No Kill No Creep Creep: Gary Wilson is still around and just as skeevy.

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Gary Wilson, for the uninitiated, is a musician who is best known for his 1977 headscratcher classic, You Think You Really Know Me, which sounds like a blend of the avant-garde theory John Cage; the smooth, sexy funk of Prince (although it was released two years before Prince’s self-titled debut); and an obscene prank phone call. The most notable track from the album is “6.4 = Make Out,” in which Wilson has apparently discovered the mathematical formula for a heavy-petting sesh. “How old you say you were?” sings Wilson before providing his own troubling answer: “16.” First-tier alt-rockers in the ’90s felt obliged to champion relatively unknown outsider artists, and so Beck—like Kurt Cobain with Daniel Johnston, like Sonic Youth with Jandek—enthusiastically acknowledged Wilson’s influence. First, Beck name-dropped Wilson on Odelay’s “Where It’s At.” With Midnite Vultures’ “Debra,” Beck paid obvious homage, employing Wilson’s kinky/creepy use of workaday female names (“I want to get with you, ohhhh girl/And your sister…I think her name is Debra”). While 33 years have passed since Wilson’s amazing, what-the-funk masterpiece, his newest release and first since 2004, Electric Endicott, shows that mere moments have passed in Wilson’s fascinating little world. There, it’s always after dark (“Kathy Kissed Me Last Night.” “Swinging With Karen Tonight,” and “I Talked to My Girlfriend Last Night”). It’s a place populated by names like Diane, Karen, Kathy, Linda, and Mary, apparently real girls from his high school class in Endicott, N.Y. That’s where Wilson’s head is, but for the most part he’s been thousands of miles away. He pretty much dropped out of sight after 1981 and didn’t resurface until the early 2000s. He never stopped playing music, though, with weekly gigs on the keyboards for a San Diego lounge act, following in the footsteps of his father, an IBM lifer who moonlighted in a hotel jazz group for 25 years. That loungey vibe is most noticeable on the instrumental “I Talked to My Girlfriend Last Night,” as evidenced by brushed cymbals and a tinkling piano. His avant-garde tastes are on offer, too, found amid Wilson’s signature analog synthscapes (“I Cry For Linda,” “She Forgot To Lock Her Door”). Newcomers should appreciate Electric Endicott for its funky, earnest, odd-duck idiosyncrasies. Longtime fans of his nocturnal confessions and danceable discomfort, however, are probably just happy he’s still around. Now, about all those pesky restraining orders…