Brian's song

Our Beach Boys hero is back with Imagination

by John O'Neill

The phone rang at exactly 6:01, just 60 seconds past the time promised some nine days earlier when yours truly was assured Brian Wilson would indeed honor our interview request. I was paralyzed for eight days, vacillating between being giddy and outright terrified. Having spent the better part of 20 years dreaming of the occasion we would finally share a moment -- during which I would stumble over my awe-struck self in profuse gratitude -- I never thought it would actually come to pass. What to say? What to ask? Considering his well-documented career that spanned four decades of amazing highs and unfathomable lows, I agonized over which subject might set this guy off. Most of all, why me? The last time I checked, I wasn't being confused with Greil Marcus. But there, waiting in an office somewhere on the other side of the country, was Brian Wilson. It was time to put the myth into perspective.

First off, for a five-year span from 1962 to 1967, Wilson redefined the rock-and-roll sound as the frontal lobe of the Beach Boys. Inspired by Phil Spector's Wall of Sound, Wilson took the intricacies of harmony and melody to new highs; multi-layered vocals, sophisticated and textured music, and visionary arrangements became his trademark. Beginning with 1964's Shut Down Volume 2 with its "Don't Worry Baby" and "The Warmth of the Sun," Wilson raised the bar of excellence in a back-and-forth battle with the Beatles for artistic superiority, which climaxed with the '60s milestone and knockout punch Pet Sounds (Lennon and McCartney answered with the inferior Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band). Where the Beach Boys succeeded in warmth and heart, the Beatles stalled on their own self-indulgence. And that's because under the exterior of surf, hot rods, and the girl on the beach (and with Pet Sounds, the "coming of age" theme) were songs of loneliness, frustration, loss, insecurity, and fragility. It was a struggle that eventually drove Wilson around the curve and straight into a Never Never Land of substance abuse and a mental breakdown and three decades' worth of schizophrenia and legal problems. His songwriting became an on-again off-again affair, and fellow Beach Boys would occasionally roll him out on stage for their own benefit. The inspiration that kept so many fans asking for more was soon eclipsed by his status as a legendary recluse. Which makes the Phone Call all the more surprising: Brian Wilson is not known for granting interviews.

But with a new album out, Imagination (Giant/Warner Bros.), Wilson has re-emerged; and geography -- namely, his June 15 appearance at Northampton's Calvin Theatre -- made me an instant winner in the Brian Wilson Sweepstakes. I'll take it however I can get it, and, luckily, the album is pretty good to boot.

"We worked our asses off on it. Joe Thomas and me worked hard. A long, hard labor," says Wilson in a rapid, almost-stock answer. His publicist had warned he's a man of few words, but he seems more a man laboring to interact. Which isn't to say he's not trying. If he had the choice of doing interviews or cleaning leaves out of the gutters, he might be stuck on which would suck less.

Imagination is without doubt the most cohesive effort by Sir Brian since the mid-'60s war of the giants. Though an able contributor to latter Beach Boys' albums like 20/20 and Sunflower, Wilson is at last back on top of the songwriting game. While there's a temptation to view the album as a victory over personal demons (and thus cut it some slack), truth be told, it stacks up on its own. The greatest Wilson compositions were capable of bringing tears to the eyes of grown men, and Imagination is good for a few goose bumps as the Brian-of-old repeatedly shines through.

"I sabotaged my voice on the first album [1988's self-titled solo debut]," Wilson concedes when pushed. "We used too much synthesizer. We tried to keep the guitar and keyboards mixed [on Imagination]. I'm much happier with it."

The title track is a wistful throwback to the Beach Boys era, only from an older man's perspective. "Another car running fast/Another song on the beach/I take a trip through the past/When summer's way out of reach," Wilson intones with a falsetto that's remarkably intact. And obviously with the lines "I miss the way I used to call the shots around here" he's asserting his readiness to reclaim his spot in music's hierarchy. Right?

"Actually, I didn't write that line; I didn't even want to sing it," Wilson admits sounding less-taxed, though no less serious. "I thought it was egotistical. I never understood `calling the shots.' What does that mean? It's incredibly egotistical."

Though deaf in one ear, Wilson continues to hear music in his mind quite unlike anybody else. Celestial and spiritual it's as if he's the mortal conduit of what heaven must sound like. "She Says She Needs Me," cowritten with Carol Bayer Sager, is classic Wilson melancholy with multi-layered vocals (most provided by him) and a gorgeous horn and wind arrangement. And "Lay Down Burden" is a moving and sweet tribute to late brother Carl, who passed away last year, written the day the cancer diagnosis came in. It was Carl who sang what is perhaps the most beautiful song ever committed to tape, "God Only Knows." When pressed for thoughts on their sometimes-strained relationship, Wilson says, "He was wonderful, the greatest little singer in the world."

Imagination is chock full of the same sweet singing and shimmering blissfulness that mark the early Beach Boys work, and Wilson still radiates youthful innocence, evidenced in remakes of his former band's "Let Him Run Wild" and "Keep an Eye on Summer." The only real clunker comes by way of the Caribbean-flavored "South America," which comes off like "Kokomo" Jr. It's no great surprise, when the credits are checked, that perennial non-talent Jimmy Buffett is responsible for the lyrics.

The most satisfying aspect of the Imagination experience is that Wilson is headed out on the road for his first solo tour, and the first prolonged outing since he begged off in '65 (one of the first manifestations of his social withdrawal and mental-health ailments) in order to compose full-time. The reviews have all been stellar, and Wilson appears to be acclimating to the live arena, by all reports. Backed by members of California power-pop greats the Wondermints, and members of Poi Dog Pondering, Wilson is thriving on the vitality the young musicians inject.

"The Wondermint's are young guys, and they put a fire under my ass for sure. It's been great. We've been getting standing ovations all across the tour. It blew my ass out! I couldn't believe it."

Next up for the re-energized and re-engaged Wilson is a tour of Japan and a live album, which will be recorded in August and will contain numbers from Imagination as well as songs drawn chiefly from the Pet Sounds and aborted Smile (in theory, the greatest album that never was) sessions. After that, it's anyone's guess, including Wilson's. It's a lot like relearning how to walk. And right now it's baby steps.

"We don't know what we're gonna do. There's the live album, and that's got some good stuff on it," he says. "I'm happy the Beach Boys are keeping the name alive, that's good. I have my own solo career going on. I don't know. I think we'll go out [together] again someday . . ."

God willing, it's too soon to write a final chapter on a man who, for at least that five-year window, was absolutely peerless. More important, he seems comfortable with his roll as rock-and-roll über-influence. With a new wife and family, and a fresh outlook on life, he's been given an opportunity to make up for too much lost time.

"It's a pump-up when people emulate my music; it's very rewarding and satisfies my ego and self-worth. [All this] is from God. I'm getting a second chance to prove myself. I gotta do the job this time around . . . not fuck up."

With that, I told him what he meant to me, and, of course, he said "thanks." Twenty-three minutes had passed, though it felt like a week as I tried to initially coax words from him. When it ended, it seemed all too brief. Though the magic moment was gone, at least I had a crack at it. The legacy of Wilson's music is as undeniable as it is frustrating. Genius and drooling vegetable. Otherworldly beauty and schizophrenic madness. Pipeline to God and highway to Hell -- he scaled the summit and slid down the mountain. But for the first time in a long time, he's very much back.

I changed my soaked-with-nervous-sweat T-shirt and, after calming down, grabbed the keys and headed to the bar. Boy, did I have a story for the table.