Mental Health & Creativity: Sly Stone, Brian Wilson, and Navigating Quiet Struggle

Celebrating the legacies of two genius who overcame so much in their lifetimes.

Picture this: I’m in the middle of working a grueling work week. It’s a massive corporate trade show, I’m juggling enough tasks for five people, and, finally, after 16,000 steps (according to my trusty FitBit, anyway) and too many cups of coffee, I have a few minutes to sit down and go through my smartphone notifications.

The first one that greets me? Brian Wilson, certified legend, one of the most influential voices in pop music history, is dead at 82. This news came only a few days after news of Sly Stone’s passing was shared publicly. In that moment, in the midst of pushing myself beyond exhaustion in another content creation capacity, my initial thought was, “I have to write about them.” I didn’t know how or when I was going to have the time, but I felt so strongly about acknowledging their greatness and influence that I didn’t really care. I would find a way.

So, the wheels started turning. Well, maybe sputtering is a better description. I started outlining album reviews of Pet Sounds and Stand!, one or both of which I may still dive deeper into those works at some point later this year. But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the underlying theme that resonated with me the most was the delicate balance of consistently sharing some kind of creative output with the world without letting your mental health slide down a slippery slope where it impacts your life in a negative way. Easier said than done, but I feel strongly that it’s a conversation worth having, maybe more now than ever before.

Why Creativity Can Be An Unseen War of Attrition

Regardless of what the AI bros and productivity obsessives may tell you these days, creating anything transcendent is hard work. Not just technically hard, either, though the time and effort you have to put into mastering any kind of craft (something something 10,000 hours) is so daunting that the vast majority of people can’t sustain any creative output long-term. It’s not because they’re bad people. They’ve simply got (mostly) good taste and quickly discover how difficult it is to fashion something that meets that high a quality standard.

They’re not putting in the early mornings or late nights, before or after workdays and child care obligations, pouring one’s soul into every word, image, or sound. It’s emotionally hard. In my case, it’s frequently about outlasting your own brain, or perhaps the energy that makes it run, long enough to get something coherent written and published. Managing that process is challenging.

The older I get, the more I notice that most friends or acquaintances can’t relate to this back-and-forth, this internal war of attrition. Again, nothing against them, they’re all lovely people I enjoy spending time with, but, unless you’re familiar with a similar process, there’s no real way to externalize it accurately. It’s normal. Most of the process happens in isolation, at least in my case.

Writing is, by its nature, a solitary exercise. Butt in chair, hands on the keyboard or pen, considering every word choice, every line break, every pause and affectation, all while wrestling with yourself, your baggage, your self-doubt, and the temptation to throw in the towel. No one can do that for you, and, as a result, it’s a kind of labor that very few can truly understand.

Sly Stone and Brian Wilson both lived their versions of this war of attrition, with far more at stake financially or reputationally than I. But while their stories may be more intense or extreme versions of this narrative, they’re far from uncommon.

Sly Stone: Funk’s Legendary Architect, Fighting Inward

I’ve talked a lot in this newsletter about the level of cross-genre influence that can make an artist’s work feel untouchable long after their heyday comes to an end. Sly Stone should be mentioned more often in this category.

His grooves melded the psychedelic and the spiritual, mixing R&B and rock tropes frequently. His family band crossed racial and gender lines in a way that was unprecedented. He rebelled against race restrictions and, in uncannily accessible packaging, managed to write, produce, and perform songs that weren’t just about America as it was back then—it’s about human behavior that, more than 50 years on in some cases, seems unshakeable.

Prince, Outkast, and Kendrick Lamar are just a handful of artists whose artistic lineage can be traced back directly to Sly’s work. At this peak, he was such a singular talent. George Clinton recalled how Stone “could just be sitting there doing nothing and then open his eyes and shock you with a lyric so brilliant that it was obvious no one had ever thought of it before.” But, as his career moved into the mid-70s, his battle with addiction began to suck the life out of his career. Concert and TV dates were missed. The radio hits slowed to a crawl. His band fractured and, in some cases, refused to talk to him. By 1983, there were drug arrests. “Sly never grew out of drugs,” said ex-wife Kathy Silva. “He lost his backbone and destroyed his future.”

From the early-90s onward, his occasional appearances at tribute and awards shows became bittersweet reminders of both his brilliance and his struggles. When his COPD arrived later, it limited his mobility but not his lucidity. “[My health hasn’t] stopped me from hearing music, but [it has] stopped me from making it,” he remarked not long before his death. “I can hear music in my mind.” Behind those words linger decades of private inner turmoil, when all you’re trying to do is stay afloat in a world that offers little grace to those waging invisible wars behind closed doors.

I’m not condoning Sly’s substance-related choices or absolving him of the consequences, but I do wonder what might’ve been if he’d been able to go down a different path, maybe with the more progressive conversations we’re able to have about addiction today.

Brian Wilson: Pop Music Genius, Controlled

If Brian Wilson had rocketed to superstardom now, his story would’ve been a more visible cautionary tale. But, because the Beach Boys rose to prominence in the 60s, his internal collapse looked quite different from the outside. It was quieter, more insidious, and, by his own admission, started a lot earlier.

At 22, his panic attacks started. The voices arrived shortly after: internal whispers that grew into a continuous, terrifying soundtrack, a phenomenon he’d describe as leaving him with “crippling, irrational fear.” His inability to tour led to him retreating to the studio, where he’d craft such masterworks as Pet Sounds and what would later be released as the Smile Sessions. The original version of the latter record was scrapped due to Wilson’s rapidly deteriorating mental state. “We pulled out [...] because I was about ready to die,” he later said of his headspace in 1968. “I was trying so hard. So, all of a sudden, I decided not to try anymore.”

Then, beginning in 1975, you have his relationship with Eugene Landy. What started as therapy turned into a round-the-clock stranglehold over every aspect of Wilson’s life. By 1983, Landy managed everything—Brian’s finances, his social life, even his food, all for the princely sum of $430,000 a year. He misdiagnosed schizophrenia, layered on heavy meds, and systematically cut Brian off from friends and family. For years, Wilson existed under Landy’s thumb. He later admitted to attempting suicide in 1985 due to the suffocating nature of his world.

Oddly enough, Wilson would publicly thank Landy in his twilight years. "I loved the guy—he saved me," he said. But that gratitude is inherently contradictory and, to a degree, comes from an unreliable narrator. How do you separate help from harm when they arrive as one symbiote, whether from the music or healthcare industry? The only part of the arc that seems undeniable is how much his quality of life improved after Melinda Ledbetter entered it. Later becoming his wife, manager, and anchor, she helped Brian return to public life and, eventually, touring and recording. Under those circumstances, that we got Smile at all is borderline miraculous.

The Cost of Creating: What the Data Can Tell Us

I’m almost always hesitant to discuss mental health in broad terms because the reality is that everyone’s journey is different. What works best for me to manage my headspace, emotions, and demons may not be suitable or possible for you or someone you know. I’m also not an expert and have no background in psychology or neuroscience. I’m learning every day, just like many of you are.

However, in the spirit of identifying larger themes and throughlines, I did some digging. Here’s what I found:

According to a study of musicians done by the University of Westminster and MusicTank, 68.5% reported experiencing depression, and, in general, were three times more susceptible to the illness. 71.1% of respondents said they’ve had severe anxiety or panic attacks. A separate 2019 study showed that 73% of indie musicians struggle with mental illness, with that figure rising to 80% if the individual is between the ages of 18 to 25.

Anecdotal inroads to mental health crises in the music industry include money worries (and, relatedly, the guilt that comes with pursuing one’s art instead of getting a “proper job”), irregular work schedules, and exhaustion from making ends meet that leads to physical and mental burnout. Oddly enough, these logical correlations come as a surprise to many on the outside looking in. I know I’ve shocked others in conversation when articulating just how draining creative expression can be. They think it just happens, like turning a light switch on or off.

But the truth is, there’s never really an off switch for a lot of artists. The level of emotional sensitivity that often fuels lasting art can be destabilizing to the individual behind the work. I’ve been thinking about that vicious cycle related to Sly and Wilson’s relatively short peak periods compared to how large their myths loom over certain eras of pop culture. Every tour date, every new release, every new soundbite or memoir quote added more and more expectation on top of already-fragile mental states. To push that narrative aside and ignore the risk isn’t just ignorant. It’s callous.

The persistent myth is that great art must come from suffering. There are countless examples of romanticizing the tortured artist. I’m sure you have your go-tos. But I think that stereotype has it backward. Sly Stone and Brian Wilson produced unmitigated masterpieces in their time, and they definitely suffered to varying degrees during those respective creation processes, but their art didn’t materialize because of that pain. It came to be in spite of the anguish they felt. You could make a compelling argument that suffering came from the circumstances under which they made great art.

What they needed, and what so many creators still need, isn’t increased pressure to transcend the discomfort or trauma they push through to create, but more protection from that very weight.

The Small Gestures That Matter

There’s no magic cure for anything I’ve described in this post so far.

There’s nothing I can say that completely untangles what Sly and Brian carried with them, however privately or not, for most of their lives. Nor can it rationalize how their behavior hurt or alienated those around them. But, even with all that, there’s one constant that influences their stories and many others I’ve read and heard firsthand, several of which through this platform: other people.

Whether it’s a partner, friend, sibling, bandmate, teacher, coach, mentor, or another influential figure in their lives, it’s the ones who led with empathy, instead of judgment or anger or pity, who had the most positive impact. If there’s no other takeaway from this piece, let it be this: we could all do with a little more empathy in this world.

Sometimes, it’s just a text. A coffee. A question with no fix-it agenda behind it. Not about someone’s mental or emotional state, but a question about something that matters to them or, perhaps more importantly in some cases, their art. Maybe that means listening to a rough demo or reading a first draft with an open heart. Maybe it means you show up ot a small gig and clap loud enough to be heard all the way in the back or remind them, without expectation or prompting, that what they make matters. That they matter.

If you do that, whether the other person may verbalize it immediately or not, you become part of the reason they go another round with their creative process, no matter how challenging or not it may be at that moment. Artists can’t get out of their own heads some days. Those minuscule gestures can make all the difference in the world.

Support isn’t always loud. But it’s always loud enough to matter. Recognize when you can be that rock. That kindness may not create someone’s next great record or novel or blog or painting or design or film or script, but it may give them the fuel they need to give it a shot.

---

Who’s the artist(s) in your life whose work you root for? Send them this piece or, better yet, if they’re on Substack, tag them and their publication.