Wyman Brent came into this world the way most hurricanes arrive—uninvited, inconvenient, and impossible to ignore. While other kids were learning to tie their shoes, he was learning how to read the mood of a house charged with alcohol fumes and unpredictability. He moved so often he never memorized an address; he just memorized exits. Home wasn’t a place, it was a brief pause between the next explosion.
He grew up in the blast radius of a man whose rage swung like a wrecking ball and whose unconsciousness did the same. While Thompson ingested chemicals in the name of “journalism,” Wyman survived chemical storms he never asked for. He didn’t chase chaos; chaos kicked down the door and dragged him out by the ankles.
Most people break under that kind of childhood.
Wyman didn’t break — he bent reality instead.
While others escaped into drugs or fantasies of revenge, he escaped into creation. Songs burst out of him like pressure valves opening: folk, psychedelic, protest, absurdist, heartfelt — hundreds of them — as if the universe punched a hole in the side of his brain and the music poured through. He didn’t write in one genre because his life wasn’t lived in one genre.
He became the kind of adult who sees a Nazi symbol carved into a bathroom door and doesn’t walk by — he cleans it off. Not because he’s a saint, but because he remembers what silence enables.
He founded libraries in places where libraries didn’t exist, stood up to antisemitism until the threats arrived, and kept going anyway. Thompson played with danger; Wyman sat beside it on the bus.
Most artists cultivate eccentricity.
Wyman cultivated survival.
He writes songs faster than most people write text messages. They come fully formed, like visitors, demanding to be born. One moment he’s riding a bus staring through tiny holes in a guardrail at car lights passing below — the next, he has a protest anthem in his hands. Another day he writes a rhythmic hammer of a song built entirely on words ending in –ess simply because a cascade lit up in his mind.
Call it ADHD. Call it trauma wiring.
Call it a brain designed by a reckless god with a surreal sense of humor.
What you cannot call it is ordinary.
Wyman Brent is the rarest kind of creator — the kind who doesn’t need to pretend to be wild, because reality already gave him more wildness than Thompson could buy in a decade. And instead of burning himself to ash, he turned it all into music, stories, compassion, and a bottomless well of imagination.
Hunter S. Thompson took his life to extremes.
Wyman Brent survived extremes and kept creating.
And in the end, that’s the wilder story.
1 person likes this
Roya Mohammadlou , I appreciate your kind words. I do not personally see what I did as requiring courage. I am just the type who is too stubborn to give up and quit....
Expand commentRoya Mohammadlou , I appreciate your kind words. I do not personally see what I did as requiring courage. I am just the type who is too stubborn to give up and quit.
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Meriem Bouziani, thank you so much. I do appreciate it. I also hope you reach all of your dreams.
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Alistair Wales, thanks a lot. Send me a connecct request if you like. Cheers from Germany.
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Elle Bolan, thanks so very much. I have been on many rough roads. I think I need to buy a good GPS system. I am also glad that you are here. Uhmm, where are we?...
Expand commentElle Bolan, thanks so very much. I have been on many rough roads. I think I need to buy a good GPS system. I am also glad that you are here. Uhmm, where are we?
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thank you very much Wyman Brent