JW Walk

Mylon LeFevre, Fox and His Friends, Brian Wilson, Nightbeast, Christian Ventriloquism

I took a long walk with my friend JW yesterday. He wanted to go to this new record store a mile and a half away, and I had nothing to do, so I said sure.

Earlier that morning, my priest had stood before the congregation and said something along the lines of (I’m paraphrasing), “Every so often, some idiot in stupid robes stands up in front of everyone and tries to make sense of the Trinity. That’s my job today. I worked on a whole sermon trying to make sense of the Trinity. It’s right here in front of me. Nonsense. Pure rubbish. I don’t even want to preach it anymore. You have to be a fool to try and make sense of the Trinity. Instead I’m going to talk about how important it is to not try and make sense of things, and just sort of do your best to live in them.”

So yeah, let’s walk to this record store.

It was fine! It was a record store! I did score a copy of Mylon LeFevre and Broken Hearts’s Sheep in Wolves Clothing, which is a real blast from my Evangelical past. I’ve started collecting Christian ephemera, Lord knows why. I’ve got a collection of Christian ventriloquism records, a genre that makes absolutely zero sense, whose covers are often horrifying.

A Christian ventriloquist actually played a very important role in my life. I’ll leave his name out so I don’t get sued. But I remember him prophesying once at my old church about Heaven through the mouth of a duck puppet. He said Heaven was a garden where when you walk, the flowers turn their heads to look at you. He said it in this stupid lisping Donald Duck accent, a yellow duck puppet on his hand, mouthing away. It remains one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard a person say.

But the highlight of the walk was where JW wanted to sit down, because he is refreshingly low energy. He asked me to take a picture of him next to a decaying statue, which I was happy to oblige. He was looking very Fox and His Friends.

On the way back, we talked a little about Brian Wilson dying, which is kind of like a god dying, and Beach Boys harmonies are the basis of my understanding of the Trinity anyway (several distinct things being one). I had the occasion to tell the story of the one guy I ever knew who met Brian Wilson. His name is Justin Roberts, and he’s a great children’s musician and a very nice man I met once at a book conference, following the one rule a friend gave me about book conferences: if you don’t know who to talk to, find the person who looks like they could have been in Pavement and talk to them. Generally correct. Justin shared a version of this story on his Instagram, so I don’t think he’ll mind me repeating it here. (As I recall the telling, which could go either way.)

“I was at a music festival, opening the day, soundchecking with ‘Rave On’ by Buddy Holly, like I always do. When I finish, the sound guy asks me to come to the control booth, and to bring my guitar. I get there, and Brian Wilson is sitting there. He asks me to play the song I just played. I tell him, ‘Brian, it’s a Buddy Holly song. You know this one.’ He says yes, and to play it. So I do. And I’m freaking out, playing a song for my hero. I finish, and he tells me to play it again. So I do. Then he says to play it one more time. I kick into it, and Brian comes in with this perfect, unreal Beach Boys harmony. Like he was sitting in that chair, writing it in his head the whole time. And it is just beautiful. I’m near crying. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life. We finish singing together, and all I want is to get him to do it again. To record it and have proof. Didn’t happen. Someone took a picture though.”

I love that story. I think about it almost every day.

As we ended our walk, JW gave me a big hug, welcoming me back to the city, and we parted ways. I went home and proofread a reprint of an Ellery Queen mystery novel and watched the movie Nightbeast, a movie I love. It looks like shit, the acting is terrible, nothing about the plot makes sense. But somehow it works on me. The laser noises, the ridiculous special effects, the bargain bin Tangerine Dream knockoff soundtrack, the sex scene between two very regular-looking people that is so tender and sweet, the genuinely moving sacrifice at the end. I’ll take it over any number of the dour miseryfests I’ve had the misfortune of watching lately. You can make garbage with heart and it beats everything. Even if you don’t have a lick of skill.

I only left the apartment one more time, to buy groceries, and on the way home a cigarette came flying down from above me in like a tiny comet, sparking gold on the pavement ten feet from me. I looked up. An old woman was leaning out her window. She gave me wave.

Beautiful!