment on this article!