To
be awakened at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning
by a “long distance” ring from Sacramento is not what
I would call charming. Unless it was Sonny telling me how clear
the skies were from down there in the Delta plains urging me
to get out of bed and shoot some snow covers for Heckler in
the “sicky powder.” However, winter was quite over
and my semi-conscious mind deciphered a different message. One
that was oddly enough, from a friend here in Reno through the
speaker of my Sonysonic. “Hey Chris, it’s Lauren.
Are you asleep? I just wanted to tell you to come over Sunday
night cause Wesley Willis is playing in my garage. I also wanted
to call Brad Oates while I’m down here, but I need his
number. So waaaake up, waaaaaaake uuuuup, waaaaaake uuuup!”
Suddenly I awoke from my bed like it was on fire and stumbled
to pick up the phone dream folds away in the other room.
“Hello, Lauren are you there?!”
After a brief discussion I went back to bed and Brad later called
me that day when I was out eating breakfast. He left a message,
but in more of a somber Oatesy kinda mood, “Carnel, yeah
sorry but my car is in the shop till Tuesday and I can’t
make it to Reno on such short notice although I really wanna
go and interview Wesley. You should bust it though, it will
be rad.”
So having no real previous knowledge of Wesley Willis except
for hearing a song or two over the radio (which I seldom listen
to anymore) I decided to do the following story, wing it style.
I pulled up to the two car garage northwest Reno home the next
evening as the street was full of stickered cars. Kids and older
people alike started showing up having to go through security,
tenant and ticket seller-Lauren (who was also hoping the cops
weren’t going to show up anytime soon). “Yup, it’s
only Five bucks,” she said sitting on the trunk of a car
in her driveway next to her roommate Joe. “And yes Wesley
is playing a little later.” There was the man named Wesley
Willis back near the garage door but off to the side alone,
doing his own thing. “Actually he’s right there if
you wanna meet him,” Lauren told everyone, “You just
have to head butt him hahaha.” A big black guy in his thirties
(which I later learned is diagnosed Schizophrenic and hails
from Chicago), was sporting some worn and faded out green sweats.
He looked to weigh about 275 pounds and was rocking back and
forth in this small wooden chair with a mantra on his CD player
holder unit rigged around his neck and the music through his
headphones (far from any stereotypical musician type).
The schedule was that Wesley would play after local bands, The
Scurvy Bastards, Death Destructor Times 13 and then the band
that he was touring with called Pez.
In comparison to highly publicized $50.00 music events tagged
with an “Extreme” metaphor and a five course pop-punk
weekend blow-up at Heavenly Valley or something, this was a
unique and rare show.
“Hey, wanna buy CD, how bout a shirt?!” he was yelling
out, in a slurry kind of demeanor. A self promoter self merchandiser;
but everyone kept their distance. We didn’t know what to
expect, except for one kid with a jean jacket adorned with punk
rock patches and shit, but a total fan who was stoked and unhesitantly
walked right up to him.
“Say Rawwwwwwwww,” Wesley said in his baritone voice
that would shake the ground as the sun was setting a red glow
through the sky above. “Uhh-Rock.” “Say Rowwwww!,”
Wes said as the kid only millimeters from touching him face
to face replied, ”Rooooollll.” Wesley’s face
lit up with a smile. “Oh yeeeeeeeah, come ‘ear and
give me da head butt!” he slurred in a warbled voice akin
to Fat Albert. As they met head to head, butting for about twenty
seconds as Wesley’s flesh padded scar on his forehead became
apparent. He then flipped to salesman mode. “Come on, buy
my CD, buy shirt.” “For how much?” the kid asked.
“Ten dolla for a shirt, ten dolla for CD,” Wesley
replied. “All I have is eight dollars, will you sell me
a shirt for Eight bucks?” The kid pleaded trying to work
him down in price. “How ‘bout I sell you a shirt and
a CD for twenty dollars, or just a shirt for ten,” Wesley
offered. There was no deal; they just shook hands, connected
and everything was hilariously cool. “I’m Wesley Willis,
nice to meet ya.” With a huge smile on his face Willis
turned to the kid’s girlfriend as she politely stepped
back not wanting to butt heads and looked at his most recent
recordings. “How but you? Wanna buy a shirt or a C.D.?”
She then busted out a ten dollar bill and bought the CD. This
scenario went on for a few hours as a barrage of people showed
up (most of them also sharing a head butt) to soon witness the
man with just his keyboard play some tunes. Being quite nervous
about asking Wesley a bunch of straightforward questions rapid
fire I was wondering if he would kick my ass or something crazy,
so I had my friend Bob Conrad (who’s written for Punk Planet
and Heckler as well) give me some moral support. We both introduced
ourselves and head butted Wesley later that evening in the driveway
before he walked away and into the house. He was back sitting
alone at the table in the kitchen and I figured it would be
the only chance we could bust out the recorder and catch him
off guard by himself.Bob: Hey Wesley, we’re from a publication
called Heckler Magazine and we want to interview you right now.
Is that cool?
W.W.:
(With his face stuffed full of food) Huhhhh, never heard of
it. What’s dat?
C.C.: Heckler is a Snowboard, Skateboard and Music magazine
and we want to do a story on you.
W.W.: (20 second pause) What da’ fuck is that shit, godamn
mutha fucka (staring into space, babbling into oblivion).
Bob: We are recording right now and we wanna know are you happy
to play for Reno. Are you happy to be here?
W.W.: Yes. Ahhh (30 seconds pass, no answer).
C.C.: What do you think of Reno? It should be a good show, huh?
W.W.: (30 seconds pass again) Yeah, rip this mutha fucka!
Bob: What was that Wesley?
W.W: (Almost immediately) Sayyyyd I’m gonna rip this mutha
Fucka up!!
(Everyone in the vicinity laughs.)
Bob: So how’s the road been treating you?
Wesley: (30 seconds no answer).
Bob: So Wesley, how have things been on this tour.
Wesley: (1 minute, no response as he stares into space. And
then loads another donut into his mouth).
He stood up out of his chair as the guitar player from Pez and
Lauren simultaneously came in from the garage.
Lauren: “Hey Wesley are you ready? You’re on right
now!”
He waltzed over, opened the door looked into a garage super
packed with kids hanging off the rafters and people randomly
standing on storage boxes and shit. He could only reply, “Holy
fuckin’ shit this place is crowded. Fuckin’ Reno,
let’s whip the fuckin’ shit up!!” Everyone cheered
on Wesley in unison as the laminated lyric sheets came out of
his bag and the monotone sampled beats soon erupted from his
keyboard. After playing classics like “Eddie Vedder”
and “Pearl Jam,” he swung around in his seat sweating
like a madman, dug into his gear bag and pulled out more lyric
sheets. The kid from earlier was super psyched now and yelled,
“Yeah Wesley, play Rock N’ Roll McDonalds, we wanna
hear Rock N’ Roll Mcdonalds!”
“Fuck dat shit, dat place will motha fuckin kill ya!”
Wesley Wills sporadically replied as everyone clapped and erupted
in laughter.
“Fuckin’ Reno, let’s whip the fuckin’ shit
up!!”
To
be awakened at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning
by a “long distance” ring from Sacramento is not what
I would call charming. Unless it was Sonny telling me how clear
the skies were from down there in the Delta plains urging me
to get out of bed and shoot some snow covers for Heckler in
the “sicky powder.” However, winter was quite over
and my semi-conscious mind deciphered a different message. One
that was oddly enough, from a friend here in Reno through the
speaker of my Sonysonic. “Hey Chris, it’s Lauren.
Are you asleep? I just wanted to tell you to come over Sunday
night cause Wesley Willis is playing in my garage. I also wanted
to call Brad Oates while I’m down here, but I need his
number. So waaaake up, waaaaaaake uuuuup, waaaaaake uuuup!”
Suddenly I awoke from my bed like it was on fire and stumbled
to pick up the phone dream folds away in the other room. 
W.W.:
(With his face stuffed full of food) Huhhhh, never heard of
it. What’s dat?