(STEVE WAGNER reminisces about his day with the legendary genius)
Brian Wilson has been one of the most influential and inspirational musical artists of my lifetime and a source of perpetual fascination since I was about eight years old. I’ve had a somewhat unexpected response to his passing. Though I recognize and feel the loss deeply, I am left with only admiration, relief, and gratefulness. Admiration because the passing of such a towering figure naturally brings their life’s work into greater focus, and Brian’s achievements in harmonic composition and sound recording were, in a word, astonishing. Relief that Brian’s pain has ended, that the specters he’d lived with for so many years – no doubt compounded by the recent loss of his beloved wife Melinda – have finally, at long last, disappeared. And gratefulness, for the music, of course; Brian’s oeuvre has brought me countless hours of deeply satisfying listening pleasure, and his songcraft has been a creative beacon since I first picked up a guitar and attempted to create original songs.
Moreover, I’m grateful that Brian found the innate resolve (and community support) to persist through debilitating illness, to overcome addictions and psychological trauma, at least to the degree that he could experience years, even decades of relative peace and meaningful work. Above all, I’m grateful that Brian lived to see the immensely positive impact he had on the arts and the lives of millions who adored him.
The truth is that Brian was lucky to survive 1967. Or 1970. Or 1981, or so many other times in his life, when the disappointment and despair must have felt overwhelming. There is an easily-imaginable world in which Brian Wilson leaves us at a young age, just another drug casualty or member of the “27 club,” a quickly forgotten relic of a waning surf genre, seen only as an “early architect” of rock n’ roll who sort of meant something sometime between the years of Fabian and Hendrix.
But Brian’s music was always, and remains, transcendent. The art, the sound refused to die, and I intuit that the healing power of his music was what ultimately kept Brian alive through his many dark nights of the soul.
I’ve written about Brian a lot over the years – about his music, his mythology, his cultural influence, and even a bit about my personal experience of not only meeting him but also spending the better part of an afternoon and evening in his company. Here, I’d like to paint a fuller picture of that exhilarating day.
In January 2010, I was a director at the San Francisco Art Exchange, a gallery dedicated to music photography and original album cover art. We had begun a toe-in-the-water business relationship with Sir Peter Blake, the renowned British pop artist and art director for the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album cover. Peter had recently collaborated with Brian on an exclusive art book with Genesis Publishing titled That Lucky Old Sun, inspired by Brian’s recent album of the same name. We were busy selling the collectible book and limited-edition prints when the most incredible opportunity presented itself: Brian Wilson was willing to do some promotion on Peter’s behalf and would consider doing something in person at our gallery.
At this revelation, I needed to be given oxygen and placed on sedatives. Once I was revived, as I remember it, our three options were: 1) for X, Brian would come in the gallery, shake a few hands, pose for a few pictures, say a few words, and be gone: 2) for double X, he would come with a couple guys from his band and do a song or two a cappella along with pressing the flesh; or 3) for triple X, Brian would come with a combo of guys from his band and perform a short concert in our gallery for a small number of very select clients. The numbers were very reasonable, I thought (I mean, are you frickin’ kidding me??). We discussed it, and it was clear that the concert was the best option; the free media coverage alone would more than justify the investment. Our owners contacted Brian’s management, came to terms, and determined a date. We then set about culling a guest list of approximately 100 people in total, mostly high-dollar collectors and other assorted big wheels we were courting for business.
It quickly became apparent we needed to keep this on the total down low. Everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY, who learned about it wanted to be there, and I had to make many heartbreaking phone calls to inform close friends and cherished clients that there was simply no room for them at the inn. This had to be handled delicately, not just with our clients, but with our artists, photographers, and their agents and managers. Then there were the famous friends of the gallery, some big stars who might drop everything and fly to San Francisco for the chance to meet Brian Wilson. I spoke with several who wanted to be there but regretfully had to pass. To a person, they expressed their undying admiration and respect for Brian.
One of our artists, however – perhaps our most important artist, and certainly the most difficult (with a special jury prize going to Jim Marshall) – decided to attend: Storm Thorgerson. We’ll come back to Storm shortly…
Each of us working at the gallery was allowed to bring one guest, and mine was Jade Sylvan, who was helping me research my book, All You Need Is Myth: The Beatles and the Gods of Rock (Waterside, 2019). Though the book was in its earliest stage, we knew that Brian’s and the Beach Boys’ mythos would be a major thread, so we were hoping to get a picture with the great man for the book jacket. Jade flew out to SF from Boston the evening before the big day, and in the morning, we were up bright and early to open the gallery and prepare for the show. As usual, the place needed to be cleaned from top to bottom, and everything removed from the main room – desks, file cabinets, furniture, stereo system, etcetera. Thankfully, Jade was there to help clean and answer the phones while I toiled away on prep and dealt with gallery visitors. By early afternoon, we had the place ready for Brian.
Jade had just left to spend the day with friends in SF when Brian’s tech guys arrived to set up the sound. They brought in a massive amount of gear, and it occurred to me that maybe we were too small a room for this show. The gallery was old and quite dilapidated, with ancient plumbing and wiring. Space heaters tripped fuses and sparked electrical outlets in this joint. How were we going to power five musicians, monitors, and a sound system? Somehow, they figured it out, though I can’t remember how… the first eight hours of that day are a blur. But I’m fortunate that I had to work so hard to get ready, because that tethered me to the ground. I would have floated away otherwise. The whole day felt otherworldly, a rip in the cosmic fabric, an oddly fated convergence dialed up by my psyche, and perhaps just a dream.
And then I saw Brian Wilson at the front door of the gallery, standing completely still, staring down at the stanchion rope I had hung to keep randos out while the techies were setting up the show. He was so respectful, thinking he didn’t have permission to enter. I leaped about thirty feet across the gallery floor and quickly unhooked the rope, welcoming him and, I assume, gushing uncontrollably. He smiled and walked past, bidding me an exuberant “Thank you!” In fact, for the next couple of hours, as they hung out and ran through soundcheck, every time we walked past each other, Brian would look at me sweetly and say, “Thank you!” This kind man, whom I wanted to thank from the bottom of my heart for so many things, and so many songs, could not stop thanking ME.
Did I mention the soundcheck? Surreal is the only word to describe what it felt like to have Brian and his band run through “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” “California Girls,” “God Only Knows,” and an a cappella “Surfer Girl” for just me and the gallery owner, Jim Hartley, who had arrived minutes before they plugged in. Brian was literally in the spot where I sat at my desk every day. I was thinking that nothing could ever top this.
The four players with Brian that day were the core of his band: keyboardist and musical director Darian Sahanaja and guitarist Nick Walusco, both of the revered LA group the Wondermints; multi-instrumentalist and songwriter Scott Bennett, who was Brian’s collaborator on much of That Lucky Old Sun; and guitarist and singer Jeff Foskett, a renowned vocalist who began singing Brian’s famous falsetto parts for the Beach Boys on stage in the late ‘70s, and was Brian’s indispensable musical avatar for decades after. These musicians were key to Brian’s legacy and the completion and quality of Brian Wilson Presents Smile, a truly historic artistic triumph. Expressing my gratitude to each of them was nearly as meaningful to me as meeting Brian himself.
By early evening, I was greeting guests as they arrived at the gallery and walking them through the post-concert protocol, explaining how they would have the brief opportunity to meet Brian in person. I had a wonderful conversation with Brian’s manager, Jean Sievers, who told me this was the most intimate concert he had ever performed, and that she had to see it in person. Jean was also Jeff Bridges’ manager, and I mention that for the sole reason that being both Brian’s and Jeff’s manager is just unassailably cool. I think she loved that I was such an admirer of Brian’s, that he was in good hands at the gallery, so to speak. I loved that she so clearly cared about him and was there to protect and support him. Years later, when I learned that Jean had been named Brian’s conservator following Melinda’s passing, I knew he would be cared for with the best of intentions.
Storm Thorgerson also arrived, with his guest, Tom Baccei, the inventor of “Magic Eye.” You know, the pictures you stare into until you see another picture embedded… you’ve seen Seinfeld, right? Is it any surprise that the inventor of Magic Eye and the guy who designed the Pink Floyd album covers were friends? If he had still been with us, I’m sure Salvador Dali would have tagged along with them, and I’m only being slightly facetious. Perhaps a quick detour here to address Storm more thoroughly…
It is not hyperbole to say Storm Thorgerson is the greatest album cover artist in history and one of the supreme surrealist artists of the 20th century. His company (along with Aubrey Powell), Hipgnosis, designed hundreds of the most famous, beloved, and tripped-out album covers of all time, including those for Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Genesis, Paul McCartney, Black Sabbath, Peter Gabriel, and many, many more. Anton Corbijn’s documentary Squaring the Circle: The Story of Hipgnosis (2022) does a fine job of telling the tale of Storm and Po and how they largely defined the visual aesthetic of the classic rock era, and it even goes into Storm’s famously challenging personality at some length. From Paul McCartney’s quite generous recollection, “He could be really crabby,” to Roger Waters’ more frank account, “He was insufferable,” the film does not mince words.
Because it’s true – wild anecdotes of famous feuds sparked, and emotional wreckage incurred by this legendary enfant terrible are legion in the industry. And I’m inclined to believe every one of them, because, for me, dealing with Storm’s demands, disputes, and diatribes was a frequent occurrence. It’s enough now to say that if anyone could ruin this event, or at least my enjoyment of it, this was the guy who could do it. But Storm, thank the Rock Gods, was actually on his best behavior that night, and it was out of respect for Brian. And I would speculate, because Brian’s music can soothe even the most savage of beasts.
Brian’s concert in our gallery that night was a wonder to behold, for everyone in attendance who all had the same look in their eyes – a dreamy mix of flabbergast and holiness. It all seemed unbelievable, and yet here we were, witnessing history, no doubt, in the presence of genius, yes, but also somehow the winners of this rarest of musical lotteries. We were hearing Brian Wilson sing his greatest songs – songs that defined an apex of popular music in the 20th century – in what was essentially our living room.
Their setlist was, in a word, perfect. In addition to the above-mentioned classics from the soundcheck, they also nailed “Do It Again,” “Do You Wanna Dance,” “I Get Around,” and three stellar tracks from That Lucky Old Sun, before ending with a medley of “Help Me, Rhonda,” “Barbara Ann,” “Surfin’ USA,” and “Fun, Fun, Fun.” To ecstatic applause, our owners then trundled Brian upstairs to a viewing room. Once he was settled in, it was my job to introduce clients and corral them for the photographers.
Before we began, I was able to express to Brian directly my deep admiration, great honor in meeting him, and heartfelt thanks for all the beautiful, inspirational music he had gifted the world. He looked me in the eye and said, quite emphatically, “Thank you, man, for being so cool!” Words cannot express how much it meant to me that Brian would say this.
The meet-and-greet commenced easily and quickly, and was, of course, a veritable lovefest. Brian seemed to be in a great mood; he was really in sync with his band during the performance and was gracious to everyone after. Once we had everyone through the line and photographed with Brian, he and his team departed, and I was left to entertain the straggling clients while the band broke down their gear.
It is at this point that wily old Storm re-enters the frame, gleefully and somewhat threateningly announcing that he was “stealing” Jade from me and taking them to dinner at the posh Clift Hotel across the street. I still had gallery work to do – a wet bar to break down, for one – so I couldn’t really object, but this smelled like trouble. Now, the fact that these two creative powerhouses would somehow draw to each other came as little surprise. But when Storm exclaimed, loudly enough for basically anyone still in the gallery to hear, “She’s SOOO much more interesting than you, Steve!” I knew he was just getting warmed up. I said I would meet them at the restaurant later, and Storm, knowing that I had to, assured me that I really didn’t have to.
An hour or so later, after some enjoyable banter with the band, talking music and hearing some sweet and (yes) priceless anecdotes about working with their beloved Brian, I locked the door to the gallery and walked across the street to the Clift Hotel. I was exhilarated from the incredible high of the previous twelve hours… but also feeling a fair share of dread at what might await me.
Inside. I found Storm, Tom, and Jade sitting around a long tabletop that looked like Caligula had just debauched several lobsters and a peacock. Protruding from within the strata of extravagant scraps, I spotted some empty wine bottles with the sort of labels that scream, “I’m expensive!”
Can you guess where this is heading? Storm, with eyes ablaze and nearly convulsing because he knew how diabolically funny it was that he would say this, bellowed: “Steve! You are here just in time to pay the bill!”
And we both knew that I would have to pay. I knew he would never stop demanding it and that the more I bristled, the more delectable this would be for him. I knew he was prepared to declare war to get his way, likely threatening to pull his art from the gallery, scotch deals in the making, or get me fired, the list goes on. Suffice to say, I would need to pay for this now and be reimbursed later through the gallery. Which I was reasonably confident would happen.
Though I did my best to hide my irritation, I’m sure it was all over my face as I grunted through clenched teeth something like “Well, at least I’m going to have a drink before I worry about that.” Storm continued to relish teasing me throughout the evening, but the fact is that we were all having a magical night. Quite predictably, he had challenged me to fulfill his wishes unconditionally; once I accepted the absolute inevitability of the power differential (and the responsibility of that damned bill, which I might add was for a quasi-obscene amount), things were copacetic.
At some point, we all drifted to the lobby, and Tom departed. Jade went back into the nightclub, leaving Storm and me alone with each other, sitting on some comfy furniture and reflecting on the evening. Though I had worked with Storm for months by this point, this was the first time we just sat and talked as people as opposed to artist and art dealer. And he became… I’m not sure if charming is the word, but “personable” might come close. We agreed that we had just witnessed an amazing occurrence. Storm loved Brian, and I think he recognized him as a kindred spirit in some fundamental ways. Brian’s genius, his idiosyncrasies, his dance with sanity, and his undeniable impact on the arts were all things with which he could easily identify. Storm was not the type of person to heap praise on other creative artists, but he, like me and everyone else who attended that night, was in awe of Brian. He couldn’t hide it, though I’m sure he tried his best.
As we discussed all things Brian, I noted some of these comparisons, stating directly that I considered both to be towering creative artists, groundbreaking geniuses, and more than worthy of my time, effort, and expertise. I said it was an honor to host Brian at the gallery and an honor to represent Storm as an art dealer. I wasn’t blowing smoke – representing Storm Thorgerson is one of the career achievements I am most proud of. There was literally nothing he could do or say – and believe me, he tried – that could affect my respect for him as an artist or my commitment to his legacy, and I told him as much. Hearing him say “thank you” in an uncharacteristically meek voice validated it all for me. I saw Storm differently from that moment on.
The fact is, Storm liked me a lot, which is why he fed me so much shit. That’s just the way he was. For me personally, repeatedly seeing him get so much pleasure from confounding those around him was very hard to swallow. But I also recognize intrinsically that all too often, genius comes with social angst and emotional responses that seem insane to us mere mortals. When we say that Brian and Storm were artists who expanded and transformed the limits of their art forms, we must also recognize that assessing their personal lives, criticizing their methods, or decrying their foibles is, at best, uninformed opinion in areas few people have the capacity to understand.
Perhaps Storm intuited that he and I needed a tête-à-tête; he was, after all, staying at the Clift Hotel and could have turned in rather than sit with me for an hour in the lobby. However, I’m thankful he stayed and talked, because we found that working together was much more playful and productive moving forward. Sure, he still fed me a lot of shit, but it didn’t sting the way it did before. It was just Storm being Storm.
When I learned that the reason Storm was selling his original art was that he had been given roughly a year to live due to failing health, I became even more dedicated to his cause. Thankfully, he lived for another three years, and during that time, I had the great honor of brokering sales of his most famous original album cover artworks: Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, Animals, The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway, and many more. Knowing that those dollars were eventually going to his family in his wake filled me with not just pride, but enduring empathy for the man.
January 23, 2010, was a watershed day in my life. I was finally able to meet and fete one of my greatest heroes, Brian Wilson, and then somehow make peace with another of mine, Storm Thorgerson, who had played the role of nemesis until we sat down in that lobby together, let the power-play crap recede (a bit), and be simply two lovers of Brian Wilson discussing music and art. Consider that Storm was, by that time, already a sick man, and he flew from London to San Francisco only to meet Brian, an artist whom he deeply admired. That says a lot about who he was at his core, and this is what I remember when I think of him now, which I do frequently and fondly.
Again, Brian’s music can soothe even the most savage of beasts, and it certainly did that night, for Storm, and for me, too.
