On Wednesday I was sitting and working on something for the podcast, when Eric came to me and hugged me, his voice shaking a bit before delivering words that he knew would deeply hurt me.
Brian Wilson passed away.
I had long prepared myself for this week, especially after Brian’s dementia diagnosis some months ago. I knew that I would be upset, but I didn’t expect his death to cause the wrenching pain that it did. I still feel numb and a little lost. Though Mike Love, Al Jardine, David Marks and Bruce Johnston are still with us, it still felt like The Beach Boys were officially gone. It was the death of the last Wilson brother. It was the death of someone beautiful, strange and sensitive during a time when we need beautiful, strange, sensitive people in the world more than ever. It was the death of a giant that cruelly followed the loss of another giant, Sly Stone, just a mere 2 days before that. We will never know greatness like them again.
I was touched and surprised by how many people have reached out to me this week. I was getting texts and DMs immediately after the news broke, some from people I haven’t heard from in ages, all of them telling me they were sorry. Even my mom texted me, and we shared our sadness together. She talked about how important The Beach Boys were to her, her sisters and her friends. When I was visiting her in March, she and one of my aunts giggled as they recalled how they couldn’t wait for their parents to leave for their weekly shopping trip so that they could crank their record player and practice dancing, something that was expressly forbidden in their house. One of the songs they mentioned as a favorite was The Beach Boys “Fun Fun Fun”. I am humbled and pleased to say that I have the same 45 record they danced to in my possession.
The Beach Boys are a funny thing. So much of their music is “fun, fun, fun” so to speak. An endless white sand beach lined with surfers, a parking lot of classic cars and beautiful girls hanging around a hamburger stand. It’s an easy distraction from the fact that so much of their music is also melancholy, painful and vulnerable. It tugs your heartstrings, and that soft undercurrent of pain is what makes their music interesting. Songs like “In My Room” hit differently once you learn of what the Wilson brothers were dealing with at the hands of their father. His abuse was savage, well documented, and left lasting impacts on each of the boys. It was something that made you want to get in a time machine so that you could hug them, protect them, tell them that Murry Wilson was garbage from the pit of hell, that they didn’t deserve the abuse, and that their music was a gift from God himself. It’s hard not to think of what they went through when you listen to the music, but to also feel awe and respect that despite it all, the Wilson boys made beautiful art that has deeply touched so many lives, including mine.
I was lucky enough to see Brian in concert three times, two of them shows where he played Pet Sounds in its entirety. The last two days I’ve simultaneously felt an overwhelming gratitude that I was at those shows, and an immense grief that they will never happen again.
There was a moment during his performance of “You Still Believe In Me” at the 2016 Pet Sounds show that still chokes me up, and it’s all I can think of during this terrible week. As the band faded back a little, the spotlight was on Brian at the piano, earnestly delivering one of his masterpieces.
I know perfectly well
I'm not where I should be
I've been very aware
You've been patient with me
Every time we break up
You bring back your love to me
And after all I've done to you
How can it be
You still believe in me
I can’t explain it, but in that moment, the song wasn’t romantic at all. It took on a new meaning, almost a strange apology from Brian to the audience. A soft thank you for our patience and love, that we were still there with him despite all of the tragic thrash that is The Beach Boys legacy. There was something so childlike about Brian in that performance that it was enough to break my heart a little. He was radiating that sensitive vulnerability each of the Wilson brothers possessed, forged from deep pain and suffering that manifested itself in different ways for each of them, but the results all being the same. I wanted to hug Brian, to tell him how grateful I was to be there, how grateful we all were, and that we would always believe in him.
Another fine moment from that show was when he performed “God Only Knows”. You could have heard a pin drop in the theater but as soon as the last note was over, the room exploded with tears, applause and cheers. Everyone, myself included, jumped to their feet for the longest standing ovation I’ve ever personally witnessed at a concert. Brian tolerated our adoration for a few seconds, then began to fidget and look uncomfortable. Finally after a good 45 seconds he had apparently had enough and impatiently barked, “Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE SIT DOWN!” (Yes, the yelling was in all caps.) Of course we obeyed the maestro, laughing through the tears.
I’ve been laughing through the tears since Brian Wilson’s death was announced. So many stories are surfacing of his wackiness and deliciously shady sense of humor. Most stories I knew, some I didn’t, but they’ve all made me laugh. All of the Wilson brothers were so delightfully funny. I thought of my mom and her sisters, and their clandestine dance parties to The Beach Boys. With a pang, I’ve thought of how happy and relieved Dennis and Carl must feel to be reunited with their beloved older brother. The three of them loved each other so dearly and fiercely. I’ve thought of the joy the music has brought me and will always bring me. Even in the sadness, The Beach Boys bring joy.
Brian Wilson brought joy. He was quirky, endearingly childlike, funny, beautiful, strange and perfect in his imperfectness. As that sweet, emotional moment from “You Still Believe In Me” continues to haunt me, so do the final lyrics of the song. So apt in this moment, delivered softly before bursting into angelic harmonies, one of a thousand perfect, soaring, unearthly moments in The Beach Boys catalog.
I wanna cry.