Bright flashes. Salt. Sweat. Wavvves. Hearts. Broken. Repeat-play days and nights. Sun. Blonde. And then nothing. Darkness.
Brian Wilson is dead.
It was 24 years ago when I was alone pulling a Saturday double shift at Volt Records and I had a goal to listen to supposed “classic” albums that I had never really given much ear too. I put on some Van Halen (no thank you), some Black Sabbath (yes, please), I think I even put on the second movement of the Jupiter symphony since Woody Allen once told me to in Manhattan. Next stop: The Beach Boys - Pet Sounds.
It’s hard to put into words the feelings pulsing through my veins upon hearing the album the way it was meant to be heard - front to back - and most importantly: alone. It felt like a save lifer, the first brick thrown, fevered sensations, hit in the face, blood in the sand, never happier and sadder. Of course it was beautifully imperfect teenage emotions in musical form and there I was: a quivering teenager 35 years removed from the album’s creation and it feeling still as vital.
My friends and I have been enamored with the LP ever since. At multiple points every year of my life since then I’ve found it on repeat for days in headphones and car rides and in my head: humming it with hands in my pockets. It’s a salve on the open wound of daily life. And a shot of cloud obscured sunshine when it’s needed most. And now its creator is gone. But how? I still hear him in my ears as I write these worthless words down. He’s swirling around in an orchestral haze as I try to file memories in my mind. Death is beneath you.
A million words have already been written about Side 1, Track 1: Wouldn’t It Be Nice. So here’s a few more. Backroads in CT, hearing the drum slam down in the songs intro and feeling the melancholic tune rush past my open window. All it did was make complete sense to a teenager like me. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older then we wouldn’t have to wait so long?” Of course. It would have been, for us. The simple linear thought: “we could be married, and then we’d be happy.” All so simple, and easy. Because it is, back then.
And so when does it cross over? What age does it happen when I hear the same words “wouldn’t it be nice if we were older…” but it no longer applies to yours truly? When do I start doing what I’ve habitually done for years (and used as lyrics) and change the words to my favorite songs? When did it occur that I mentally substitute the line and instead ask in perfect harmony: “Wouldn’t it be nice if we were younger?”
It’s a gut punch and a kiss on the mouth from a perfect stranger. Uneasy, and unsure of what to feel. Of course, the song entirely works from this vantage point. Instead of looking forward to years to come here I sit looking backward at years past. Chances missed. Shots not taken. Case in point:
Wouldn’t it be nice if we were (younger)…
…and we could wake up when the day is new. And after having spent the day together, hold each other close the whole night through.
It all works. Cause it’s all the same for some of us. Young, old. Doesn’t matter. The more we talk about it, it just makes it worse to live without it. And as Brian said …”but let’s talk about it.”
Days keep churning and there is the creeping feeling that it’s not that we missed the plot of all of “this” it’s just that the plot really sucks. The shimmer of youth and a sun rising on a new day with blonde hair and perfume now has morphed to a setting sun and wondering “what if.”
It’s like the man said: lie awake and think of you, young and free and true. The hourglass is falling. Time is slipping. Brian Wilson knew it all too well and we have him to thank for the pain. At least the pain lets you know you’re still here. That it’s not all ephemeral. That maybe even in the dirty mess of it all it was somehow worth it for the prick of the feel of a buzz of life. Even if for a few moments.
We smiled and said I’ll see you this summer. But we knew it was over. I remember it all and never wrote anything down.
Oh, wouldn’t it be nice?