Willis Earl Beal isn’t your average 28-year-old
COMMENTARY The itinerant singer-songwriter doesn’t relate to people his own age, and doesn’t particularly like performing live
We’ll begin with a story: Deeply introspective, socially awkward Southside Chicago boy with a penchant for poetry, sketch art and making music (despite no formal music training) develops a romanticized notion of the desert and moves to Albuquerque. The early-twentysomething quickly discovers that the Great American Desert has little in common with the oncegreat American dream and, with pockets as empty as the New Mexico night sky, ends up living on the street.
Feeling the loneliness of the desert, if nothing else, he starts leaving hand-drawn want ads for female companionship all over town, a notable one of which featured a sombrelooking portrait of himself duded up in a suit (complete with polka-dot bow tie) accompanied by the memorable entreaty: “I’m not some flashy, excessively sweet food. I’m more like a biscuit. I compliment [sic] meals & sandwiches or else I can even be used to sop the gravy. So come on now, call me.”
In addition to the posters, the young man was also creating CDS of home-recorded songs, some that were so naked and raw they sounded as though they were ripped screaming from the centre of his being, others that were so lowly and lonesome that they barely registered a heartbeat. It was a kind of desertified urban anti-folk, made with whatever instrumentation he could get his hands on. Equal parts improvisation and experimentation, with a shockingly powerful and soulful voice steering the lyrics, these songs formed the basis of what was to be – courtesy of some indie music scene benefactors, intrigued by the curiosity in their midst – his debut album, Acousmatic Sorcery.
And that, nutshell style, is the story of Willis Earl Beal, cult musician in the making.
Beal’s backstory is as catnip to the chattering hipster classes who, semi-intoxicated on his tale, have been pawing all over him for the last year. Does this ravenous appetite for the cult mythologies of the marginalized (a relentless, if self-serving, quest for authenticity that has not been averse to manufacturing its own heroes) have Beal concerned that people are putting too much focus on him as opposed to his music?
“Absolutely,” says the now New York-based Beal. “I’m not entirely sure how I feel about people focusing on my story. I really get tired of my story because I’ve already lived that … Sometimes I get bitter about it, especially since some critics have said that Acousmatic Sorcery is not good, or unlistenable or whatever. I get pretty defensive. And then they say, ‘The only reason (he’s getting attention) is because of his story.’
“But, y’know, that pisses me off because I can f---ing sing. I’m a really great singer, and Acousmatic Sorcery doesn’t reflect that. The only way they can ever know that I’m a great singer is to watch some f---ing Youtube videos and come to my live shows. So I feel like I’m kind of fighting for my artistic identity, but I’m also fighting for my … I don’t know. I feel like I’m in some sort of battle, but I don’t know who with. And it’s good for me to be in this battle – it’s better than just a malaise of nothing.”
At 28, Beal doesn’t seem to share many, if any, of the same interests as people his age, ranging from music (his tastes tend to bygone eras, folks like Bo Diddley) to other forms of popular and Web-based culture (don’t expect to find him tweeting any time soon – he has derided the Internet as soul destroying).
“I guess it’s because I don’t really have any interests,” he says with blunt indifference. (All of his answers are delivered in an unfailingly frank and forthright manner, and after an almost uncomfortably long pause that takes some getting used to.) “Like, I’m hardly even interested in music. The reason I don’t have the same interests as people my age is because they’re very fast, and they’re going in a lot of different directions, moving very quickly. And I’ve never related to that because I’ve never felt like I was sharp enough to talk to people my age.
“Not to say that older people are stupid, but they’re a lot more willing to pay attention to certain idiosyncrasies, certain in-between things. They have more spacing in between their minds and their lives and experiences. Whereas young people try to concentrate all their efforts in blocks of time – do you know what I mean?” To hell with it, we’ll go with yes. “It’s just too intense for me.” On the topic of intensity, Beal’s live show is as, well, idiosyncratic as he is. For the most part he performs solo, singing over instru- mental backing tracks – some of which are fairly rudimentary, others more complex – recorded to, of all things, tape.
“We’ve got a reel-to-reel machine which we put on the stage,” explains Beal. “I turn it on and off to start and stop a song, rewind it, whatever. So it’s cool to look at. And it’s also good for me because I’m kinda lazy and, you know, sometimes I just need to pause and have a drink.
“It’s minimalistic, but I’m convinced you’ll enjoy it.”
If a live performance of the plaintive and powerful song Evening’s Kiss earlier this month on the U.K.’S long-running Later … with Jools Holland TV show – which saw Beal seated with only an electric guitar, which he laid flat across his lap and played with what appeared to be a toothpick – is any indication, Beal’s conviction is well-founded. And despite his relative lack of experience, Beal says he has crafted a psychological comfort zone when it comes to performing. Sort of.
“I found a place for myself on stage. I know how to change it up; I know how to get out there and work the crowd. And I’ve got some sheer vocal power out there.
“What I don’t enjoy about performing is that I feel like a stripper or a prostitute. I’m out there baring my heart and soul to a bunch of people I don’t really know and I’m doing it so that they can applaud me and tell me that my emotions are valid, or my interpretation of something is validated by their applause. That kind of bothers me. So I have mixed feelings about performing. But ultimately, I guess it’s better than loading a truck or working at a thrift store.”