Schizo Rock

When you purchase a Wesley Willis CD, you are not just participating in the most pure, hilarious musical trend of the past five years. You are also keeping a troubled homeless man sheltered and well-fed. As you may know, Wesley Willis (that can't be his real name; it's too perfect) is a 300-pound-plus black guy from Chicago. By his own admission, he suffers from chronic schizophrenia and is the son of a crack-smoker. In the eyes of Dave Grohl, Smashing Pumpkins, Mike D and thousands of other (notably white) fans, he's a rock star.

At 3 on a Friday afternoon, he entertained a packed house at Luna Lounge as part of the CMJ Music Festival. What Willis does is play and sing songs on his keyboard. They aren't complicated songs. They are all two and a half to three minutes long. They all involve the same "demo" keyboard setting, set to different tempos and keys. And they have the exact same structure:

Verse 1: Wesley raps four lines with no discernible tune or rhythm. Chorus: Wesley sings a one-line chorus four times. Sometimes this chorus threatens to have a melody. Verse 2: see above. Chorus. Instrumental break: This is the part that tests the devotion of Willis fans. For 1:30, Wesley plays rudimentary key changes and drum fills on his keyboard. There is no other music or vocals. Verse 3: see above. Chorus.

Coda: Wesley says: "Rock over London?rock on Chicago." He then quotes a corporate slogan: "Wheaties, breakfast of champions," "Xerox: it's the document company," etc. End of song.

And what does Willis sing about? Oh, the standard stuff: getting thrown out of church ("They Threw Me Out of Church"), his mental state ("Chronic Schizophrenia"), his friends ("Jello Biafra"), celebrities ("Shaq O'Neal"), his favorite bands ("Nirvana") and rock 'n' roll ("Play That Rock Music," "Rock N' Roll McDonald's"). With this simple formula, he has erected a career that many musicians would kill for, having released more than a dozen albums on Oglio, American Records and Alternative Tentacles. Willis has hundreds of songs on the Internet; he claims to have written thousands. At Luna Lounge, he seemed like a pretty happy guy.

Willis got onstage with his keyboard (no small feat, at 6-foot-5 and 300-plus, remember?) an hour late, in true rock 'n' roll fashion. Once set up with a mic and songbook, he addressed the crowd.

"Say 'ra!'" he ordered. "Ra!" we said. "Say 'ruff!'" "Ruff!" "Say 'rowwwwwwwwww.'"

We said it. I don't know if this was standard procedure or special treatment for the New York audience; it seemed that Wesley's entire repertoire was well planned.

"The first song," he said, thumbing through his book, "is called 'Lick A Donkey's Smelly Ass!'" The audience exploded with laughter.

I almost forgot: a large percentage of Willis' songs describe oral acts on animals: "Suck An Ibex's Bootyhole," "Taste a Mountain Goat's Ass," "Drink My Doberman's Piss" and so forth.

"Yeah. 'Lick A Donkey's Smelly Ass,'" Wesley repeated. He started his keyboard and played the song. See the outline above if you need a reminder. The chorus was, naturally, "Lick a donkey's smelly ass!" And as the tune played out, dilettantes fled to Luna Lounge's bar. The Wesley Willis faithful moved forward and listened.

Between songs two and three, Wesley asked the poignant question: "Am I a bad person?"

"No!" we all yelled. "Am I a bum?" "No!" "Am I a jerk?" "No!" "You're a rock star!" one fan near the front of the stage offered, and Willis ate it up. "I'm a rock star," he said quietly, smiling, as he went into the next song.

Song four was "Good Sweet Tea," obviously a just-composed ditty about the iced tea Wesley was drinking. By this time, I was getting pretty tired of his act, but I stuck with him, marveling at how he rocked out to his keyboard and played everything with one finger (he only needs one to make the critical key changes in his songs). There's something glorious about a guy with a shtick so simple and right. Willis' songs remind you of the stuff you had in your head when you were six, and you can't help but get caught up in his enthusiasm.

There were some flubs?about three times Willis stopped a few bars in, saying, "Oh fuck it!" because a song's tempo and key were incorrect. Also at one point, an audience member requested a number and Wesley snapped at him: "Why are you trying to derail my joyride?" After his final tune, the especially nonsensical "I Twack You," Wesley received a standing ovation from the 40-plus in attendance.

When he got offstage, I met with him, got a CD signed (if he ever makes it big, Wesley's going to have forgery problems?his signature is in the simple script of a fourth-grader) and received a few head butts. Head butts are how Wesley shows love. If he likes you, he'll shake your hand, but if he thinks you're a true fan, he'll give you a head butt.

Conspicuously absent from the show were black people. They rightfully don't see the humor in a huge black semi-retard playing a keyboard. The implied racism of being a Wesley Willis fan (helped by the fact that he was mocked on Howard Stern) is the sad barrier between him and cultural acceptance. Willis knows this: his latest album is called Never Kill An Ape.

But even if it makes me a racist, I'm seeing Wesley the next time he comes to New York (and avoiding his contemptible imitator, Atom and His Package). Race doesn't matter when a huge man with a simple gift grabs your neck and gives you a head butt.