Brian bent | The beach is only a song away | San Juan Capistrano | California

Living outside the norm. Why is it so appealing to some, and why does it scare others so? At American Trails, we love these people, and we latch on to them the second we find them. Brian Bent has long been on our list of people to see. So let go of your latte, and let’s roll. 
Words by Jonas Larsson | Photos by Anders Bergersen

If you find yourself in a hot rod with one of California’s rollingest stones, hold on to your hat. Literally. I shove my trucker hat under my leg to save it and grab a hold of the low frame of the windshield. Brian lets one arm hang outside the car, I think to hold on, while the other has a solid grip on the original wheel of “The Roaring Ace Hot Rod”, as the rod is named. Hot damn, this is so good, my whole body is soaking it in. 

San Juan Capistrano is known for its cliff swallows. But photographer Anders and I are there for a different species altogether, the artist and life acrobat Brian Bent. I’ve come across Bent online, in other publications, and he always appealed to me with his life philosophies. Far from the expected, fearless and free of mind. Now, at last, I’ll have the chance to talk to him for a few hours. I can’t wait.  

The GPS guides us to Brian’s house. Rolling down the street, it is immediately obvious where he and his wife Rivka live. Outside the house, sits “Black Jesus Godzilla” (“The elegance of Jesus and the rumble of Godzilla”), a jet black Mercury Comet from the early 1960s, another Mercury, and a medium blue Ford Fairlane from the 50s. A few homemade surfboards hang next to the cars, and two hot rods peak out from the open garage. 

Meet the Bents

Rivka greets us. “Hi, welcome! Brian is just finishing a painting, you’ll find him in the studio.” Brian, surprisingly perhaps, exudes a mild calm, even though he is a working artist with plenty of projects going on. The studio isn’t big, but the light is fantastic. It is filled with items: a surfboard has been made a sideboard, full of brushes, paints, trinkets, and paintings. A sewing machine hides under a hat. Hats are some of Brian’s favorite pieces of clothing. He wears one in every picture I’ve seen of him. 

“I’ve always loved caps and hats, I don’t know why. I’m always wearing different hats, in the water, while skating, always. Remember that video, ’I’ll stop the world and melt with you’, Modern English? He wore a captain’s hat and a t-shirt, and I thought it was so cool. I listened so much to that song.”

His interest in fashion extends beyond the head. Suddenly, clothes are flying out of closet packed tighter than my own. He’s modified a lot himself, painted on, altered. On one leather jacket, he’s written “Bent Duo” on the front, in white. It’s the name of the punkabilly duo he has with his daughter, Esther. 

“Are they for you or do you make them for other people?” 

“Both, but I have a hard time parting with my things. I went to Wheels and Waves, and Mark from Brough Motorcycles was there. He’d already bought a jacket but wanted another. The thing was, his motorcycle had just caught fire – with Mark on it. I had just finished a gig and was still high off the performance when I ran into him. He’s practically got smoke coming off him and I just say, ’Hey Mark, do you still want to buy the jacket?’ Poor guy’s coming out of a fire, but he just said, ’Oh yeah Brian, totally!’” 

You have to love this man. His creativity shows up in so many different ways. There are paintings everywhere, the floor looks like a Jackson Pollock painting, a guitar case on the floor has clearly been painted on as well. 

Ford Not Chevy, the watch dog

I’m already overwhelmed, as it dawns on me that I somehow have to put this experience into words. It’s hot; Rivka offers us ice water, and we get a tour of the house. “Ford Not Chevy”, a cute little corgi mix, barks at us through the screen door that leads to the backyard and the pool. The living room, like the rest of the house, manages to be a mid-century model without feeling like a museum. Naturally decorated with surf and skateboard details as well as Brian’s paintings. 

It’s time to greet Ford Not Chevy. The screen door is opened, in he zooms like a rocket, eager to see who’s come to visit. He’s no beast, but Rivka tells us that he once scared off a coyote in the backyard, looking to have him for dinner. Well done, Ford. Suddenly, Brian sits down at the piano. He plays and sings a song of his own creation. I shake my head, grinning. This man is a powerhouse. A powerhouse of many talents. 

The skater life

Skater culture has been a big part of Brian’s life. His mentor, Uncle Rocky, got him a job at Becker Surf and Sport around Christmas 1985 (and another 20 years). He was building skateboards but soon got a carte blanche in -designing the shop’s interiors. Brian’s designs were art, and management liked what they saw. 

“One day, a woman from Dirt Gallery in North Holly-wood came to the Becker store in Malibu. She asked who’d done the interiors and the art. I told her it was me. She wanted to put my art in the gallery. She knew we liked cars and architecture, so my first show, in 1999, was called Architectour. Architecture and muscle cars. Since then, I have painted and exhibited my art. Today I’m a full-time artist, which is always a gamble. Sometimes I sell well, sometimes I don’t, but it’s always good. I put people before profits, and in that way, I always come out winning,” Brian says. 

“My biggest source of income is my art, but I also want to be an ambassador for skateboarding and surfing. I grew up with art; my biological father and uncle were artists. My grandfather was Hungarian and could build things out of nothing. I’ve learned how to work with my hands, using them to create art. My other grandfather and uncle were car lovers, real characters. My uncle Rocky was a professional surfer, those two were always my role models. I grew up with creative people around me,” he continues. 

 “To me, your approach to things is very punk, very DIY.” “I never listened when people tried telling me how to do things. My art teacher let me work independently. I always modified my creations to hide the fact that they weren’t perfect,” he laughs. “I can’t make you a leather jacket, but I can modify an existing leather jacket, paint it, trash it! It’s deconstruction, in a way.”

“Has anyone ever told you to cut your hair and get a job?” 

“In the eighties, kind of, but I worked at surf shops and did alright. But there was a period after my son passed away, and I was unemployed. I was still building hot rods, and we had just revamped a car for Upper Cut Deluxe, a haircare brand, and I prayed to find direction in life. That’s when I remembered my collection of 1960s surf magazines. I started making paintings of them, kind of like Andy Warhol and his soup cans. Suddenly everyone wanted them. After that, I painted jazz album covers from the 50s, which were a hit, too. Now, Rivka doesn’t have to work anymore. That was always my goal. I have more time with her and with my daughter now.”

Style surfer

“Looking at pictures and reading about you, it seems like you are inspired by different eras, seemingly anything from the 30s to the 70s?” 

“Yeah, that’s true. I think that’s why I’m so fascinated by Bowie. He was constantly changing, adopting new personas. And he really stepped into those roles.” He shows us a painting he’s done featuring David Bowie. 

“I lost my uncle to Covid two years ago. That was my second uncle. Uncle Rocky, the professional surfer, was ten years older than me, but this one was 20 years older. He loved muscle cars. Anytime I had a mechanical issue I called him for help. In the 70s, he and my stepfather Bent were best friends. Now I’m totally into the 70s again. I love it, it was such an easy time. Sure, there were problems going on, but everyone had a good time. I’m stuck in that era right now. Earlier it was all 60s. I surf through the decades. 

One time when I was in high school, my grandma said I should listen to the music of her youth. So I got stuck on the 40s. I’d surf my longboard, listening to Tangerine by Jimmy Dorsey in my head. But Dick Dale, the king of surf rock, was my biggest musical inspiration. 

For a while, I hung out with ’The Kahuna of Malibu’, Terry ’Tubesteak’ Tracy. A true character in surfing. He taught me how to ambulate, or move, on my longboard. All these characters, these styles. Punk, rockabilly… but surf music was really my thing. I’d flip through my -uncle’s records, finding all kinds of interesting bands, like the Harmonocats, the Safaris, Martin Denny (bands well worth checking out! – Editor’s note). I literally brought the music with me in my head while I was surfing or working on a project. At that time, music wise, I was in the 50s and early 60s. The years just before I was born. That was my jam.

Uncle Rocky, the surfer, he was my role model. I pretended to surf on my skateboard. So once I actually started surfing it felt totally natural. He was a mentor to me. I got the same haircut, the same shoes as he did. When he drew waves, I drew waves, when he painted on his walls, I did, too.”

The Music Room

At this point, Anders disappears with his camera; Rivka goes to her office in the backyard. Brian and I sit in the music room, our conversation rolling like Pacific Ocean waves. We talk about jazz (Another of Brian’s favorites), faith, and the advantages of certain floor treatments. Highbrow, lowbrow. I’m fascinated by how secure he is in his faith. I’ve always been a doubter, envying people with a strong faith. The security, the comfort. We lose track of time. Brian is an excellent storyteller, and the space is so pleasant. I can’t put my finger on it, but the Bent’s home isn’t just lovely, there’s a calm here, punctuated only by Ford’s intermittent yapping. 

“Everything is spiritual to me. I’m always open to it. It’s comforting to have faith, it’s the only hope, I have no other. I don’t want to drink or do drugs. I appreciate philosophy, but it’s not my thing.” 

“You don’t drink or do drugs?” 

“No, no. It would never work out. I used to drink but couldn’t keep doing it. I tried, but I was a terrible drunk. I’d get chatty, but it was too much. One night, I was so drunk I had to get dropped off at the doorstep of my now wife, and she asked what was going on. Then I met one of the coolest and best surfers of Huntington Beach; he asked if I wanted to come to church with him. That’s when I saw the light. Matthew 2:5 changed my life. Ironically, Matthew 2:5 is the only verse highlighted in my grandfather’s Bible.

My wife and I have been together since 1988. We’ve had this house for just over 20 years. I used to preach in a church called ’The Hot Rod Church for Sinners’ a non denominational Church that was in my friends pizza and Bar Santoras Hot wings in Mission Viejo, it’s still there. We held concerts/services at a there and we’d play -Christian rockabilly at car shows and things like that. We had the church from 2000–2013, and would have picnics by the pool.” 

“But you don’t anymore?” 

“No, not since my son died in 2013. One morning in 2013, the bass player and I were the first ones there at the pizza place. But this Sunday morning, Eddie started playing the bass and suddenly his E string broke. In that moment I knew. It’s over, I’m not meant to do this anymore. A week later, my son died. He was so sick; he’d lost a lot of weight. He was a Marine, fought in Afghanistan. His brain tumor caused facial paralysis so he couldn’t even blink. He was 22 years old, very sick. In any case, we lost him a week later. God knew he was sick. Everything changed. 

I can mourn my son when I feel really happy, but I’m not dealing with the issues. Grief brings issues, and I know that’s not from God. Grief wants to crush you, tells you it’s your fault. My family, 75-80% of them are in heaven now, but one day I will see them again. I have my wife, my daughter, my uncle, and loads of friends. It’s wonderful to have people so close. To grab a coffee, share stories. My wife, daughter, and I are tight, super tight. 

I don’t want to know what I would’ve done without my faith. I didn’t grow up in a religious family, but I am very glad I became a believer. I don’t dare to think about what would have happened otherwise, considering my personality, you know.

My biological father considered himself a Viking. He worked on choppers. He rode his bike through Arizona with his blond hair and green eyes, was an artist. I didn’t grow up with him and only met him for the first time 20 years ago. Crazy. My grandfather and his wife met at a Gypsy dance in Budapest. I’m a mix of everything!” Brian laughs. 

“Would you be who you are if you hadn’t grown up with these people?” 

“No, absolutely not. My parents were young. My mother had me when she was 17, and my stepfather was three years younger, so he was only 14 years older than me. When I was 7, he was in his early 20s.”

Milk and mayonnaise

The long, frank conversation with Brian in the music room is a tonic. Profound human thoughts are mixed with things I recognize in myself. Doubt, frustration, fear, and hope. In my case without a belief in God, but with a faith in all things being equal and that things will work out in the end. 

We emerge from our deep thinking and start talking about our mutual love of milk. “I love milk and mayo. I could live on grilled cheese sandwiches with mayonnaise. Even the Bible mentions milk: the land of milk and honey!”

“What does the sea mean to you?” 

“The sea is flow, I love feeling the flow. Hot rodding and old cars are the same as surfing. You don’t need waves, you can find flow without it, or on a bike. There’s a flow to everything, it moves through us, just in different ways. Painting is flow to me.”

Brian builds his own wooden surfboards, so called kookboxes. “I also surf Chris Ruddy’s boards, but I have to remember to let my body rest these days. I surfed for over two weeks in Hawaii, then went straight to -modeling for Buck Mason in Venice Beach and then we played Pappy and Harriet in Joshua Tree. The next day, Jesus. My legs said, ’Okay buddy, you have to take it easy for a while now,’ but it’s very hard for me to take it easy. I’m still recovering. When the sun goes down, I rest. I go surfing pretty much every day and always take my skateboard down to the coffee shop. But I surf maybe an hour at a time now, I have to stick to a schedule. My normal flow is that I get up, surf for an hour, have a coffee, eat lunch, and then I paint.”

The interview that was supposed to last a few hours has long since run into overtime. We need to head to the beach if we want to get any shots. 

“How far is the beach?” 

“A song, it’s a song away. One song on the freeway.” 

The gentleman surfer

Brian’s Ford Fairlane – with the word “FORD” painted on the side – starts up eagerly. I ask about the image of a cat and the words “The Cat’s Meow” which are painted on the side. Brian explains that it’s an old expression that means something is cool, beautiful, so on. “I wrote that on an old fake fur coat, by the way.” He disappears into one of the closets and emerges with a mid-calf length fur coat, with the same words written on the back. “I think I’ll wear this one, the beach can get chilly,” he says and finds a matching cap. That’s style. 

The surfboard, a board inspired by the 1950:s Malibu Chip boards that guys rode out at Malibu Beach in early 1950s  to almost 1960, is expertly tossed on the car roof. Brian wraps himself in his coat and hat and looks awesome. The engine rumbles in that smooth way only an old V8 can do. Elvis is on the 8-track, and we’re off to the ocean.  

Elvis is just wrapping up Brian’s favorite song, “Trying to get to you”, as we swerve into the parking lot at Doheny Beach. 

Twenty or so surfers are hanging out on the lineup, a group of pelicans sweeping in a couple of feet up in the air. Brian greets a few people, runs into the water. The waves aren’t very big, and as a surf novice, I don’t understand how anyone can surf them, but it’s clearly not an issue for those who know what they’re doing. 

Brian paddles a good way out, while we walk out onto the pier. He catches a wave and races across the water. His style is entirely his own. It’s not just that he’s the only surfer wearing a hat, it’s in his elegant stride, and just when I think it’s over, he walks up a few steps on his longboard and gathers new speed. The muffled sound of angry yelling slowly makes its way into my conscious, and I realize it’s a lifeguard yelling at us for standing on the pier. The yelling gets louder but I’m filming and not about to move until Brian is done. I throw my hands out and shrug exaggeratedly, trying to look both confused and apologetic. The lifeguard shakes his head. 

A woman knows not to wait for a surfer

It’s starting to really get cold. The day’s heat has abandoned us, seeping into pebble and pavement. We jump back into the car and return to the house. Rivka has made dinner. “I was just about to eat by myself,” she says. “A woman knows not to wait for a surfer.”

Dinner hits the spot. Rivka has grilled meats and -veggies, it tastes fantastic. We realize we haven’t eaten since breakfast. Brian and Rivka tell us they’re in the middle of writing a book about living a retro life. His freewheeling ways are contagious, maybe I should dig up my old skateboard again, paint an old leather jacket and embrace unconventional ideas more? My inner 60-year-old is hesitant, but the jukebox in my brain is playing the Ramones’ “Here today, gone tomorrow”. I don’t know just what to make of it.  

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