I've hardly been posting on here, but the death of Brian Wilson hit me harder than I expected. I was a Beach Boys fan before The Beatles hit America, and I can still listen to their old music and think "This is cool." Right now, I'm listening to "Surfer Girl" from a cassette by Time-Life called "The Beach Boys 1962-1967" from a set called "The Rock 'n Roll Era." I bought a complete set of these with a rack from a thrift shop. When I see someone's collection, whether the person gave it up or the survivors sold it, I feel like I have to keep it together. In addition to "Surfer Girl,"Be True To Your School" and "In My Room" were favorites of mine from the early days.
In the summer of 1965, I traveled to California by car with my friend Joel, his parents, and his cousin from Brooklyn. We had only t-shirts and shorts to wear, so we were surprised by snow on the ground in Wyoming, froze in San Francisco, and, 15 year olds that we were, we were stopped by the police in Los Angeles for being out at Hollywood and Vine in Los Angeles after curfew. We wondered why nothing was happening at this famous intersection. We made it Ensenada in Baja, hung out at the beach, and came home via a southerly route. We just missed the Watts riots. "California Girls" had just come out, and we thought it was about the coolest song we had ever heard. When we got home to Baltimore, we found out that our new favorite song had not yet been released on the East Coast.
I continued to listen to The Beach Boys, although my main love at sixteen was Motown music. I bought "Pet Sounds" when it came out. I can admit now that it was too deep for me. Like everyone, I was moved by "God Only Knows," but the song that hit me hardest was "I Guess I Just Wasn't Made For These Times." Even at sixteen, I was beginning to think that might be true, and that song continues to hold meaning for me.
I continued to collect Beach Boys albums, particularly liking "Surf's Up" and "Holland." At the time I didn't know what was going on Brian's life, only that they were no longer in the "my girl, my school, my car, my surfboard" era.
Fast forward to 1985. I was living in Los Angeles, ironically, since my first trip there I hated the city. I was working for Social Security as a first-line supervisor, and although I was good at the job, I could see I wasn't going to stay there. I took a class at UCLA Extension called "The Career Exploration Seminar." I thought I might be an actor, starting at thirty-five. There was a gorgeous woman in the class, an actress who thought she was too old to get parts. She encouraged me to try acting. The last night of class, we all went out to eat later. She lived with her boyfriend at an address on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. He was a therapist, handsome enough, probably fifty at the time, with a diamond stud earring. I said "You must be doing well to live on PCH in Malibu." He smiled at me and said "I actually only have one client right now."
That mystery lasted until I bought a Brian Wilson solo album, where the woman in class was listed as cowriter on some of the songs, and on the liner notes, he thanked his therapist, Eugene Landy, the man I met at that restaurant.
I tried to complete my collection of Beach Boys albums. "Beach Boys Today!" became a favorite, especially the song "Kiss Me Baby," a perfect expression of teen angst, and a gorgeous piece of music.
I moved to Morgantown, West Virginia with my husband (we met in 2005 and legally married in California in 2008). He is a rabbi and was hired by Tree of Life Congregation here. People encouraged me to go to Osher Life-Long Learning, since I had no plan to work here. I saw some of the classes people taught about music, and I started teaching about my favorite music. One of my first classes, which I later taught in a more expanded version, was about The Brill Building sound. I had a book about it. Like me, Brian was a fan of "Be My Baby" by The Ronettes, and cribbed some of his orchestration from Phil Spector's "Wall of Sound."
I pretty much devoured the 2014 film "Love and Mercy" with Paul Dano and John Cusack as Brian. Eugene Landy was much better-looking than Paul Giamatti, who played him in the movie. When we bought a used Honda Civic in 2018, I showed the pretty blonde saleswoman the trailer. She screamed "Oh God, is that Elizabeth Banks? I love her." Brian married the car salesperson in real life.
I came to learn about the split between Brian and Mike Love, grieved over the deaths of Dennis (my crush for longer than I care to admit), and Carl, who kept the group together when Brian was having issues.
For my fiftieth birthday in 1999, I threw a "Soul Oldies Dance Party." I bought four tickets to see Brian at The Wilton Theater in Los Angeles. My friend Jeff and I went with a lesbian couple we knew. We were in the front row. Brian introduced a song he wrote in memory of his brother Carl. He was met with weak applause from most of the crowd. I could see how angry he was. He brought out an electric guitar and played "Barbara Ann." not an original Beach Boys song, but the Beach Boys' cover was popular. People jumped up and screamed, and I could see the look of contempt on Brian's face.
I recently found a copy of the reissue of "Carl and The Passions So Tough" and "Holland," of which I had a decades-old copy. I still collect solo albums by Carl and Dennis. I cherish my CD copy of "That's Why God Made The Radio." When it came out, I watched the video over and over. Thinking about it though, I knew no one drives on PCH when there is no traffic, no group of young people are all happy and skinny like those actors, and they wouldn't be excited to meet The Beach Boys. What The Beach Boys sold us was a fantasy of California, not necessarily the real thing, at least not often.
The Beach Boys were faves of mine from the time I was twelve, and I continued to love their new music long after the end of Motown and the breakup of The Beatles.
I'm not the kind of genius who can write and arrange music, and I was never a great actor, but I can appreciate great art, like Brian's songs, and also how hard life can be, and how we deal with our difficulties, even when we are materially well off.
The great musicians we loved as teenagers in the 1960s, if they managed to live past thirty, are all in their eighties now, and like Brian Wilson and Sly Stone this week, may not last long. At least they've left us an enduring legacy that I hope we can pass on to the next generations.
