So, I’ve been wanting to write about Brian Wilson since the announcement on June 11 that he died just shy of his 83rd birthday — a milestone few would have predicted for him when he was 30 or 40. The thing is, his music has meant so much to me for most of my 43 years that it’s hard to know where to start. I was collecting SMiLE bootlegs and obsessing over the arrangements and chord progressions of Pet Sounds when I was in high school. I used to listen to the isolated tracks and studio outtakes on the Pet Sounds 30th anniversary box set for hours, trying to figure out how to play the piano and sax parts. (Not exactly the coolest thing for a teen in the mid- to late-90s to do, but it was very rewarding for me.)
I’ve seen Brian’s solo band in its various forms at least six times since 2001 — including a few delightful soundchecks. Every time Brian would walk out on stage, I’d cry a little bit with joy and sadness for the musical genius who suffered so much in service of his craft. For me, regardless of how present he was at a given show, I was just happy to share a room with him.
I have countless iterations of classic Beach Boys and Brian Wilson solo albums on vinyl and CD, even some French 45s from the 1960s. I dedicated a Vehlinggo Podcast episode to the proto-synth-pop work of Brian’s on the underrated, pioneering, and entirely bizarre Beach Boys Love You from 1977.
See what I mean? It ends up just becoming a list about timeline items. But really, there is more to this. I was a rather depressed, anxious, and confused teen. The Smashing Pumpkins and New Order provided me with a vast catalogue through which to process emotion and experience a certain perspective of the world, but it was The Beach Boys, and specifically Brian Wilson, who resonated the most with me. This is particularly true with the Boys’ albums Pet Sounds, SMiLE, Sunflower, and Surf’s Up, along with some one-off singles like multiple versions of “Good Vibrations” and the vastly under-heard “Breakaway.” It was also true with some of the songs on Brian’s solo albums. The hallmark stuff still sticks with me 30 years later.
Rather than try to go down the list of all songs and albums, I’m going to pick a few to highlight. This virtually impossible task will show you where I’m coming from, but also maybe introduce you to a number you haven’t heard yet. All the links are to YouTube videos. I’ll embed a few, too.
“I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times”, “I Know There’s An Answer”, “God Only Knows”
It would be really easy to mention any song off Pet Sounds here, or even the entire album. However, I’m going to try to zero in on just a few. For starters, let’s encounter “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times.”
The lyrics home in on exactly what the title suggests: When you feel like your existence is anachronistic, that you’re a fish out of water whom people don’t get and who doesn’t get people or the times at hand. For Brian, he was ahead of his time musically, and got crap for it from his bandmates and others who wanted more of the same, lucrative surfing, girls, and cars fare. (To their credit, the Boys dutifully helped give Brian the best versions of his songs and of course still promote them today.)
When we say someone is “ahead of their time” we really mean they’re inventing the future, or some element of it. That’s what Brian was experiencing in 1966 and 1967 with Pet Sounds and SMiLE (and “Good Vibrations,” which was recorded amid those albums and intended to be a feature of the latter). Of course he felt like he was out of step with what was transpiring. His complex approach to pop songs (and using the studio as an instrument itself) were not typical of the era. I’d argue that even the Phil Spector work that inspired Brian didn’t have the nuance and emotional intelligence that the latter’s had. Spector certainly didn’t use the Wrecking Crew like Brian did — from the position of a pioneer in both composition and recording technique.
For me, I’ve always felt a little bit out of tune with current events, trends, and people, and so whether as a emotional teen or adult, the song’s message has stuck with me closely. The music, too: The massive “wall of sound” that emits from the Wrecking Crew ensemble manages to concurrently float around like a leaf in the wind and propel forward in a firm fashion. Perhaps like someone feeling out of time but physically in time.
“I Know There’s An Answer,” and its earlier iteration, “Hang On To Your Ego,” feature some of the best sonics to come out of The Beach Boys and even Pet Sounds. The menagerie of instrumentation is filled with satisfying nuance and levity, and as a sax player the bizarrely elephantine sax solo bangs around my head for days after the fade hits.
I’m including “God Only Knows” for a couple reasons, even though it’s one of their most popular. One, it’s just the perfect song. It actually comes off as some kind of divine gift — from Carl Wilson’s angelic lead vocals to the choral round to the otherworldly composition. Experiencing this song is not a typical journey. When I hear it now, I still get tears in my eyes. It’s stunning that much of it was the result of Brian singing individual parts to respective instrument players (as was his tendency). Oh, and another reason is just that not mentioning it feels like a profane omission.
“The Night Was So Young,” “I’ll Bet He’s Nice”
The Beach Boys’ Love You was originally supposed to be a Brian solo record. Coming at a time when he was going through deep addiction and mental health issues, the arrangements are largely reliant on his simplistic drum parts and rather minimal synth-driven sensibilities. (One standout being an outtake from an earlier era.) The result could be seen as mixed, and surely there are some weird or half-measure outcomes. However, two of the songs are really among Brian’s best. And they come one after another on the track order.
The first, “The Night Was So Young.” The ambient, legato keys, thousand-miles-away guitar, chugging bass, and staggered drums, when paired with Carl’s lead vocals and a chorus of others, are profoundly beautiful and eminently captivating. Particularly with the longing lyrics that feel straight out of 1966, the song comes off like a cut intended for Pet Sounds that is a few days away from ending up in David Bowie’s and Brian Eno’s hands at Hansa. The only downside is it’s just shy of two-and-a-half minutes long.
Following it is the more obviously synthy (and minimalist) “I’ll Bet He’s Nice,” with Dennis on lead vocals, and support by his brothers at various points. There are sparse, fuzzy saw synths and galactic bleep-bloops filtered through Brian’s creative chord progressions. The vocals atop are, amazingly, some of the brothers’ most memorable harmonies. The Boys always know how to make devastation feel enchanting. Filling the gaps in the mix is a pronounced absence of notes, creating a massive headspace for a song that was likely conceived and recorded in some stuffy, close quarters.
I only first heard these songs in college, when I bought the 15 Big Ones/Love You twofer CD. At first I was struck by how underproduced they sounded compared to what came before, and the Wilsons’ vocals sounded rougher and more ragged. Nevertheless, as a lover of synth music, I was first drawn in by their utility and then stayed for the vocals and lyrics that zapped me in my soul. I had plenty of romantic longing, torn between a physically present friend and a long-distance girlfriend; oh, and a massive uncertainty about my future. It hit at the right time. Even today, with some of those issues resolved, this cut still never leaves my listening rotation for very long.
“Surf’s Up” “Wonderful” “Good Vibrations”
The Americana concept (maybe?) album SMiLE is pretty much my favorite Beach Boys or Brian Wilson record, even if any version we have is merely an iteration of something that never truly has been. Both Brian’s 2004 version and the Beach Boys’ one that arrived in 2011 in the box set are worthwhile and offer different perspectives. (The bootlegged bits and pieces I’ve had on some hard drive for 25 years offer good insight, too.) Many writers have filled many pages about this “lost” album that nearly broke Brian, so I won’t repeat the back story. I’ll just dive into why these three tracks from the album are worth your time. (Although, honestly, just listen to the whole damn thing. Even today, there is untrodden territory.)
“Surf’s Up” is a legendary Beach Boys song and is clearly in Brian’s top 5 best. Van Dyke Parks’ abstract lyrics fit well with the minor-key foreboding of the baroque pop gem and centerpiece of SMiLE. (Speaking of lyrics, I think Justin Vernon’s Bon Iver words owe something to Parks’ influence — even if indirect.) To be honest, this song has always left me grasping for words. It’s just near-perfect in the way “God Only Knows” is, down to the divine vocal round. That said, even the 1971 version on the Surf’s Up album and Brian’s solo piano iteration from the late 60s are untouchable. It’s like a sacred, somber story that, despite its title, should never be sun-soaked.
The harpsichord-driven “Wonderful” is a delicate and potent way to kick off the series of songs that foretell the lead up to “Surf’s Up” on SMiLE. It’s one of those stunningly gorgeous minimalist numbers that nevertheless sound mountain-massive. The aching horn and the Boys’ unassailable harmonies are the cherries atop.
SMiLE concludes with a certain version of “Good Vibrations” that is close but noticeably different from the chart-topping “pocket symphony” the band released in 1966. The psychedelic lyrics, Mike Love-led vocal hook, and otherworldly wall-of-sound of that masterpiece are all here on this version. What is different, and more in tune with the entire SMiLE story, is the bridge — the Boys extend their hearts and vocals deep into the soul of the heavens with a galactic “hum.” The first time I heard it, after growing up with the popular version, I was maybe 16 and immediately fell to the ground in awe. It represents Brian’s modular composition at its best and is a prime example of how the maestro used studios as instruments rather than mere recording rooms.
“Til I Die”
Aside from maybe Brian’s pitched-down Sinatra experiments on the never-finished Adult/Child, “Til I Die” is probably his darkest, most haunting song. (He wrote the words and music, which is actually quite uncommon for him.) It hails from the Surf’s Up record from 1971, which was built around a finished (and somewhat diminished) version of the title song that I discussed above. Brian was largely absent from the recording and production for this album, because he was deep into his well-documented issues. Nevertheless, the closing trifecta was a Brian showcase. (As an aside, the Carl-led, mind-bending “Feel Flows” on the album is by far one of the band’s best songs, even without Brian.)
“Til I Die” finds Brian lamenting his lack of agency — he’s a cork in the ocean at the whims of the beast’s waves. He’s hopeless and without control and in a toxically detached place, albeit with his Boys on harmony. One line hits you with brute force: “It kills my soul, hey hey hey.” The instrumentation itself has a water-like quality. The bass, vibraphone, and organ slowly flow back and forth, floating around a few chord progressions that Brian reportedly chose because of their shapes and their anchoring to one part of the piano.
“Love and Mercy”
This song first showed up on Brian’s 1988 eponymous solo debut, drenched in the kind of ‘80s production techniques that would go on to pollute — for many people — all ‘80s songs retrospectively as “cheese.” As someone who loves music from that decade, and synths and gated snare generally, I still think the implementation is largely lacking. (I’m not sure how much of this was the fault of Brian’s much-maligned, dictatorial therapist, Dr. Eugene Landy, or the cadre of producers.) Nevertheless, many of the songs on the album emphatically don’t suck. “Love and Mercy,” one of Brian’s most famous and beloved solo cuts, is one of those. It perfectly captures his robust innocence in the face of aging and increasingly dire times, set to a perfect chord progression. It’s a particularly poignant number in 2025, when love, mercy, grace, and even decency are in short supply. I prefer the minimal live version from the late ’90s/early 2000s.
(Of course, the excellent film about Brian’s later years would go on to carry the name. Definitely see it, if you haven’t. Paul Dano and John Cusack do a great job as younger and older Brian.)
“Lay Down Burden”
Brian’s second solo album, Imagination, which released a decade after his eponymous debut record, suffered from much of the same sins as its predecessor. Although, thankfully, Brian was long free of Landy’s involvement. This time, instead of over-utilized late-80s production techniques, there are some good songs suffocated by the saccharine, adult-contemporary production sensibilities of Joe Thomas. (Sorry, Joe, but come on.)
My favorite song on the album, and really one of my all-time favorite Brian numbers, is “Lay Down Burden.” It’s a deeply moving tribute to his brother Carl, who died a year earlier from cancer. The chorus in particular is one of those with the ability to shatter your soul — particularly when it reminds you of one of your own friends or family members who’ve died. It’s that complicated mixture of grief and relief that accompanies a struggle with cancer, or just a struggle. We’re devastated they’re gone, but thankful they’re finally at peace.
Say “hi” to Carl and Dennis for us, sweet sweet Brian.
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