Between Laughter and Tears: Remembering Wesley Willis

by Michael Muhammad Knight

The wind left my sails a week before I was supposed to be in Chicago for the ISNA convention, when I learned that my friend Wesley Willis had passed away following a hard fight with leukemia in a Prospect Heights, Illinois hospice. Wesley was a 6’5”, 350-pound Mercy to the Worlds.

Though the son of a Muslim, Wesley was Christian. Though not a Christian myself, I saw a lot of Christ-ness in him. Wesley came from the “least” of society: squalid Chicago projects, surrounded by poverty, crime, drugs, abuse and a hellish family life. In 1989, at twenty-six years old, Wesley was diagnosed with chronic schizophrenia. He suffered from audio hallucinations in the form of “demons” who ridiculed him with profanity. Reacting to the voices, Wes would sometimes curse back—unintentionally disturbing or even scaring bystanders. A fellow passenger on the CTA bus, thinking that Wes had sworn at him, slashed his face with a boxcutter. For the rest of his life Wesley wore a long scar across his right cheek.

Despite Wesley’s pain in both his internal and external worlds, he filled everyone around him with absolute love and joy. Wes made hearts glow. He could say something as simple as “you’re a good person” and you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.

In addition to the scar on his cheek, Wesley had a permanent bruise on his forehead. This came from a lifetime of “bumping heads.” For Wesley the headbutt was a gesture of affection, but sometimes you’d have to ask him to go easy. There are motifs in Islamic literature of Muslims whose foreheads became calloused from repeated performances of sujdah, and traditions claim that on the Day of Judgment a believer’s forehead would come up shining. With this in mind I took Wesley’s bruise to be the mark of a genuine saint.

Wes loved music, and he loved rock n’ roll unconditionally. One day while playing Rancid in the car (to hear Wesley’s rendition of “Salvation” was priceless) I asked Wes what his favorite band was, and he replied, “Rancid.” I asked him again the next day with Nirvana playing, and he replied, “Nirvana.” To me it showed how much Wesley got out of every moment.

And Wesley would become a rock star himself. Tirelessly prolific, his true discography may never be known. Wesley was said to have recorded in the range of fifty albums and written two thousand songs. He counted among his fans Eddie Vedder and Billy Corgan and once toured across the country opening for Sublime.

Wesley’s music consisted of him talking and singing to a preprogrammed keyboard beat (usually “Country Rock 8”) about friends, bands, bus rides and everyday experiences. He also sang a lot of what he called “bestiality songs” which were directed at his demons. Music was Wesley’s therapy. Whether listening on his headphones, performing at a show or basking in love from his fans, the good sounds drowned out bad voices in Wesley’s head. For many, however, Wesley’s true gift was his drawing. His brilliant cityscapes sold for hundreds of dollars a piece. I own a poster-sized drawing by Wes of the closed psychiatric hospital next to Buffalo State College.

When Wes called me in early 2003 to say that he was sick, he spoke of leukemia as he had of his demons. “Leukemia can kiss my ass,” he said. “I won’t let that leukemia bring me down. That leukemia wants to put me in my grave but I will not let it.” He asked me if people died from leukemia. I didn’t know what to say.

Originally scheduled to hit Chicago for ISNA on Friday, I left early for Wesley’s memorial on Wednesday. As I sat at the Buffalo Greyhound station on the evening of August 25, watching a line of buses that could just as well have been lifted from Wesley’s drawings, the Earth was closer to Mars than it had been in 59,619 years. I did not know what to do with that other than recognize that it was an odd time.

I arrived in Chicago at around noon and then wandered with no idea where to go until finding myself on the UIC campus shuffling along concrete walkways with expressionless students. Eventually I asked for directions and was steered toward the CTA train. I rode the blue line to N. Western Avenue and lugged my big bag to John Rago and Sons Memorial Chapel. Bought a Brisk at the nearby gas station and chilled on the curb. I went to the service at four and was greeted by his former roommate, Carla Winterbottom. I looked straight ahead and there he was: in a sharp suit and tie, hands folded, eyes closed, with the big headphones he carried at all times. I kneeled at the casket.

And he was thin. God, he was thin.

I met his friends Tammy Smith (whose name I had known for years from Wesley’s song about her) and Dennis Cooper, who sported bright pink hair and a black shalwar chemise. Wesley’s brother Ricky was there and took an interest in my Wesley Willis hoodie. “Good news is rock n’ roll,” it said on the back, accompanied by Wesley’s face. Photocopied pages of Wesley’s lyrics lined every wall. “At least I’m not a violent criminal,” read one.

More of Wesley’s family came in—brothers Jerry and Michael (who looked too much like Wes) and father Walter Willis Shabazz. The room filled with friends, ranging from Jim Simm, the former manager of Genesis Art Store, to Dale Meiners to Jello Biafra. I walked around reading press clippings and studying photo collages—Wesley at the beach, Wesley with a newborn baby, Wesley at various cities, Wesley all dressed up at gallery showings, Wesley with guys like Gavin Rossdale from Bush and one of the Gallagher brothers from Oasis. Several get-well cards were displayed, including one from Hank Williams III asking Wes to realize how appreciated he was. The service celebrated Wesley’s boundless humor, joy and pride in himself as an artist. Songs were played, a brief film montage was shown and Jello Biafra led us all in a musical tribute. Most of us alternated evenly between laughter and tears.

Download (mp3) Wesley Willis' classic "Rock n Roll McDonald's."

Buy Wesley's music.