Remembering Brian and Sly

Bob Dylan on Brian Wilson: “Jesus, that ear! He should donate it to the Smithsonian.”

Indeed. Thelonious Monk said a genius is a person who is most like themselves. That could be said about Brian Wilson and Sly Stone. The nasty one-two punch of their departures just days apart from this already sad world is just plain wrong. Even geniuses have to die, but the avenging angel who decided to kill off two of them at nearly the same time should be fired, or at least demoted. Their music will live on.

Because they were most like themselves, you would never confuse Sly and Brian. Sly was the master of rhythm who, if he didn’t quite invent funk, took it to a new and wonderful place. From the first beat of their first hit it was obvious what they were doing was fresh and authoritative. There was an element of recognition when I heard their breakthrough hit, “Dance To The Music.” Like it had been there all along and yet no one could hear it yet. No one but Sly.

Brian Wilson was nowhere near as wild and dangerous as Sly but he had an ear for melody and harmony. (Literally: he was deaf in one ear; his father had slapped him so hard he went from stereo to mono.) When his brother Dennis asked him if he could write a song about surfing, he quickly responded with a string of them, all hits. He created his own genre, dubbed Surf Music, but that was just a starting point. His career really shifted into high gear when he left the hot rods and ho-dads back on the beach, to explore some of the more personal and universal emotions that drove him to create.

Both of these artists suffered greatly as they pursued their addictions with the kind of single minded devotion they had once given to their music. Both were textbook examples of great talent and self destruction battling it out for dominance in a person’s soul. In Brian’s case, a relentlessly abusive dad had driven him off the edge of a cliff where it was a case of fly or die. His utopian vision was an absolute necessity for survival. He had to create a place of peace within his mind and he did just that when he wrote “In My Room”, which is a musical prayer for sanctuary, a space with no room for Murray Wilson. His gift allowed him to survive, even if it was a long painful struggle to some kind of resolution.

I’m not the only one who thought his greatest single achievement was the quiet awe of “God Only Knows.” Sir Paul McCartney called it the greatest song ever written! It’s both a love song and a spiritual vision, so beautiful it couldn’t possibly have earthly origins. It was one of the high points of Pet Sounds, an album at or near the top of most every rock critic’s list of all time greats. The way its unforgettable melody was woven through the majestic chord changes was unheard of in pop music and harkens back to song writers like George Gershwin. Luckily, Brian found in Gary Usher a lyricist who got what was going on in his head and found the words Brian couldn’t. Their writing sessions resembled talk therapy, with deep discussions that dove into his personal concerns and more universal questions. Brian was all of 23 years old when he wrote it.

After that record, Brian spiraled downward, sinking to new depths, losing touch with reality then occasionally climbing back to something resembling his former self. But despite the fact he did some beautiful work after that, he had, in essence, gone off somewhere you just don’t return from. You might call it a living death.

Sly Stone had his own disappearing act. After ruling the record charts and leading one of the most exciting bands the world had ever seen, he pretty much vanished after pretty much owning the late ‘60’s and early ‘70s.

When he first emerged, fellow giants like Miles Davis and Jimi Hendrix paid tribute. You could hear it in their music and there were even hints of future collaborations, cut short by Hendrix’s early death. He all but stole last summer’s great documentary, Summer Of Soul, with an electrifying performance. Questlove, the director, went on to make the documentary SLY LIVES! (aka The Burden of Black Genius). It is a pretty fair look at this unforgettable artist’s path to fame and back to obscurity.

Sly started out in church, singing gospel music with his family and grew up quickly. Listen to “The Rat,” a song he wrote and performed with his brother Freddy Stewart at age 16. It’s a wild ride, possibly inspired by The Coasters.

Later on, he studied music in college and once had all his tools, left the academic world behind. It was time to rock. He had graduated from The Academy of Soul.

Like Brian, Sly was spotted here and there over the years, but never seemed to be interested in conquering the world again. That beautiful, world weary voice was no disguise, there were demons and it took a whole lot of medicine to keep them at bay.

We all know the hits, but here’s a song, a little less familiar, that I’ve always loved: “Skin I’m In.” It has one of the coolest and trickiest horn charts ever written. His vocals on this song and so many others always showed the influence of Ray Charles. There is so much fire in his performance, I’m afraid my speakers will melt every time I hear it. As a singer, player, writer, producer and performer, Sly was as good as it gets  — we’re still listening to his innovations today.

You might not see any similarities between Sly and Brian, but I think I do. They both created music that had to be there, to save their lives and probably many others. Whether you get goosebumps from music or just get up and dance makes no difference, you’re feeding your soul and who says nutritious can’t be delicious?

Now they’re both gone, Brian and Sly, and maybe somewhere beyond the event horizon, in an area we’re not allowed to see, they’re making some insanely beautiful celestial music. They did it here, so why not? The joy they left behind and, sadly, could not always experience for themselves, will live on, gladdening the hearts of millions of people for a long time. What a beautiful gift to the world.