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At 25 I turned out the light
Cause I couldn't handle the glare in my tired eyes
But now I'm back, drawing shades of kind blue skies
It would seem hard to miss the gist of those words from the song "Going Home," one of the highlights of Brian Wilson's new That Lucky Old Sun album. Wilson, of course, famously retreated from the spotlight in his mid-20s into a darkened world of psychological difficulties, drug use, the manipulative presence of "advisor" Dr. Eugene Landy and family conflicts that repeatedly shred the core of the family-rooted Beach Boys -- emerging in recent years to a remarkable level of latter-day creative activity, concretizing and acclaim around such projects as the long-delayed completion of the legendary lost ‘60s album Smile.
Don't jump to conclusions, Wilson says. Sure, those lyrics are probably autobiographical, but to someone else's biography.
"That was written by Scott Bennett," he says, noting that the lyrics came from the pen of one of the anchors of the band that has been supporting Wilson's endeavors for a decade now. "What it was, was he wanted to describe his situation. It's about himself. I think it just means . . . I don't know what it means. It's kind of poetic."
But what does Wilson think when he sings those words?
"It means a lot," he allows. "I can remember when I was 25."
And that was like . . .
"I was much more energetic then."
On that note, though, there is a piece of this song-cycle -- which revisits some of the Southern California scenes that Wilson turned into musical gold back before he was, you know, 25 and then seems to turn the camera on the artist himself -- that Wilson eagerly holds up as unquestionably about him.
"Some of it is introspective and autobiographical," he says. "The song ‘Oxygen to the Brain' the most. It's all about how I laid around, didn't do anything for about 10 years and finally decided to exercise and write some songs."
And write songs he did, a creative burst that produced a batch of 18. This came in the wake of the completion of Smile in 2006, finally releasing a piece of his past that always seemed to be present in his intervening work as a "what-if" specter. That venture was originally meant to follow his first great song-cycle, 1966's Pet Sounds, and the three minutes of utter transcendent glory that is "Good Vibrations," a song that in theory was a prelude to Smile but wound up leaving him with a case of creator's block after the massive undertaking involved in the recording.
The belated Smile, in fact, was so satisfying an experience that Wilson was eager to do more song-cycle type works. The problem with the 18 things he had written now, though, was that they were not -- to his thinking -- a coherent sequence. Then one day he was just sitting around at the piano and a tune popped into his head: the 1949 Beasley Smith/Haven Gillespie standard "That Lucky Old Sun."
"I was playing on my keyboard one day and got this funny feeling that it would make a good theme for an album," he says. "I bought the Louis Armstrong version [recorded in ‘49], changed the chords just a little -- and had my theme."
Though it's a modern allusion to earlier times, Wilson particularly latched on to what he sees as the song's roots in African-American slave spirituals, with the chorus:
Up in the mornin', out on the job
Work so hard for my pay
But that lucky old sun's got nothin' to do
But roll around heaven all day.
An excerpt of the song opens the album and then reappears several times throughout as the linking motif. And sung in Wilson's still-yearning voice, with those backing harmonies that many have imitated but few have captured, it renews the contradictions and nuances that have always made Wilson's best much more than the mere celebrations of sunshine that many took them for. Doesn't matter whether you're surfin' U.S.A. or suffering alone in your room, that lucky old sun is just rollin' around, completely indifferent.
And it's that sun's light illuminating the scenes Wilson and Bennett portray: "Morning Beat" bringing on the day, "Forever My Surfer Girl" checking in with an old friend, "Mexican Girl" linking the area's history with its current multi-cultural vibrancy, "California Role" paying tribute to all who dream the dream ("You don't have to climb the Capitol tower / or play the Hollywood Bowl . . .").
Then after getting that oxygen into his brain, "Midnight's Another Day" makes a melancholy side trip reminiscent of "In My Room."
"It's a song about how I got lost, very lost and feeling alone around people," he says, quickly adding, "I feel great now!"
And then that reveals the introspective coda of "Going Home" and the epilogue of "Southern California."
"I had this dream / singing with my brothers / in harmony supporting each other," he sings in that closing song, a tribute to the departed Carl and Dennis even if it glosses over the discord that came between them for many years. And then in the chorus he declares, "In Southern California, dreams wake up for you." Who cares what that lucky old sun thinks of it all?
With five spoken-word narrative bits written by Van Dyke Parks helping connect the dots and the playing and singing of the band he's been playing with for years now painting all the musical shades of that kind blue sky -- better than the Wrecking Crew of the classic sessions, he states without hesitation -- this is not a concept album as much as it's a true Southern California oratorio. (For the record, not all of the 18 original songs made it to the final album.) And it certainly is more a unified piece than either Pet Sounds (which more or less sketched the disconcerting shift from the adolescence dream of "Wouldn't It Be Nice" to the adult melancholy of "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times" and "Caroline No") or Smile (which is about . . . uh . . . we'll get back to you on that). If it's not quite as groundbreaking sonically as either of those, well, Wilson broke that ground up pretty thoroughly 40-plus years ago.
Speaking of that, the album sees Wilson returning to his musical home of the past: that very Capitol tower referenced in the song. That was of course the label for which all the classic Beach Boys recordings were made, but until now none of Wilson's post-Beach Boys solo material. It is, though, a symbolic move more than anything, given all the changes in the business.
"It means I'm back at the place I used to be when I was there 46 years ago," he says. "Though Capitol is not all there now. Part of it isn't in existence."
But does it feel like home?
"Yeah, it does."
If Capitol isn't quite the same, how about the surfer girl he pledges his love to, forever, on this album? Is she the same as she was back in 1961 when her inspiration struck him and launched one of the biggest waves in pop music history?
"No," he says. "It's about my wife, Melinda. There wasn't any surfer girl in the past. Just a song."
Essential/Eccentric Brian Wilson Song Guide:
Sure, "Fun, Fun, Fun" is one of the all-time great odes to . . . uh . . . fun, "Caroline, No" is a masterful account of the sadness accompanying lost innocence and "Good Vibrations" is up there with "Strawberry Fields Forever" as one of the greatest achievements of modern pop music. Those kind of mark the parameters of the Brian Wilson world. But within those wide borders there are a lot of easily overlooked gems, rough-hewn in many cases, or even lumps of coal with mere diamond potential, but still worth examination. Here's a list (okay, an eccentric list) of ten to consider, or re-consider:
"Do It Again" from Beach Boys '69 (reissued as Live in London)
Perverse to start with a track on which Brian Wilson doesn't even appear? And a track on stage, with the actual Beach Boys not really up to the high standards set in the studio by the Wrecking Crew? Not to mention that by the time this was recorded in a 1969 London concert, the band was pretty much a nostalgia act, irrelevant in Woodstock/Altamont world? Maybe. But this track crackles with an energy sometimes lost in the studio perfection -- listen to Dennis' drums in particular -- and the guys really sound excited and engaged, even giving a mischievous wink to the backward-looking lyrics. And the case can be made that Brian's vision was always a nostalgic one, even from the beginning. Which brings us to . . .
"Be True to Your School" from Little Deuce Coupe (1963)
From the very start, it seems, Wilson was documenting and/or holding tenaciously to a fading way of life. This song, sis-boom-bah and all, is the audio equivalent of Edward Curtis photographing Native Americans as their culture dissolved. Maybe it's not quite sepia-toned, but it's certainly muted Technicolor.
"Sail On Sailor" from Holland (1973)
At a wedding in Richmond a few months ago the band Hi-NRG (a bunch of alt and roots rockers in their very successful alter-egos as a ‘60s/'70s funk and soul covers band) made a side trip to the sea with this oft-forgotten latter-day Brian/Beach Boys number. Hadn't heard the song for years, but it was impossible not to smile and sing along with every word. Apparently the same for all on hand, as a major hootenanny broke out on the dance floor.
"Funky Pretty" from Holland (1973)
Pretty Corny. But idyllic doo-wop that's just hard to resist.
"Darlin'" from Wild Honey (1967)
Already anachronistic by the time the Boys recorded it, nonetheless it's a spirited pop hyper-motet that outdshines anything the Four Seasons ever did.
"Sloop John B" from Pet Sounds (1966)
This is Pet Sounds' black sheep, or runt of the litter, or ugly duckling, or something else playing on the pet theme, being the one song that has nothing at all to do with the tone of the rest of the album in lyrics or music. And it was, in fact, shoe-horned in as an afterthought. But it's a terrific adaptation that actually enhances the sailor-boy misery images ("In My Cabin"?) of being in a situation beyond his control, desperate to get back to the way things used to be. Hey wait, that does fit the concept! And the harmonies are among the best the Boys ever did.
"Devoted to You" from Party (1965)
It's not even a Beach Boys song, but hearing Brian and Mike Love harmonize sweetly on the Boudleaux Bryant/Everly Brothers chestnut in this studio-bash session just melts away all the bad vibrations still simmer in the respective camps. Of course, Phil and Don never got along either.
"I'm Bugged At My Old Man" from Summer Days (and Summer Night!) (1965)
This throwaway Elvis-esque goof took on little darker tone once we learned some of the realities of Brian's relationship with his old man, control freak Murray Wilson. For some weird fun, check out a film clip of Brian and brothers reprising the song in a casual studio moment in 1976. And for some insight to the familial dealings, try this fan-created video to an audio of Murray pulling strings in the sessions for "Help Me Rhonda."
"When I Grow Up (To Be a Man)" from The Beach Boys Today (1965)
Brian fantasizing about not being the kind of old man who bugs his kids?
"In My Room" from Beach Boys Concert (1964)
Wilson's iconic solitary introspection, performed in front of thousands of maniacally adoring, screaming fans. "Very lost and feeling alone around people," indeed.
