I've written before of
my ongoing archeological dig through what remains of my cassette tape collection. I'm finding that many of them are no longer playable, either because of overuse or age or a combination of both. So my project has taken on the tone of a recovery mission more than a casually paced preservation exercise.
Of course, what makes the whole effort worthwhile are those rare occasions when I come across something I haven't listened to for years, an album I have not "replaced" on either vinyl or CD or an album I enjoyed for a short time before my ears were led away by something shinier. Generally, when I come across these albums (assuming I had enjoyed them before), it doesn't take long for lyrics and melodies to come rushing out of my subconscious (or wherever it is in the brain that old songs go) and it's like I had never stopped playing the album in question.
Such was my experience the other day when I put
Brian Wilson into the tape deck. This 1988 album was the first solo record from the former Beach Boy and was heralded upon its release as something akin to a Second Coming in pop music. And considering the limited output of Wilson albums in the years since this album was released, it still carries a certain aura of something rare and undiscovered.
Anyone who knows the troubled history of Wilson's long fight with manic depression and the bitter recriminations of some of his former band members (who continue to prostitute the name of the Beach Boys as if they had some claim to Wilson's guiding genius, not unlike those lumps who have been touring and recording under the name "Pink Floyd" for the last several years) will appreciate why so many fans treasure the few albums Wilson has released and why, upon their arrival, they are usually afforded such generous critical attention.
Unfortunately, either due to the fickle nature of the radio and recording industries or the short attention span of the average consumer,
Brain Wilson doesn't seem to have ever fully received its due as one of the most gorgeous albums in recent years. The songs on this record are joyous, and contain little indication of the emotional challenges faced daily by the man who created them. Any listener armed with the knowledge of those challenges, coupled with the somewhat troubled expression of Wilson on the album's cover, will listen to these songs with a certain degree of heartbreak, which in no way diminishes their beauty.
Among the songs are three true standouts: "Love and Mercy," which opens the album; "Melt Away," and the wordless ode to Wilson's former bandmates, "One for the Boys." It has sometimes been said of Mozart that his music was the closest approximation on Earth to either God's voice or the sounds of heaven, and, despite the inherent hyperbole of that comparison, that is what these songs sound like to me: it is difficult to believe that any human could create something of such ethereal beauty.
My reaction to these songs probably has something to do with what I know about Wilson's life, just as the jazz aficiando can more sharply hear the pain contained in the music of, say, John Coltrane. But I also think anyone who didn't know
Wilson's history would still be able to recognize their qualities, and would perhaps enjoy them more fully. Who knows? But there is something inexplicably fascinating about any work of art that comes from a diseased mind and abused creator.
Though largely a love song, "Melt Away" contains a few lyrics that speak to this kind of biography and Wilson's uncertainty in presenting a new collection of songs to a world that has long since moved on from the sunny days at the beach with a radio belting out Beach Boys hits. "The world's not waiting just for me," he sings. "The world don't care what I can be." Somewhere in the genesis of these lines lies a backwards glance over Wilson's shoulder at the abuse he sustained at the hands of his father, back when he was just beginning to find an escape through music. But the song will not sustain this self-reflective pity. "But when I hear you talking/I feel my heart unlockin'/And my blues just melt away/Melt away." These lines are acccompanied by the chimes of some large bell, enhancing the gospel qualities of the song. And, like any of Wilson's classics, the lyrics are supported by an underlying chorus of his overdubbed vocals which weave in and out, above and below the instrumentation. The total effect of the song is much more than mere aural pleasure or escape. The song is transformative, disguising itself as a simple pop tune, a disposable love song.
If "Melt Away" is transformative, "One for the Boys" is an aural key to some unearthly kingdom. In less than two minutes, it delivers a message of such unashamed grace to Wilson's bandmates that it is remarkable that they still find the nerve to perform his songs. Surely no collection of voices, however they might be tied to Wilson in the past, could ever approach the sounds Wilson creates on his own. Contained in this simple number are years of effort, disappointment, success, abandonment, sorrow, and absolution. Wilson recognizes that no words will ever be able to convey the depth of his conflicted feelings toward his bandmates, yet this wordless ode provides more meaning than a shelf full of biographies and criticism.
The album is not without its faults. Some of the numbers are helplessly trapped in the time period in which they were conceived. Not surprisingly, Jeff Lynne's contributions to "Let It Shine" sound particularly dated. The album is also tainted by the participation of Eugene Landy, a man who for years took advantage of Wilson's depression by prescribing copious amounts of mood-numbing drugs, while helping himself to Wilson's home and studio. Landy, a man bereft of any creative ability, shamelessly gives himself songwriting, singing and production credits on the album. (
Landy recently died, long after he set back Wilson's personal and professional improvement by untold years.) Additionally, some of the songs are underdeveloped fragments, deserving of further studio work.
But overall, it is hard to think of this record as anything less than a gift. I fear it may only truly be appreciated once Wilson dies. I didn't even think the album was still in print, but I was happy to discover that Rhino Records recently
re-released the album with a number of bonus tracks. I realize my effusive praise of this record and my personal appreciation of Wilson may seem excessive and fannish. But, after listening to this record for the last few days, I honestly feel it deserves a spot in the pantheon of popular music. If not a masterpiece on the level of Wilson's
Pet Sounds, Brian Wilson's 1988 solo album is certainly one of the finest, and sadly overlooked, albums of the last 25 years.
