Wild Wesley Willis

The song remains (pretty much) the same

by John O'Neill

The Worcester music scene has always been one of extreme contrast. Only in Wormtown could cover bands like Down East and Wilbur and the Dukes be treated like divinity. Or could bands as diverse as the Ramones, Johnny Thunders, and the Grateful Dead all manage to be banned by the city's so-called "leaders." (That two are slated for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame makes the fact even more precious.) And only Wormtown could embrace the out-of-key, tribal shlock of Black Rose Garden, elevating them to King status during the alterna-yawn of the 1990s. When it comes to music, Wormtown is absolutely schizophrenic at every level.

So it pretty much figures that only here could there be a heated war over Wesley Willis. The artist who enjoys limited cult status, at best, across the country (and is often treated as more of a side show than a performer) has, without setting foot in town, become one of the most popular, most listened to, most talked about individuals ever. The local "in-the-know" crowd fawn at the mere mention of his name. In the underground World of Hip, nobody is more hip than Double W. And, what would be considered an interesting evening in normal cities has somehow become the most anticipated event of the year in Worm City. Wesley-mania culminated in an exchange of financial salvos between the Palladium and Lucky Dog, in which Willis's guarantee nearly tripled in 48 hours! The Pal, after promising Wes's "agent" a gig with his band, finally won the honor of presenting Willis's first-ever Worcester date. Which begs the question, "Who the hell is Wesley Willis and what's all the fuss?"

A Chicago native, Willis is a six-foot-four, 300-plus-pound man with unkempt dreadlocks and a nine-inch facial scar; he looks like he'd eat you for breakfast just as soon as he'd talk to you. He's also been diagnosed a chronic schizophrenic, was once homeless, but is now a fairly prominent outsider artist. And, since recording 32 CDs of his music in less than eight years, he is prolific -- a story of perseverance over internal and external forces that he continues to battle on a daily basis.

"It's not going so good," Willis says with a deep snort from his Chicago apartment. "The demons stopped me from drawing. They're messing with me, I haven't been drawing in 30 days. They're calling me a jerk, a bum, and an asshole."

Though his breathing is heavy and forced (as if he'd just finished a five-mile jog, except that right now, he's tilting at the windmills in his mind), Willis labors to maintain the conversation. His demeanor, while somewhat unsettling, is also sweet. He wants to do the interview.

"[The music] is going okay, I just like having fun," he says, adding, "at least I'm not gonna break the law and get locked up in jail."

Raised in Chicago's infamous projects, arguably the shitiest living conditions anywhere, Willis grew up with eight siblings in an atmosphere of abject poverty, chaos, violence, and domestic abuse. The voices began 10 years ago when, in October 1989, his mother was held at gun point, the barrel pressed against her temple, while Willis was forced to surrender his life's savings to her boyfriend. "He took my $600. He's a jerk. Now he's in jail. He got 40 years for murder. He killed the wrong girl."

His "vulgar" voices, which have increased over time, would often cause him to act out in public. As a result of his (usually profane) outbursts, he's been tossed from art stores, churches, and has been banned from public transit. Though currently on anti-psychotic medication, Willis maintains, "I still hear them every day off and on. They say bad things to me. They make me curse on those transit buses. I can ride the buses, but not with demons cursing."

His solace over the years -- and the reason he's so understandably upset now -- has been his passion for art. He first gained attention for selling his felt-pen renderings of Chicago cityscapes and street scenes, which he'd sell for $20 a pop. Many feature the buses that he loves to ride and the traffic that tends to piss him off and, though he averages nearly 2000 pictures per year, all are very detailed works, including license-plate numbers and advertisements. Adopted by the trendy Wicker Park art scene, Willis was introduced to the musician crowd by Genesis Art Warehouse employee Dale Meiners (who played with Smashing Pumpkins' Billy Corgin, and later backed up Willis on guitar in the Wesley Willis Fiasco). Deciding he'd like to sing, Willis immediately hit the fast track, recording seven CDs in 1994. Over the next four years he recorded 30 discs (mostly self-distributed); he will release number 38 this year. "I just do it real quick through the computer," he says. "I just sit down and write lyrics, anywhere from one to five songs a day."

Having established himself as an underground sensation, he signed a two-record deal with Rick Rubin's American Records in '96 (for an appallingly low $10,000, which only helped fuel the growing suspicion that Willis was being exploited), played Austin's SXSW, was picked up by MTV for rotation, and became a favorite of many industry hot shots. The Beastie Boys, Dust Brothers, Alanis Morissette, Steve Albini, Foo Fighters, and Dr. Demento are all fans of the big man.

And understandably so. Though he's a performer who sparks strong reaction -- he's a genius and his songs sound the same -- Wesley Willis is, without exception, the purest artist to ever commit himself to tape. He is honest, original, candid, unpretentious, and unflinchingly straight-from-the-heart. His mind may be clouded, but his intention is clear and concise. He sings in earnest about everyday truths according to Wesley Willis. His songs are generally simple, enjoying the same structure/chorus (where the song's title is always repeated), the complements of his programmed keyboard and of a lousy short-term memory. Every song finishes with Wesley intoning "Rock over London/Rock on Chicago" and is ended by a product tag line. "Taco Bell, make a run for the border," "Becks, the world's number-one imported beer," and so on.

Sometimes disturbing, sometimes caustic, often funny, Willis writes songs of the human condition that are to the point. Love: "You are my friend/I like you a lot/You are on my side/I love you like Post Raisin Bran." Frustration: "Let me find another job/It doesn't pay me enough money at all/I want a better one/I'm going to tell you this/Fuck you." Even hair care: "Get the rats nest off your head/Get that crazy-ass mother off your skull/Take your ass down to the barber shop/Tell the barber that you're sick of looking like an asshole/Cut the mullet."

But while Willis's songs are sometimes fantasy -- "I Wupped Batman's Ass," "The Chicken Cow," and "Vampire Bat" are products of a fertile mind -- he tends to sing about things he knows ("They Threw Me Out of Church," "Chronic Schizophrenia," and "Harmony Joy Bus Ride"), or things that turn him on ("Arnold Schwarzeneggar," "Al Capone," and "Wesley Willis"). Chances are, if Wes likes you, he'll make you into a song.

Which is another aspect of his appeal: there is a discernible amount of love for life in his tunes, translating as unfettered honesty. It's a love readily returned by insider big deals, as well as by the public. It's why Wormtown is champing at the bit for a chance to see the man this Sunday. In a time of rap-core phonies and one-hit R&B wonders, Wesley Willis, through little more than sheer determination and a head full of trouble, has become a bonified rock legend.

When asked of his formidable fan club and of his wide-reaching appeal, Willis says, "It's cool, it makes myself feel great. I don't worry about the demons when I play live. They leave me alone." He then shifts gears and says, "Say Rauwk. . ."

"Rauwk," I reply.

"Say Rowl!"

"Rowl!"

He laughs and, just like that, I'm accepted. The fog he was in seems to have lifted, however briefly, and Willis (who makes a point of telling me to call back anytime) decides that he'd like to take a crack at drawing again. After all, he's got a tour to conduct; he'll need a lot of merchandise to push. As far as Worcester is concerned, there'll be plenty of people lined up, waving $20 bills, waiting for the chance to knock heads with the man and say "Rauwk."

Rock over London.

Rock on Chicago.

Wormtown: You're Gonna Catch Hell.