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**Gary Wilson: You Think You Really Know Me**
★★★★☆

In the pantheon of cult musical figures who've emerged from decades of obscurity to find their rightful place among the avant-garde elite, few stories are as deliciously bizarre as Gary Wilson's. His 2002 album "You Think You Really Know Me" serves as both a triumphant return and a middle finger to anyone who thought this underground legend had disappeared forever into the ether of musical mythology.

To understand the significance of this album, you need to rewind to 1977, when a young Wilson released "You Think You Really Know Me" on his own Enraptured Records label. This wasn't just an album; it was a fever dream committed to vinyl. Picture this: a classically trained musician from Endicott, New York, channeling his conservatory education through a prism of sexual obsession, theatrical absurdity, and lo-fi bedroom production that made Daniel Johnston sound like a major label release. The original pressing sold maybe 500 copies, mostly to bewildered record store clerks who didn't know whether to file it under "experimental," "comedy," or "evidence in a future court case."

Wilson's musical style defies easy categorization, which is probably why it took the world 25 years to catch up with his vision. Imagine if Frank Zappa had been raised on a steady diet of lounge music and Freudian psychology, then locked in a basement studio with nothing but a Farfisa organ, a primitive drum machine, and an unhealthy fixation on Mary. The result is a sound that's simultaneously sophisticated and primitive, creepy and charming, avant-garde and utterly naive.

The album opens with "Forgotten Lovers," a haunting meditation on romantic obsession that sets the tone for Wilson's entire aesthetic universe. His voice, a peculiar instrument that seems to exist somewhere between crooner and serial killer, delivers lines about lost love with the kind of earnest intensity that makes you simultaneously laugh and lock your doors. It's followed by "Linda Wants to Be Alone," a track that perfectly encapsulates Wilson's ability to transform mundane domestic situations into surreal psychodramas.

But the album's crown jewel is undoubtedly "6.4 = Make Out," a bizarre masterpiece that sounds like elevator music composed for a David Lynch film. Over a hypnotic, repetitive groove, Wilson delivers what might be the most uncomfortable seduction song ever recorded, complete with heavy breathing and whispered come-ons that would make Tom Jones blush. It's simultaneously the most disturbing and most compelling track on the album, which pretty much sums up Wilson's entire artistic project.

"Groovy Girls" showcases Wilson's knack for combining innocent pop sensibilities with deeply unsettling undertones, while "Invasion of Privacy" reads like a manifesto for musical voyeurism. Throughout the album, his arrangements are deceptively simple – often just organ, primitive percussion, and his distinctive vocals – yet they create an atmosphere so dense and specific that you feel like you've been transported into Wilson's very particular universe.

After the original album's commercial failure, Wilson essentially vanished from the music scene, becoming something of a urban legend among collectors and underground music enthusiasts. Bootleg copies of the original album traded hands for hundreds of dollars, and Wilson himself became a mysterious figure – some claimed he was dead, others insisted he was working as a classical pianist in upstate New York.

The truth, as it turned out, was somewhere in between. Wilson had indeed retreated from the music world, but he never stopped creating. When Beck and other alternative rock luminaries began citing him as an influence in the late 1990s, it sparked renewed interest in his work. This led to the 2002 reissue of "You Think You Really Know Me," complete with bonus tracks and newly discovered material that proved Wilson's vision had remained remarkably consistent over the decades.

The album's legacy has only grown in the streaming era, where Wilson's particular brand of bedroom pop surrealism has found new audiences among fans of artists like Ariel Pink and John Maus. His influence can be heard in the lo-fi indie scene, the vaporwave movement, and anywhere musicians are willing to embrace the beautiful awkwardness of human desire.

"You Think You Really Know Me" remains a singular achievement – an album that's simultaneously of its time and completely timeless, a work that reveals new layers of weirdness and beauty with each listen. Gary Wilson may have thought we really knew him, but this album proves that some mysteries are worth