Others, almost none. A guy named Brett Smiley died the other day, and he had some kind of interesting story of rockin' insanity.
The brief obits around the Net say he was a "glam rock" guy but that his ONE album, produced by the infamous Andrew Loogie Oldham, was shelved back in the day, and only two songs were released. The album didn't get into stores until a few years ago.
There's supposedly a book about his rise and fall. It's said that he appeared in the Broadway production of "Oliver," but I have no idea if he played the lead or was just one of the boys. While I check that out, here's a very interesting post about him.
It's here just to contrast all the Bowie shit. A lot of people have interesting stories, and it's sad that almost nobody's reading about Brett Smiley, and instead fawning about the "long, pendulous cock" of the Thin White Duke, and looking at idiot pix of him with his dopey make-up on.
Yeah, seems like the typical self-destructive sensitive artist...going nuts, taking drugs, living a marginal existence, being too high-strung to help himself or to have friends willing to put up with him.
The rest of the memoir:
I have known Brett for some years now, going back to our poignant meeting in the seventies at Southern California's Camarillo Developmental Center-then known as Camarillo State Hospital-where Brett was forcibly committed via ambulance (after a scuffle at Cedars Sinai Center) in an effort to treat his drug and alcohol addiction. I met him when, as a brand-new, green as grass psychiatric technician recruit student, I toured the facility's drug and alcohol treatment ward. Brett approached me quietly from behind, startling me, as he spoke (in a very quiet voice) all about the hell he was going through with the staff. "The food here isn't fit to eat!" he declared, telling me about the argument he was having with one psychiatric technician in particular. "I told her 'I'm Keith Richards! I shouldn't have to eat this garbage!' and she told me I was nobody special; take it or leave it."
At that time he had exhausted all his available cash to buy some "decent" food to eat from the Patient's Canteen. Lucky for him, my mother had given me a fresh, crisp $20 bill in order to be able to buy myself something to eat that day. I slipped it into his hand, but not before one of the ward staff spotted me. The result: my career as a psych tech almost ended before it had even begun. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?!" roared my tour instructor, putting her big, fat face directly into mine, menacingly. "You were told with the rest of the recruits to stay the hell with the group, not wander around talking with the patients who are here to receive treatment! Do you realize what the hell you've done? You've committed a serious infraction: you've passed what amounts to CONTRABAND to that idiot! Now an SIR (Special Incident Report) will have to be filled out by myself before the end of today, and both myself and YOU TOO will have to undergo an 'interview' by a hospital investigator, the report of which will have to be reviewed by everyone from hospital police right up to the hospital's executive director!" I stood there shaking like a leaf, convinced that I was going to jail before the day was through! Of more importance, I was deathly afraid of facing the wrath of my stern mother. How was I gonna possibly be able to explain to her how I got tossed out of the psych tech program BEFORE my classes had even started? Thank god, I never did get hauled over to the investigator's office, and-more important-I was later accepted into the Psychiatric Technician Training Program.
Years later in the early 2000s, I stumbled upon Brett again on that wonderful, now almost forgotten, social media site known as MySpace. I had received an invitation to befriend Brett. By that time, so much (almost none of it good) had happened to Brett that he looked very different from the young man I had met that day in Camarillo. In the years that had followed that meeting, Brett's body had been assaulted by both HIV and hepatitis. In those days prior to today's advancements in drug treatment, HIV was commonly a "death sentence" for almost anyone who was diagnosed with it. Everyone that is except one: Brett Smiley. Somehow, I reckon by sheer force of will, Brett had managed to survive not one but two serious, life-threatening, concurrent diseases. Talk about a 'Miracle Man.' Just incredible.
Brett talked about what was happening in his life, excited about the renewed public interest in his music from the seventies. He was especially pleased about his 'cult classic' album Breathlessly Brett getting a re-release. He told me that he had long ago moved from Los Angeles to New York City, where he was now living in a fully restored, historic, red brick building that had infamously been a popular gangster hideout in the "Roaring Twenties" : 401 Hicks St., Brooklyn, NY. He was occupying # B4E, where almost every day was a struggle for him just to survive. "I have to go to court with the landlord" Brett told me. "He keeps trying to get me evicted or at least raise the rent, even though I live in a rent-controlled building and he knows that I'm living on SSI." When I asked Brett where the money was coming from to pay the rent, Brett told me that he was playing sporadically in smallish NYC clubs, in addition to the money he received from rental of the Los Angeles-based home that he still owned. I asked him "Why not come back to Los Angeles? At least you own that home!" Brett replied "Are you joking? After all the troubles I got into when I lived there I will never return to Los Angeles ever again!"
Brett and I kept in touch mostly through social media, since he wasn't the best at returning calls or popping off an email, much less actually using snail-mail. It was tricky actually catching him by phone, largely because there was no rhyme or reason to the hours he kept. Last Summer, I called him at 11 pm, and he had awoken only minutes prior to my call. "What time is it?" he asked. "About 11 pm your time" I answered. "I hope I didn't wake you up. I know you tend to be a 'night owl.' " "No problem. Are you sure it's 11 pm? It feels like early morning! I'm never quite sure what time it is when I'm up, because I usually just sit in the dark with the curtains shut, sipping my tea. Bright sunlight bothers my eyes, and there's really nothing going on outside I need to worry about anyway."
I asked him if he would be interested in guesting on my friend Rew Starr's popular internet variety show 'The Rew & Who Show', to which Brett launched into a long, rambling diatribe: "I know Rew. I've been on the show before, but it's been a long time. Does she REALLY want me on her show? I'm not sure if I'm up to doing her show. I'd like to be on the show...if I'm up to it. I'd need to pull my band together...or maybe I should just perform solo? Did you say that Alan Merrill was gonna be the guest host? I know Alan; we've played together on the same stage. Would ALAN want me on the show? I wonder if Alan would want us to do a song together? I hope that no one tries to offer me any drinks from the bar (the show is filmed in NYC's famous Tiki Bar "Otto's Shrunken Head")! You know that I CANNOT drink anymore! Please remind everyone that I don't drink anymore. Do you REALLY think I should come on the show?!" As he spoke, I could hear the stress level rising in his voice, ending in a crescendo with the last sentence he spoke. "Don't worry about it, Brett" I told him. "It was just an idea of mine."
We last spoke about two months ago. After I hung up, I was in literal tears. In all the years I had known him Brett had never sounded so ill in body and mind. He struggled to keep his thoughts coherent, as ideas went bouncing here and there in his conversation. "I think my roommate is bugging this phone!" he told me. "The line makes a tapping sound when I use this phone! Don't call me on this line anymore! Here, call me back at this number (916...). My roommate is trying to get me evicted! I've cut a deal with the landlord that if I get this room cleaned up and painted then everything is okay. I've been trying to get this room painted all by myself, but I'm getting nowhere with the job! There's a ton of stuff here that I can't get rid of because it belongs to other people! There's a table here that a girl left and never came back for! I don't know what to do with it...or any of the other stuff! WHY do people do this to me?! They know I can't say 'No!' I've been feeling really bad lately. I'm so tired all the time and my skin looks terrible! I have to keep putting moisturizer on it. I think I've lost more weight; I sometimes forget to eat. Eating something makes me feel a little better. What time is it? I can't remember when I went to bed! I can't remember when I woke up!"
Very worried, I told Brett: "I know that you'll never return to Southern California, but maybe you'd like to come here. I live in the Central Valley of California, which is altogether different from the Southern end of the state. It's so quiet here that you can hear a pin drop! In the morning all you hear are the doves cooing! This time of the year is a great time to visit! The weather cools down and lots of rain makes all the hills turn a bright green! Good food is abundant and cheap as chips to buy! You can stay with me for as long as you like for FREE; I won't charge you a cent to stay here! About 40 miles away each direction are the cities of Bakersfield and Visalia. Both have a lot of fun, smallish clubs you could get paid to perform at! There's at least one good local restaurant in town that if I talk to the management I think I could score you a regular engagement at: Don Vito's." Brett declined. "Awww, that's so sweet of you to offer!" he observed. "Well, I don't wanna...I don't think that I can make the long trip right now. I don't have the money, and I might have to make a trip soon to Florida to try to settle a legal matter. I really appreciate the offer, though."
However, a few minutes later, Brett flew into a panic at the mere suggestion that I have a friend come over to Brett's home to help out with sorting through all the stuff and lending a hand at getting the room painted. "WHY are you harassing me about this?!" he demanded to know. You're making me upset, just cool it! Why are you trying to worry me about all this?! Just COOL IT! I'll get it done, eventually!" "Don't worry about it, Brett" I softly told him. "It was just an idea of mine."
Typical of Brett when he thought that he upset you, he shot me a private message (via Facebook) almost immediately after I hung up the phone: "Sorry if I acted such an emotional wreck. Eating something seems to help. You really seem so sweet. Let me eat.." Those were the last words we exchanged.
A longtime friend of Brett Smiley's, legendary singer/songwriter/musician and model Alan Merrill had this to say when he was informed of his friend's demise, "I was happy to meet him on this life path, and he was a great friend to have. He will always be remembered as an original, unique artist. He's left behind a fine body of work in his artistic endeavors; both musical and in film. He will be sorely missed. Much love to you Brett. You're one of the angels now, and I just know those wings will look fabulous on you!"
Goodbye, Sweetheart. You are indeed one of the angels now...and you always were.
#
Ahem.
I don't know about that "Goodbye, Sweetheart" line. And I don't want to. But it was a good article up till then. It reminded me of some singer/songwriters I've known or interviewed. There are a lot of colorful people in the world...some famous, some has-beens, some never-was-known-to-many.
IF I'M BEING HONEST, this guy did not have much in the way of credits. He played one of the boys in "Oliver" and was an understudy for the lead kid? That's nothing. Just how he got Oldham's attention and was photographed looking like he belonged with Bolan and Bowie, I have no idea. But to have spent most of his 60 years without the album released is pathetic.
Despite his lack of fame, fame, fame, the guy certainly had an interesting story, and sometimes stories of failure are more interesting than stories of fame. Maybe some space could've been taken from all those fucking Bowie articles to give a little to this Smiley guy, who wasn't smiling much in his later years, and sure ain't smiling now.
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