Al Wilson was one of those guys.
He’s dead now. Died about seven years ago. A year before he died, there was a fire in his garage, and it burned all the master tapes of his recordings. He must have died wondering why the universe was trying to scrub itself of him.
I like reading about people like Al Wilson. He was a good singer, of course, but not gifted or anything. He learned to sing in church in Mississippi. His family moved to San Berdoo, and Al got jobs as a janitor, a clerk of some sort, and a postman, according to Wikipedia. He taught himself to play drums for some reason. He joined the Navy. He tried to become a stand-up comedian, but only so he’d still have a job if singing didn’t work out. He hustled. I admire people who hustle.
He ended up in various club groups in the sixties, and he had a minor hit which I don’t remember, but I was in second grade, I think, so forgive me. Then, nothing.
Lots of people have that nothing on their CV for long periods of time. I’m sure it wasn’t anything truly resembling nothing. It was the kind of nothing that regular people find necessary from time to time. Furious activity is nothing. Despair is a blip on a resume, sometimes. Many people plug away anyway, mostly because there’s really no alternative. I imagine he never worked harder than he did when the Internet says he was busy doing nothing. I can only imagine the convergence of cupidity and caprice that made the someones that decide such things decide to make Al Wilson famous in 1973.
Look how happy he made the people in the audience, just to hear their favorite song one more time. He probably didn’t feel like it at the time, but his garage gave him the Viking funeral he deserved.