Speaker 1: Double Elvis. Blood on the tracks is a production of
Speaker 1: I heart radio and Double Elvis. Brian Wilson was a
Speaker 1: musical genius and one of the greatest songwriters of all time.
Speaker 1: He caught melodies like they were waves. He bottled good
Speaker 1: vibrations like no one else, and he picked up bad
Speaker 1: vibrations too. He broke down, he tripped hard. He didn't
Speaker 1: just hear music, he heard voices. He tried to lose
Speaker 1: those voices by making a teenage symphony to God called smile,
Speaker 1: but somewhere along the way Brian Wilson lost his mind instead.
Speaker 1: This is his story. Okay, here we go again. It's
Speaker 1: Rhonda Masson, still working my way through the Sea of
Speaker 1: Brian Wilson's home tapes. When I first started this task,
Speaker 1: I assumed there would only be a few tapes from
Speaker 1: Brian at home, but he recorded so much during that time.
Speaker 1: Like I said before, these can get a little bleak
Speaker 1: at times. Brian doesn't make too much sense. There seems
Speaker 1: to be a lot of drugs consumed around the recording
Speaker 1: of some of these. There's one in particular I've been
Speaker 1: listening to recently which seems to be a demo for
Speaker 1: the song sale on sailor. Have a listen. Hi, Van Dyke,
Speaker 1: I hope everyone at Warner Brothers likes this demo for
Speaker 1: sale on sailor. Sorry it's so late. You know, this
Speaker 1: took me a while and I know it's not finished.
Speaker 1: We can work on that when we meet up. You know,
Speaker 1: I have been feeling like myself recently. To be honest,
Speaker 1: I haven't been doing so greavy. I feel like the
Speaker 1: band is slipping away from me. I feel like I'm
Speaker 1: slipping away from myself. I used to be so confident,
Speaker 1: so confident in the studio, but those days are gone.
Speaker 1: I don't know if that will ever come back. I pray,
Speaker 1: I pray, I pray it does. Sorry, I'm rambling. Forgive me.
Speaker 1: I hope you like the demo. I hope it's good enough.
Speaker 1: I hope it's not just more blood on the tracks.
Speaker 1: Chapter Seven. Brian Wilson is sailing on. H here's your
Speaker 1: time report on B R I. A N F M.
Speaker 1: Look a little choppy out there. It's a little breezy
Speaker 1: in the air. The Ocean is unsettled with reports of thunderstorms.
Speaker 1: But do sail on. I'm back in here. I'm always
Speaker 1: in here. I've been in my head for years here,
Speaker 1: along with all those other voices. The most time I
Speaker 1: spent in here was in the early nineteen seventies my dad.
Speaker 1: My Dad, died in seventy three. He had been in
Speaker 1: the hospital and he seemed serious about changing his life
Speaker 1: and living healthy. I even thought he might change as
Speaker 1: a person. I thought perhaps our relationship would change, perhaps
Speaker 1: we could repair what had been broken. He was terrible
Speaker 1: to me, but I was bad to him in return.
Speaker 1: You know. You know I haven't been feeling like myself recently.
Speaker 1: I thought that time might bring us closer, but time, well,
Speaker 1: time has a habit of making fools of men. Soon
Speaker 1: after he left the hospital, he suffered a sudden massive
Speaker 1: heart attack June four. I'll always remember that day. My
Speaker 1: mom was with him at the time and managed to
Speaker 1: call an ambulance, but it was already too late. I
Speaker 1: couldn't bear the funeral. Dennis stayed home too. He played
Speaker 1: the piano, apparently. I went to New York with my wife, Marilyn,
Speaker 1: who was promoting an album she'd made with her group spring.
Speaker 1: We'd gone to a radio station in New York called
Speaker 1: W N E WFM, and Pete Fomatale, one of their djs,
Speaker 1: who had always been supportive of the beach boys. He
Speaker 1: was working there Maryland was being interviewed in the next room,
Speaker 1: so I went to see Pete in his studio. I've
Speaker 1: always loved radio, the excitement of it. It's always live.
Speaker 1: I've always going on and on. It reminds me of
Speaker 1: my brain. It never stops broadcasting. There's never any dead air. Sorry,
Speaker 1: I'm rambling. That day I was a little out of sorts.
Speaker 1: The News of my dad had I don't know, it
Speaker 1: was all that was on my mind. It was all
Speaker 1: that I could think about. To be honest, I haven't
Speaker 1: been doing so gravy. I walked into the studio and
Speaker 1: Pete ran up to me with his headphone still around
Speaker 1: his neck, still plugged into the desk, that long cord
Speaker 1: snaking around the room. What are you doing here, Brian,
Speaker 1: he asked. My mind went blank. I didn't know who
Speaker 1: I really was for a second. It was like I
Speaker 1: was standing inside someone else, like the person I was
Speaker 1: was a stranger to me, like I'm sleeping away from
Speaker 1: my cell. I honestly couldn't remember. I said something like
Speaker 1: I'm I'm here for the Ed Sullivan Show. He looked
Speaker 1: at me strangely. Brian, he said, but that show has
Speaker 1: been canceled for two years. I laughed, but Pete just
Speaker 1: stood there. He looks so sad. I felt like I
Speaker 1: had vertigo. I honestly felt like in the space of minutes,
Speaker 1: I had forgotten who I was or what I was
Speaker 1: doing there. It was the strangest feeling. I burst out
Speaker 1: of the room and I threw up in the bathroom.
Speaker 1: I remember looking at myself in the mirror afterwards and
Speaker 1: I don't know, the person standing in front of me
Speaker 1: looks so different from the person I was in my mind.
Speaker 1: I haven't been feeling like myself. As I stared at myself,
Speaker 1: I heard the radio station start to play a song
Speaker 1: I recognized. Slowly I realized it was a beach boys song,
Speaker 1: a song called sale on sailor. Even though we'd only
Speaker 1: recorded it six months before, it felt like a decade
Speaker 1: or more had passed since we were in the studio
Speaker 1: with it. I used to be so confident, so confident
Speaker 1: in the studio. It was a song got me back
Speaker 1: with Van Dyke Parks. I think everyone thought we'd conceive
Speaker 1: a new smile, but it didn't quite work like that.
Speaker 1: Van Dyke came over to my house and asked if
Speaker 1: we could write something together. The record company, which he
Speaker 1: now worked for, by the way, wanted me on the
Speaker 1: new beach boys album. They were getting ready. I was
Speaker 1: lying in bed with the TV just playing static. Van
Speaker 1: Dyke was next to me. I want you to sit
Speaker 1: down at the piano and I want you to write
Speaker 1: a song for me, he said. Lyrics, melody, everything. I
Speaker 1: want you to do it right on the spot. This
Speaker 1: took me a while. He smiled. I was kind of
Speaker 1: happy that someone wanted me to do something like that,
Speaker 1: but I couldn't sum up the motivation. I do anything
Speaker 1: for you, man, but would you do something for me?
Speaker 1: I asked him. I'd do anything for you, Brian, he replied.
Speaker 1: I started to get very emotional. I could feel my
Speaker 1: throat clothes up in my eyes start to water. You
Speaker 1: got to convince me, Van Dyke, I said. Convince me
Speaker 1: that I'm not insane. Please hypnotize me into thinking that
Speaker 1: I'm not insane. I haven't been feeling like myself recently.
Speaker 1: I was being serious, but he didn't understand. He told
Speaker 1: me to cut the ship. Forgive me. We wrote it
Speaker 1: of course. We spent a couple of days getting it
Speaker 1: right and then I demoed the thing and it made
Speaker 1: it onto the album. As I listened to it while
Speaker 1: standing in the toilets at W N E WFM, looking
Speaker 1: into the mirror, I struggled to process the song. Who
Speaker 1: wrote it? Who Sang it? I don't know, I don't know,
Speaker 1: I don't know. Suddenly Marilyn banged on the door and
Speaker 1: asked if I was okay. Sure, I shouted back. I
Speaker 1: washed my hands and wiped my mouth. When I came out,
Speaker 1: Pete was standing with her. He pointed to the speaker
Speaker 1: that was still blasting out sail on sailor and said
Speaker 1: good song. Se I was just thinking that. I told
Speaker 1: him WHO's it? Bye. He laughed, but I didn't get
Speaker 1: the joke. Good Morning, Sunshine, B R I A N
Speaker 1: F bounty. It's another sunny day here in Bam Bruggie
Speaker 1: and it will stay that way. So sail on sailor,
Speaker 1: sale on sailor. They got me to do that for
Speaker 1: the money. It's always about the money. Capital spent so
Speaker 1: much money a new beach boys album called Holland, around
Speaker 1: a quarter of a million dollars. That's a lot of
Speaker 1: money now, but back then it was a fortune. I
Speaker 1: hope it's good enough. The record company needed a return
Speaker 1: on their investments, so they wanted to hit single. Hit
Speaker 1: singles helped sell albums, and that's why they sent Van
Speaker 1: Dyke over. They wanted me to rustle up a little
Speaker 1: good vibrations or a fun, fun, fun like. I had
Speaker 1: those sort of songs ready to go like a TV
Speaker 1: dinner ready in three minutes. Sale on sailors. It's not
Speaker 1: a song I care for. I mean, how can it be?
Speaker 1: became not from a place of creativity but from a
Speaker 1: place of business. Gone recording the album wasn't much better.
Speaker 1: We were due to cut it in that's right, in Holland.
Speaker 1: We went to a place called Bam Brugie. I wasn't
Speaker 1: all that interested in recording. I thought I might be,
Speaker 1: but it was just like being in L A. I
Speaker 1: couldn't get into the right head space for it. I
Speaker 1: was just lost, like the band is slipping away from me.
Speaker 1: I used to just sit all day in this villa
Speaker 1: we rented, just sit and look at the countryside. I
Speaker 1: found it calming but also sort of numbing, just staring
Speaker 1: at this landscape which didn't change felt like it was protective,
Speaker 1: like nothing happened, therefore nothing could hurt me. It was
Speaker 1: good for me, but it also made me not want
Speaker 1: to do anything. I was taking a lot of drugs.
Speaker 1: There too. I'd wake up and Snore the line and
Speaker 1: just sit there as it fizzed in my nostrils. I
Speaker 1: repeated that hour after hour, with different drugs. One day
Speaker 1: I felt that I needed to snap out of it.
Speaker 1: Maybe I'll go to the studio, I thought. Studio, but
Speaker 1: I opted to drive around the countryside I'd spent days
Speaker 1: staring at. I took a huge bag of coke with me,
Speaker 1: at it safely into the inside pocket of my jacket
Speaker 1: and patted it like it was my child. I haven't
Speaker 1: been feeling like myself. I jumped into the huge Mercedes
Speaker 1: I rented and sat in the driver's seat ready to go,
Speaker 1: but something was missing. A little bump. I thought that
Speaker 1: was it. I pulled out the bag of coke from
Speaker 1: my jacket, wrapped up a line on the Dash. Up
Speaker 1: it went. The fizzing was back. I started the engine
Speaker 1: and through the car into gear. But wait, another little
Speaker 1: line might be in order. So that's what I did.
Speaker 1: The next thing I remember is cutting through the Dutch countryside.
Speaker 1: There were beautiful trees and flowers everywhere. It was hot,
Speaker 1: but not too hot, not like L A. I pushed
Speaker 1: down on the accelerator hard. The car felt so powerful.
Speaker 1: Pounded the pavement. The steering wheel felt sturdy. I felt
Speaker 1: a control for the first time. I used to be
Speaker 1: so confident. I flicked the radio on and those familiar
Speaker 1: notes sang back at me. Be My baby. I couldn't
Speaker 1: believe it. I was halfway around the world and this
Speaker 1: song was still there, soundtracking my every moment. I turned
Speaker 1: it up as loud as possible and sang along from
Speaker 1: start to finish. As the final note rang out and
Speaker 1: DJ started talking, before I knew it, the voice had
Speaker 1: morphed from Dutch to English right then and there. I
Speaker 1: looked down at the radio. I couldn't understand what was
Speaker 1: going on, and then I heard it, the voice of
Speaker 1: Phil Specter. Sail on, sailor, but the hell is that?
Speaker 1: Let me remind you, you never reach the highs of me,
Speaker 1: my baby, and you never will. I slammed on the
Speaker 1: car's brakes and skidded to the side of the road.
Speaker 1: I was trying to catch my breath. The DJ was
Speaker 1: back to speaking in Dutch, introducing some Song I've never
Speaker 1: heard before. I pulled out the bag of coke, my
Speaker 1: hands trembling, I racked up another line, spilling a load
Speaker 1: of it all over the seats. I'm slipping away. I
Speaker 1: turned the radio off and slammed the car into gear.
Speaker 1: The coke kicked in and I was feeling much better.
Speaker 1: Fuck you, I shouted to the Voice of Phil Specter.
Speaker 1: As I sang be my baby to myself again, I
Speaker 1: watched the spiedometer go up and up as I got
Speaker 1: closer to the chorus, and then the dial shivered a
Speaker 1: little as the song launched into its Hook. I felt
Speaker 1: so alive, so present, like I finally found the old
Speaker 1: me again. took me a while. I licked my finger
Speaker 1: and then felt for the bag of coke in my pocket.
Speaker 1: I stuck my finger inside and pulled out the tip,
Speaker 1: covered in the powder, and rammed it into my gums.
Speaker 1: Be My baby, I shouted, throwing both of my hands
Speaker 1: into the air. As I did, I noticed the bend
Speaker 1: in the road up ahead. I grabbed a steering wheel,
Speaker 1: but it was too late. I went off the road,
Speaker 1: kicking up dirt on the side of the car and
Speaker 1: suddenly there were bushes and a tree came out of
Speaker 1: nowhere and the car went right into it. The tree
Speaker 1: branch smashed through the window and stabbed the passenger seat.
Speaker 1: I heard the dull thud of the bumper as it
Speaker 1: slammed into the trunk of the tree, and then it
Speaker 1: all went black. I'm dead, I thought. Fuck, I'm dead. No, no,
Speaker 1: I'm alive, but I must be injured, surely. I tried
Speaker 1: to move my legs and I found I could. Then
Speaker 1: my arms all fine, then my neck still fine. I
Speaker 1: pushed open the car door with all my might and
Speaker 1: stumbled out through the bushes into a field. I staggered forward,
Speaker 1: but then it hit me, the fear, the dread. I
Speaker 1: felt all around in my pocket for the coke, but
Speaker 1: it wasn't there. I don't know if that will ever
Speaker 1: come back. I sprinted back to the car. My arm
Speaker 1: caught some broken glass. Smoke coming from the car was
Speaker 1: thick now I felt around for the bag under the
Speaker 1: passenger seat. Man, I was crying, forgive me. I was devastated.
Speaker 1: It wasn't anywhere, and then I found it wedged under
Speaker 1: the passenger seat. I rammed my hand under and grabbed it,
Speaker 1: my knuckles painfully grinding against the underside of the seat,
Speaker 1: but I didn't care. All that mattered was that bag.
Speaker 1: I pulled it out and managed to get out of
Speaker 1: the car again. When I was back in the field,
Speaker 1: I fell to my knees hugging the bag as behind
Speaker 1: me the car burst into flames. Nothing mattered apart from
Speaker 1: me and this bag. We'll be right back after this,
Speaker 1: we were. I still remember my daily routine from around
Speaker 1: that time. It's funny what sticks around in here, both
Speaker 1: good and bad. I remember a lot of late nights.
Speaker 1: I stayed up, but I did absolutely nothing. It's not finished.
Speaker 1: I couldn't tell you what I've been up to. I
Speaker 1: just said at home in L A, just kind of
Speaker 1: wasting away my days would start around eleven am, walk
Speaker 1: down the back staircase in my house and into the den,
Speaker 1: sit in my bright red chair and pick at the
Speaker 1: upholstery with the TV on in front of me. I
Speaker 1: waited a while and then I heard the ring and
Speaker 1: the click of the mailbox outside twelve fourteen. Every single day,
Speaker 1: every single day, it was the service I paid for.
Speaker 1: It was expensive, but you pay for quality, you know,
Speaker 1: even when it comes to logistics. I requested a twelve
Speaker 1: fifteen drop off every day, but they always came a
Speaker 1: minute early. I never knew why. Trying to please the customer,
Speaker 1: I guess. The person that used my mailbox every day.
Speaker 1: I never knew his name, but it was always the
Speaker 1: same guy. Not a postman, but a ringer. That's what
Speaker 1: they called them anyway. They delivered drugs, whatever you wanted,
Speaker 1: right to your door. Coke, ephetamines, even heroin. I had
Speaker 1: them all delivered. You could get them daily if you wanted,
Speaker 1: and I did. They called them ringers because they would
Speaker 1: travel on bikes. When the drop was done, they ring
Speaker 1: their bicycle bells as they cycled off. There was one
Speaker 1: day when I was sitting in my red chair, staring
Speaker 1: off into space and my eyes darted to our clock
Speaker 1: on the wall. I watched the second hand tick by tick,
Speaker 1: tick tick. I watched the second hand clicked jaggedly around
Speaker 1: the clock face and then the minute hand brought us
Speaker 1: to twelve fourteen. Me To my precious treasure. Tick tick tick.
Speaker 1: Wait for it, I thought, here comes the bell any second,
Speaker 1: but there was nothing. I don't know if that will
Speaker 1: ever come back. The clock seemed to get louder and
Speaker 1: louder in the absence of the ringer's bell. Just a
Speaker 1: little late, I thought. As I picked up the chair.
Speaker 1: It bit my teeth together ground them to a rhythm.
Speaker 1: I was flicking my foot quickly back and forth as
Speaker 1: I watched the second hand of the clock come background again.
Speaker 1: Where the FUNK was he? I pray, I pray, this
Speaker 1: had never happened before. The clock's minute hand swept to
Speaker 1: twelve and it sounded like a crash of thunder. I
Speaker 1: pulled myself out of the chair and made my way
Speaker 1: quickly to the front door. I was about to throw
Speaker 1: it open and anger ready to unleash hell, but I stopped.
Speaker 1: I stood silently upstairs. I heard something. No one else
Speaker 1: was in the house apart from me. I was sure
Speaker 1: that I heard someone walking around quietly, but they were
Speaker 1: definitely moving around. But then I heard voices. I froze.
Speaker 1: I feel like I'm sleeping away from my cell I
Speaker 1: started to hear my heart beat pounding in my ear.
Speaker 1: At first I thought it was the ringer taking a
Speaker 1: chance and grabbing some jewelry or something else valuable. But
Speaker 1: why would he do that? I was his best client.
Speaker 1: I walked quietly up the stairs, taking each one with
Speaker 1: minimal impact. I pray, I pray. The voices were hushed
Speaker 1: and aggressive. Higher I climbed with even more softness. Then
Speaker 1: I heard someone mutter. I don't fucking know. I stopped
Speaker 1: at the top of the stairs and picked up an
Speaker 1: old walking cane. I lifted it up outstretched across my body,
Speaker 1: ready to fight. I heard the voices again, a little
Speaker 1: clearer time. They were coming from my bedroom. I walked
Speaker 1: there quickly, while gripping the cane tightly. I stood outside
Speaker 1: the door, took a deep breath in and then I
Speaker 1: kicked it open. I flew inside the cane ready to strike,
Speaker 1: but I stopped the face and there was one I
Speaker 1: knew when. I knew well, it was my wife, Marylyn.
Speaker 1: Don't hurt me, she cried. For now, obviously I've never
Speaker 1: heard her, but it's probably quite a good thing to
Speaker 1: say when a renowned drug abuser standing in front of
Speaker 1: you with a wooden cane held up high. She had
Speaker 1: told me she'd gone out, but clearly that was a lie.
Speaker 1: Marilyn and I, we'd always had an unconventional relationship, I guess,
Speaker 1: but recently we've been having problems those days. She had
Speaker 1: threatened to leave me if my drug taken continued. She
Speaker 1: threatened to take the kids as well. Brian, she said,
Speaker 1: there were tears in her eyes. We need to do this,
Speaker 1: to do this for you. She looked over at Stephen Love,
Speaker 1: who was part of the beach boys team at the time.
Speaker 1: He was halfway in our closet pulling stuff out of it.
Speaker 1: Stephen was Mike's Brother and of course Mike was there too.
Speaker 1: He never missed a moment to embarrass me. So, confident,
Speaker 1: became storming out of the bathroom. Where are they, Brian?
Speaker 1: Stephen was asking me. I don't want to have to
Speaker 1: call the cops. Fuck, I thought, this is a drug raid,
Speaker 1: a drug rade from my own fucking family. I explained
Speaker 1: that I didn't keep drugs in the house, which was
Speaker 1: sort of true. He was aggressive and angry, but I
Speaker 1: really couldn't help then Mike cut in. Look, Brian, you're
Speaker 1: getting a cut of our touring money and you're getting
Speaker 1: a cut of our music money. You haven't properly toured
Speaker 1: with us in forever, and it's been what two three
Speaker 1: years since you were fully involved in a musical project.
Speaker 1: I didn't answer. I feel like I'm slipping away from
Speaker 1: my cell. Then Maryland started in. said they were going
Speaker 1: to put me in a mental institution if I didn't
Speaker 1: stop with the drugs. She was crying. I looked at
Speaker 1: her and felt nothing. I was numb to it all,
Speaker 1: to what Mike was saying, to what Marilyn was saying,
Speaker 1: to what Stephen was saying. It didn't really mean much
Speaker 1: to me. It was just all so boring. They swept
Speaker 1: the whole house, but I didn't care. There were no
Speaker 1: drugs anywhere. They were in my blood stream and that's
Speaker 1: about it. I have been feeling like myself. As they
Speaker 1: were going through the cupboards and knocking on dry wall,
Speaker 1: I went outside, walked down the path in the morning
Speaker 1: California Sun and stood next to my mailbox. That's when
Speaker 1: I saw him, my ringer. He was sitting just down
Speaker 1: the street on his bike, looking right at the house.
Speaker 1: I waved him over. I didn't want to. He started
Speaker 1: own confused. They told me not to drop if someone
Speaker 1: else could see me. I smiled and told him not
Speaker 1: to worry, I'll take them now, I said. He produced
Speaker 1: a brown envelope and handed it to me. I clutched
Speaker 1: it tightly to my chest. As I turned to go
Speaker 1: back to the house, I stopped say I said where
Speaker 1: are you heading? Downtown, he told me. Can I catch
Speaker 1: your ride? I asked. Sure, he replied, and before I
Speaker 1: knew it we were off. I rang the bell as
Speaker 1: we left. Brian Wilson is seated behind the mixing desk
Speaker 1: at our CIA studios in Hollywood. His beard is the
Speaker 1: longest it's ever been, his hair is shaggy and his
Speaker 1: eyes appeared to droop down his face. The one slender
Speaker 1: frame of his youth is lost to a body that
Speaker 1: has been fed junk food in illegal substances for a decade,
Speaker 1: and the faders in front of him are all down
Speaker 1: covered in cocaine residue. He takes a long, deep breath
Speaker 1: before pulling a large bag of coke from his pocket.
Speaker 1: He thinks of the ringer who dropped it off for
Speaker 1: him at his house just earlier that day, and he
Speaker 1: readies a line on the mixing desk, pushing it together
Speaker 1: with the side of his little finger, shaking as he does.
Speaker 1: He then pulls an already rolled note from his shirt
Speaker 1: pocket and hoovers it up quickly. Brian slumps back into
Speaker 1: the chair, itches his nostril and presses the play button.
Speaker 1: The track honeycomb fills the air. He listens to the
Speaker 1: lead vocal. It's not his voice, but his wife Marylyn's.
Speaker 1: He stares at the speaker for a moment. He picks
Speaker 1: himself up from his chair, using his hands to gain
Speaker 1: the right amount of leverage to lift his massive frame.
Speaker 1: He Shuffles over to a corner of the room where
Speaker 1: he spins off the top of a bottle of vodka.
Speaker 1: After a couple of shots, he suddenly becomes angry. He
Speaker 1: Darts over to the mixing desk and pulls down the
Speaker 1: fader quickly. In the process he drops the vodka bottle
Speaker 1: onto the expensive equipment. Fuck, he murmurs, as the liquid
Speaker 1: fizzles in the electronics. And that'll cost you. Comes a
Speaker 1: voice from behind him. Brian swings around. It's the guitarist
Speaker 1: James Burton. His mind flashes back to making smile and
Speaker 1: there's Burton playing on a track, but he can't remember
Speaker 1: which track. He swallows hard, like he's trying to get
Speaker 1: the difficult memory of that aborted masterpiece down his throat.
Speaker 1: He thinks of the Song Mrs O'Leary's cow, and here's
Speaker 1: a fire crackle in his ears. Brian, you okay, Burton
Speaker 1: ass and suddenly Brian is back in the now Brian
Speaker 1: lies and says he's fine. Then he asked Burton wise
Speaker 1: here in the Dutio with him? Well, I'm in the
Speaker 1: studio next door, Burton says with somebody might have heard
Speaker 1: of Jesus Christ. It's not Phil Specter, is it? Burton
Speaker 1: shakes his head. Ah, man, it's Elvis. Next thing Brian
Speaker 1: knows he's walking down the corridor with James Burton to
Speaker 1: meet Elvis Presley. As they arrive at our CIER's biggest room,
Speaker 1: Burton pauses. There's a couple of things you should know,
Speaker 1: he says, but Brian isn't listening. Somewhere between his anxiety
Speaker 1: and his excitement, he forgets his manners and burst straight
Speaker 1: through the large door. There's Elvis, shiny multi colored shirt
Speaker 1: tucked into black pants, huge gold sunglasses, swallowing his face,
Speaker 1: and the king looks up and for the first time
Speaker 1: in a long time he looks a little perplexed. Hi,
Speaker 1: I'm Brian, Brian Shouts. Jerry shilling, prominent member of the
Speaker 1: Memphis mafia, grabs brian as he moves towards Elvis, whoa
Speaker 1: he says, will you boy? Brian repeats his name and
Speaker 1: sticks his hand out to Elvis, but shilling aggressively pulls
Speaker 1: him back. I said, who the hell are you? Shilling?
Speaker 1: Strength is overpowering. Brian can tell immediately that this guy
Speaker 1: isn't fucking around. Brian timidly informs them both that he's
Speaker 1: a beach boy and he's working on an album in
Speaker 1: the next studio. Oh Yeah, man, yeah, I know, Elvis says,
Speaker 1: removing his huge sunglasses and offering half a smile. Brian
Speaker 1: Watches him as he speaks, studies his mouth and the
Speaker 1: way it draws the words, the way it moves a
Speaker 1: little slow. And then he looks up at Elvis's eyes
Speaker 1: and sees something in there he recognizes. He can't quite
Speaker 1: put his finger on it, and then he realizes they're
Speaker 1: dilated and tired. He sees it all, the foggy look
Speaker 1: on Elvis's face, the way everyone in the room is
Speaker 1: looking at him, waiting for something. There's an undercarrent of sadness,
Speaker 1: of disillusion, even to the way he moves and the
Speaker 1: way he seems so big yet so vulnerable still, and
Speaker 1: shilling his grip. Brian asked Elvis if you would like
Speaker 1: to come and listen to the song monkeys mixing, and
Speaker 1: the King Cox his head to one side. I guess
Speaker 1: we could, he says. Brian can barely contain his joy.
Speaker 1: You can let go of from Jerry, Elvis says, putting
Speaker 1: his glasses back on. As Brian is freed from the
Speaker 1: grip of the handler, he feels an overwhelming sense of happiness.
Speaker 1: That in the cocaine pumping around in his body. And
Speaker 1: then he does it. He doesn't know why he does it,
Speaker 1: but he does self sabotage. Brian looks at Elvis and
Speaker 1: then at shilling and then back to Elvis. He smiles,
Speaker 1: points at shilling and says this guy thought I was
Speaker 1: gonna hurt you. I don't have a violent bone in
Speaker 1: my body. Brian raises his arm up and swiftly and
Speaker 1: suddenly karate chops the King of rock and roll, right
Speaker 1: there in the middle of our CIA studios. The Room
Speaker 1: is stunned and for a few seconds there was only silence.
Speaker 1: And then Elvis looks over at shilling and says maybe
Speaker 1: we don't have time to listen to that track. As
Speaker 1: Brian makes his way back to his studio alone, he
Speaker 1: thinks about what a mess elvis looked like, how tired,
Speaker 1: how burnt out and how ghostly he seemed. He last
Speaker 1: to himself as he re enacts his karate chop, shaking
Speaker 1: his head in disbelief. But once back inside the control
Speaker 1: booth of his studio, he promises himself he'll never get
Speaker 1: like that cliche rock star who's high all the time,
Speaker 1: who's lost touch with reality. He flicks play on honeycomb,
Speaker 1: runs his hands through his long beard and racks up
Speaker 1: another line of cocaine. The track rings around the room.
Speaker 1: Brian Wilson sounds perfect. To everyone else, it just sounds
Speaker 1: like the blood on the tracks. Blood on the tracks
Speaker 1: produced by double Elvis in partnership with I heart radio.
Speaker 1: It's hosted an executive produced by me Jake Brennan, also
Speaker 1: executive produced by Brady Out Zeth Lundie is lead editor
Speaker 1: and producer. This episode was written by Ben Burrow, mixing
Speaker 1: on sound designed by Colin Fleming. Additional music and score
Speaker 1: elements by Ryan spraaker. This season features Chris Anzaloni, is
Speaker 1: the voice of Brian Wilson. Sources for this episode are
Speaker 1: available at Double Elvis Dot com on the blood in
Speaker 1: the track series page. Follow Double Elvis on instagram at
Speaker 1: double elvis and on twitch at s graceland talks, and
Speaker 1: you can talk to me per usual on instagram and
Speaker 1: twitter at disgrace land pod. Rock and roll or dead