Where Summer shifts into high gear, the Boys catch another big one, and MoD attempts to make amends by laying a patch about an artist's unintended success in one-upping van Gogh.
When I was younger and more foolish than I am today, I did not respect the Beach Boys to the degree they warranted. I thought they were an entertaining but somewhat silly band who wrote shallow songs about 60's cars,
60's girls,
And then that Kokomo song came along, and I felt obliged to unceremoniously toss them onto the same lifestyle pile as Jimmy Buffett. I still respected songs like "Good Vibrations," but for most of my youth I regarded the Beach Boys as a passe party band.
Whether due to my crossing the threshold of middle age, or the time spent living in SoCal, or my consumption of documentaries such as the gem mentioned above, I began to appreciate the importance of these men and their music. In addition, the recreation of the Carter Presidency with a black cast (and the malaise I feel all over again as a result) has made me yearn for that which is unabashedly American, Patriotic and Positive- and the Beach Boys meet that need in spades.
I have now also been incorporated into the great body of those who appreciate and espouse the brilliance of Brian Wilson. To know that Paul McCartney regarded Brian Wilson as the sole contemporary songwriter of similar caliber to himself, and that George Martin felt Brian to be of like skill as a studio tour de force, elicits simultaneous feelings in me of patriotic pride and shame- shame for not being familiar with more of Wilson's work earlier in my life. At the end of the documentary, after witnessing the earlier heartbreaking devastation to Wilson caused by the SMiLE implosion, the triumphant initial performance of the entire composition at the Royal Festival Hall (with both McCartney and Martin in attendance) and the resultant thunderous ovation for Wilson, I was affected as strongly as at the conclusion of my first viewing of It's a Wonderful Life. This is a definitive example of the artistic struggle to move the subjective into the objective with a double-digit-sigma level of perfection. I am certain that it must have been enormously cathartic for Wilson.
In the wake of my pleasant epiphany, I learned that in 2012 the Beach Boys would be rejoined on tour by Brian Wilson and celebrate their 50th anniversary. I had never seen the Beach Boys in concert. I promptly bought tickets to see the group in June at an amphitheatre. Shortly after buying the tickets, the Beach Boys released a new album, which went to number 3 on the charts. And so, 50 years to the month after Surfin' Safari became the Beach Boys' first hit, my wife and I drained our little bottles of pre-mixed Margaritas in the venue parking lot (just as I once did likewise to warm, undersized bottles of Little Kings outside of High School) and filed in with a genuinely eclectic collection of fellow prospective audience members to take our places in anticipation of experiencing America's Greatest Rock n' Roll Band. (And now for a sincere gripe- why is there always at least one stinky, emaciated, shirtless white guy with dreadlocks stuffed under a macrame hat cavorting around every pre-concert parking lot, regardless of the musical genre? Is it just because the other ubiquitous element at every pre-concert parking lot is ganja? Well, excuse me while I don't light my spliff. I'll leave that to the Choomer-in-Chief.)
After laying out our territorial towel upon the grass, I looked about and suddenly felt rather ancient. Instead of Acapulco Gold, the air was now pungent with Ben-Gay. Granted, this was only in a figurative sense, but my mind flashed back to an all-day stadium concert in the 70's where a bikini-bottomed lass stood up in front of me while Blue Oyster Cult noodled away upon the stage, her Loggins and Messina-era minge having largely escaped the Dacron confines of her swimsuit. Right. The Brazilian had yet to migrate north. As I snapped back to the present, a lady stood up in front of me, wearing shapeless white linen slacks with a sweater draped across her back. No excess foliage issues here- she appeared to be equipped with what is commercially known as an adult undergarment. However, further afield I could make out people under 60; beach balls were being lofted about the premises; and a gaggle of 30-ish girlfriends were loudly laughing at the gold-digger with gargantuan gazongas and pneumatic lips sashaying past. Average age aside, this still resembled a typical concert.
To the predictable delight of the crowd, the Beach Boys took their places on stage and kicked the night off with the syncopated, almost industrial beat of 1968's "Do It Again", the lyrics delivered in staggered fashion upon a steady thick backbone of a beat, with the gorgeous harmonies then launched, like steam being let out of a hot boiler. And the lyrics spoke of girls and sun and surf and beach- of course- but in a distinctly retrospective sense. This was a nostalgic song to begin a nostalgic concert. They then played hit after hit, even performing several covers, such as the Dell Vikings' "Come Go With Me." Halfway through the show, a guy draining his lizard next to me in the men's room said to his friend "Man, I didn't know they had so many hits!"
A bit later, the only unfortunate event that evening happened when one of the seemingly innocuous beach balls landed square on the nose of Depends Lady, causing a bloody gusher to spray indiscriminately out of her face until the EMTs escorted her away. I nearly intervened prior to this, and if the EMTs hadn't arrived as quickly as they had, it would likely have been the first time that someone's life was saved by their underwear.
The Hot Rod songs all sounded great, and reminded me that I still agree with Paul Newman when he once said that his favorite sound in life was a V-8 engine. Sorry, but the tuner cars popular today sound to me like farting into a crazy straw. The Ballads were beautiful, and my wife appeared to be wistfully recalling her adolescent romantic angst while listening to "Surfer Girl."
However, I became completely transfixed when the spotlight focused upon Brian as he undertook "Heroes and Villains" from SMiLE. Here he was performing this music with the remaining members of the Beach Boys; this was arguably better than being at the Royal Festival Hall initial performance back in 2004. That was Brian without the rest of the band. I was listening to the closest possible live performance of this music to the original from 46 years before. Even the Kokomo crowd joined in the standing ovation at the end of the song. That was my highlight, along with "Good Vibrations" and its essential electro-theremin hallmark.
The last song of the evening was 1964's "Fun, Fun, Fun," the eternal tribute to Shirley Johnson England and Mr. Johnson's Ford Thunderbird, both of Salt Lake City. This was a concert that I will clearly and completely remember forever.
It is truly remarkable that this band continues to perform together after more than 50 years. They have become an organic and essential part of Americana. Where I used to regard their subject matter as trivial, I now regard it not just as a celebration of youth, but as an optimistic affirmation of American life, as most fully epitomized by the culture which rose forth from Southern California a half-century ago.
Time used to be the Beach Boys' bete noir. They, and Brian Wilson particularly, seemed to lie askew of time and its current. He was ahead of it, it passed him by, he caught up with it, it caused his problems, it solved his problems, and it finally allowed us to catch up. He wrote a song on the second side of 1966's Pet Sounds titled "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times." Beach Boys songs have aged so well that I often have difficulty placing them in the proper decade. For example, "Do It Again" honestly sounds as if it could have been created in 2005. For Brian, it seems as though there has at last been synchronization. I would like to know how he feels about everything now- through a competent interview, perhaps. But until then, I am grateful that I now listen to them and have proper respect for these men who may actually leave a larger legacy upon popular music than Elvis- in time.
Brian Wilson sings Good Vibrations
* Beautiful Dreamer: Brian Wilson and the Story of Smile, Showtime, 2004.
