Before his untimely death from leukemia in 2003, Wesley Willis was about as unlikely a rock star as there could be. Coming from a poor family, Willis spent most of his early adulthood drifting through Chicago suffering from chronic schizophrenia. As Chris Bagley and Kim Shively’s documentary, Wesley Willis’s Joyrides, illustrates, Willis often found sanctuary from his mental illness in rock ’n’ roll, and eventually fronted the short-lived punk band The Wesley Willis Fiasco. After the Fiasco broke up, Willis set off on a solo career that would see him develop a large, dedicated cult following — a surprising accomplishment considering that Willis couldn’t really sing, had a penchant for cheesy, preprogrammed keyboard demo tracks and wrote songs that were structurally identical to one another. Still, he was a captivating force and Joyrides features interviews with dozens of people whose lives he touched.
“I first met Wesley at a concert in Denver,” Shively recalls. “He was, of course, a bit intimidating at first, but he was in a good mood that night and was asking for head butts from everyone he met. Once I had my first head butt from him I felt more at ease. I think in a way it was his way of saying, ‘I'm OK with you.’”
These head butts — which are more friendly greetings than aggressive attacks — are in full display in Joyrides, and are just one of the many elements that contributed to Willis’s odd charisma. The film also explores a part of Willis’s character that many of his fans may not have been aware of — his visual art. Though his talents as a musician may have been suspect, Joyrides reveals Willis is an enormously talented, if unrefined, visual artist with a flair for drawing buildings that would make most architects jealous.
“We really didn't know the history of his artwork or the amount of drawings he had done,” Shively says. “He was still doing amazing drawings when we knew him, but it wasn't until after he passed away that we discovered this unbelievable body of work through some of his friends and art patrons. Chris and I both feel his art is just as important as his music.”
As impressive as his drawings are, music is where Willis made his most indelible mark. While his cult following is undeniable, there’s always been something a little uncomfortable about Willis’s semi-fame. With songs like “I Whupped Batman’s Ass,” “Rock ’n’ Roll McDonald’s” and “Suck a Caribou’s Ass,” there was an element of humour in Willis’s music, but to this day it’s uncertain how many of his fans were trying to understand his output in the context of his schizophrenia and how many were simply laughing at him.
“There were people who exploited Wesley and people who laughed at him, but Wesley was able to rise above that,” Shively says. “His path in life was to be a performer and an artist, and there was no stopping him. Maybe his schizophrenia made him more susceptible to exploitation at times, but conversely, he was also able to exploit his audience in a way that most performers can't. He utilized everything he had as a performer.”
Unfortunately, Willis’s willingness to give it his all on tour often had negative impacts on both his physical and mental health, which ultimately contributed to his demise. What he left behind includes dozens of albums, thousands of drawings, many dedicated fans and, now, a touching documentary that fully demonstrates just how unlikely a rock star and how interesting an individual Willis was.
