Brian Wilson is an interesting exception. His persona is one
of charming, and rather inarticulate, sincerity. He is a pop star with a true
“voice” beyond his singing one, and though I do not expect or even want
compelling prose from Brian Wilson, I still want to read his story as told by
him because it is such a fascinating and intensely personal one.
I Am Brian Wilson
fits the bill perfectly. Wilson wrote his book with the assistance of the
versatile Ben Greenman, and its too-articulate and linear prologue chapter had
me worrying that I’d be reading Greenman’s voice instead of that of the show’s
star. With the first proper chapter, that articulateness evaporates and the
linearity splits like an egg to allow Brian’s ping pong-ball mind to bounce
out. One moment he is waxing nostalgic about the old children’s show Beany and Cecil, the next he is
remembering the 1973 Holland
sessions, the next he is leaping ahead 25 years to discuss his solo album Imagination. Greenman seems to play the
role of stenographer rather than co-writer as Brian unleashes his flood of
memories, opinions (favorite albums: Rubber
Soul, A Christmas Gift for Your from
Philles Records, and Tommy—great
choices, Brian!), and creation stories. Serious fans will swoon when he discusses
marvelous oddities such as “Busy Doin’ Nothin’”, “A Day in the Life of a Tree”,
“Girl Don’t Tell Me”, and “In the Back of My Mind” with the same attention he
affords “California Girls” and “God Only Knows”. The utter lack of pretense in the prose captures that
familiar slightly flat, slightly sad, often rhapsodic voice with true
authenticity. A definitive passage has Brian describing how he once dressed up
as a mummy to amuse a cousin in the hospital and clarifying that “I wasn’t
really a mummy.” That absence of guile, that innocence, that subtle and perhaps
unself-aware humor is what makes Brian Wilson’s complex music so
uncomplicatedly beautiful and him so lovable.
Of course, I Am Brian
Wilson would fail as the Brian Wilson story if it did not deal with the
darker corners of his life, and Wilson wanders through these areas fearlessly. He
basically leads the story with a run down of all of his troubles with drugs,
family, isolation, weight gain, and chemical withdrawal, and discusses each more
thoroughly and with trademark honesty as the tale continues. He goes into depth
about the two most dreaded figures in his life—father Murray and Svengali
“doctor” Eugene Landry—but does so without a trace of bitterness and a loving
portion of balance, acknowledging that both of these men did Brian a little bit
of good as well as a fair share of harm. He wastes almost no space on his
clashes with Mike Love, though.
Bitterness, like articulateness, has no place in a Brian
Wilson autobiography. Love, music, and an immensely sincere man’s true voice
are what you should expect and what I Am
Brian Wilson delivers.
