(Plexifilm, 74 Minutes)

www.plexifilm.com

Let’s not pretend to know Gary Wilson, the enigmatic and formerly elusive musical genius behind the treasured and also formerly obscure 1977 album You Think You Really Know Me, but it’s safe to say he’s no moron and figured out for himself that music often leads to obscurity. His spasmodic, power pop-soul music was only gonna win him the affections of a gaggle of geeks (and it did) who, thinking Wilson may be the offspring of Frank Zappa and a unicorn, looked for You Think… like it was the holy grail. Some sought Wilson with equal zeal since, in 1979, he melted back into the populace and lived off the grid—or at least without mod cons like a phone.

Michael Wolk’s film starts with Motel Records’ Adrian Milan and Christine Bates, longtime fans of Wilson’s who made it their mission to find him. Their attempts, which included hiring a private dick, failed until they looked in the last place they expected to find him: his hometown of Endicott, New York. There, a former bandmate told them to call a porno store in San Diego, where Wilson worked the night shift.

Wilson allowed Motel to not only put out You Think…, but a collection of rarities. He even played some shows, made more records and allowed this film to be made.

That’s the story. There is no compelling dramatic moment; it’s just a hodgepodge of interviews with crate diggers, audiophiles, bandmates and Wilson’s father, intercut with archival footage and home movies. For anyone less than a rabid Wilson devotee, the film plays like an inside joke. We never discover why it was ultimately easy to find the notoriously private Wilson, and he doesn’t seem so complex after all. He talks about himself readily, even if he does stick to the facts, and is only cryptic when asked what his music means—and doesn’t reply (and this occurs but once in the film). We’re told that his music was complex to the point of retarded genius, and therefore influenced guys like Beck, but not really why.

So he came, he was weird, he conquered, he disappeared, he was found, he’s still weird, and he still kicks unquantifiable booty. Oh, and he just wants to be himself without having to define that—or his music—for anyone. Understandable, but boring.

Special features: A second disc features the original 1997 album You Think You Really Know Me. DVD includes seven 1970s-era short films featuring Wilson, with new soundtracks and director commentary. RANDY HARWARD