*Back in the 70s, I worked a series of music press jobs and spent a week living with Thump Wilson in the summer of '74. The following is an extract from my new book* ***Thump: I Hear Music***

It was a summer's day. LA was beautiful. I could smell fresh urine in the streets, but it didn't bother me. As I made my way to Thump's secret home in Malibu, I stood waiting for my connecting bus. In those days I didn't own a car.

  
The bus arrived. I boarded. Bus driver smiled at me. He seemed happy. Arrived at the stop near his house. Walked up. Knocked the door. There he was. A vision in floral with his shirt barely buttoned at all.

He greeted me the way he always would, handing me a half-drank concoction of various alcoholic spirits cut with nothing but a cigarette butt. I thanked him with a nod and a kind remark. I grew to tolerate their unique taste.

We then went to his outdoor piano. He had it built on the bottom of his swimming pool. 

'Hold your breath!' He exclaimed as he undressed and dove straight under. I followed.

I managed to last thirty seconds, enough to see him compose the beginning of *Hey Little Tomboy.* I resurfaced but he remained there for a following hour. I have reason to believe he completed most of *Adult/Child* in that session. 

When he did return, he produced a cigarette. But this was no ordinary smoke. It had something to it. It wasn't drug related either. The thing made a sound everytime he took a drag.

At first he and I were both shocked. But then he went silent. He kept smoking away. The glorious melodic notes kept repeating. Over and over. It was constant. It was mesmerising...addicting in a whole other way. I couldn't stop humming that beautiful melody. It stuck with me for life. 

He vanished again beneath the surface having smoked filter and all. I waited. Two hours. Then five. Then fourteen. Eventually I fell asleep. I awoke. He was still under. 

I returned home the next morning. Years later, when *Ding* *Dang* was finally released, I knew what happened that afteenoon. It was the same melody. I have no doubt he spent the next week under that surface playing and replaying that nicotine-born symphony from the Gods. 

Roger McGuinn later lied about the whole ordeal. But I always knew the truth.​​ It's therapeutic to finally get it off my chest.





  


Thump And The Magic Cigarette: A Real Life Story