1. Wouldn’t It Be Nice
2. You Still Believe in Me
3. That’s Not Me
4. Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)
5. I’m Waiting for the Day
6. Let’s Go Away for A While
7. Sloop John B
8. God Only Knows
9. I Know There’s an Answer
10. Here Today
11. I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times
12. Pet Sounds
13. Caroline, No
I was born on the South Side of Chicago, the eldest of seven children. My late dad was a young GI here in Britain for the D-Day offensive, a life-changing experience for a guy born in segregated Mississippi. I was raised a Roman Catholic kid and attended Catholic school – with a brief two-year hiatus in high-school until I got my undergrad degree from university.
I was active politically in high school and university – the first #blacklivesmatter generation. I was a Motown teen largely, and when Pet Sounds came out in 1966, I wouldn’t have been there to greet it.
I have a lot of favourite albums, but if these three were played on my deathbed (they say hearing is the last sense to go) I’d be absolutely happy. They are:
Here Comes the Sun – Nina Simone
Nevermind – Nirvana
Sketches of Spain – Miles Davis
Welcome to the alternative history of The Beach Boys.
It begins with three brothers in California.
First up, there’s Brian Wilson.
Brian was the oldest and liked nothing more than sitting in his room listening to music – despite being deaf in one ear. In particular, he was a huge fan of a harmony group called The Four Freshmen, and the first album he ever bought was brilliantly called Four Freshmen and 5 Trombones.
The Five Trombones weren’t another band – there were just five trombones on the album.
Next in line, there’s Dennis Wilson.
Dennis was smart, rebellious, and everyone fancied him because he was bloody gorgeous.
He also played drums and occasionally went surfing – the only one of the brothers that did. Remember that, it’s sort of important.
Finally, bringing up the rear, there’s Carl Wilson.
Carl, the youngest of the three, was basically ignored by everyone else on account of him being quiet and chubby. So, left to his own devices, he learned how to play guitar. In a strange quirk of fate, he was taught guitar by a local kid called John Maus who would go on to become the fella in The Walker Brothers who wasn’t Scott Walker.
So there we have it, the three Wilson brothers.
Add an ambitious cousin called Mike Love, a friend called Al Jardine, and a band started to take shape. It’s probably worth mentioning here that Jardine, the only one who wasn’t part of the family, was given his chance because Brian Wilson broke Al’s leg once when playing football and felt like he owed him one.
In fact, you could say he got his big break after his… oh forget it.
The band initially started singing clean-cut doo-wop under a variety of silly names like The Pendletones and Carl and the Passions. However, they were just another group of kids that could sing, the type that make it to the house on The X Factor but then get booted off before the live shows. A local record label was on the verge of showing them the door for the last time, satisfied they had exhausted every angle, when suddenly Dennis piped up with a suggestion.
‘How about surfing?’ he said.
They looked up to see an excitable, and gorgeous, Dennis Wilson regaling them with stories of the local surfing scene. He buzzed about how it was the next big thing and all these local teenagers were listening to the surf report on the radio before planning their day around the size and location of the waves.
One minute they’re saying goodbye to another failed prospect and then, out of the blue, he’s got his foot in the door and starts banging on about surfing. And it wasn’t just the label that were taken aback. The rest of the band were equally surprised at Dennis’s last-ditch attempt to save the group.
Once he’d caught his breath, he said:
‘Brian already has a song called “Surfin’”. We could practise it for you and come back?’
Dennis had, remarkably, found the angle.
The label nodded their consent, seeing a ready-made audience in the scene that Wilson had described, and the band scurried off. It didn’t matter that Dennis was the only one with any experience of surfing or that the other four, judging by their shirts, looked like they’d be more at home with an ironing board than a surf board. They sensed an opportunity and they weren’t going to let small details get in the way.
The band rehearsed the song all weekend and went back to the label, who recorded it straight away. It was then released as a single and, without even consulting them, the label decided on a new name for the band – The Beach Boys.
It really is worth pausing here to take in what’s just happened.
A fella has saved his band by suggesting they write a song about a relatively niche pastime – surfing. In fact, it’s so niche that 80 per cent of the band have never done it before. Even though it sounds like the worst idea ever, everyone thinks it’s the best idea ever, and the band are called The Beach Boys for the rest of their career!
I guess the equivalent would be a band that had never played Dungeons & Dragons but exclusively wrote songs about thirty-six-sided dice, dexterity scores, and how to keep your chainmail in good nick. And for good measure, they called themselves The Games Workshop.
They wouldn’t stand a chance.
The Beach Boys, on the other hand, were on their way.
‘Surfin’’ was followed by ‘Surfin’ Safari’ which was then followed by ‘Surfin’ USA’. By sticking to a winning formula (basically making sure the first word of every song is surfin’) they became the biggest band in America before you could say ‘bushy bushy blonde hairdo’. And they did it with joy and harmony – epitomising a way of life that was in tune with the elements and promising triple fun for everyone that joined them.
Such was the success of their sound, and their spirit, that they even had the nerve to start singing songs that had nothing to do with surfing at all. There were introspective ballads like ‘In My Room’ and, of course, there were the best Beach Boys songs of all – the car songs.
It’s the sheer joy and excitement that cuts through. This is not about the road, that endless American obsession with an arduous journey to a mythical destination. No, these are kids who understand that the car itself is the destination and the thrill is just sitting still and admiring where they are – taking in the rubber, leather and chrome. The message is simple and effective – ‘I’M IN A CAR AND IT’S THE BEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO ME’.
They’re the only songs that make me want to learn how to drive.
It’s probably also worth mentioning here that during this time in their career, The Beach Boys were responsible for some of the best opening lines ever. Here, in a quick detour from the story, are my top three:
3) ‘Surfin’ USA’
‘If everybody had an ocean across the USA, then everybody’d be surfin’, like Californi-a.’
I’m giving them top marks for managing to make California rhyme with USA there.
‘Can we get away with that? Just separating the A so that it rhymes?’
‘It’s the least of our worries mate, none of us even surf.’
The only issue I have with the line is that there are 320 million people in America and if everyone really did have their own ocean it would be a bit like that Waterworld film starring Kevin Costner – i.e. terrible.
2) ‘Little Deuce Coupe’
‘I’m not bragging babe so don’t put me down, but I’ve got the fastest set of wheels in town.’
Hmmm. Sounds like a massive brag to me, mate.
1) ‘Help me Rhonda’
‘Well since she put me down, I’ve been out doing in my head.’
Hands down, the best opening line to any song ever.
But back to the story…
As the early sixties inevitably turned into the mid-sixties, the band were influenced by a new wave of sounds. First, The Beatles came over and the entire country watched them on The Ed Sullivan Show singing songs that weren’t about cars or surfing. Then Bob Dylan started to release a series of albums that were so good that Brian Wilson actually wondered whether he was out to destroy music with his genius.
And, if that wasn’t enough, there was Phil Spector.
Spector had harnessed the power of the studio and started producing songs with layers upon layers of orchestration – mini symphonies that turned pop songs into epic dramas. When Brian Wilson first heard ‘Be My Baby’ by The Ronettes he sat with his face pressed against the speakers so he could feel the sound and the vibrations – a huge grin on his face as he let the immense sound wash over him.
In fact, he was so taken by what he had heard that he decided to quit touring and stay at home so he could play in the studio instead.
He informed the other Beach Boys of his decision, whereupon Al Jardine started to have stomach cramps and Dennis threatened to hit someone with an ashtray. Still, they quickly got over it and brought in a bloke called Bruce Johnston who looked a bit like Brian Wilson. Most people couldn’t even tell the difference.
Free from the rigours of touring, Brian Wilson started to work on a new sound that relied on a vast array of session musicians and innovative studio techniques. You can first start to hear it around the time of ‘California Girls’. Gone was Carl Wilson’s simple Chuck Berry guitar and in its place were fourteen musicians playing all sorts of weird instruments. One of them was called a Vibraphone, which, if I’m being honest, conjures all sorts of unpleasant images.
Buoyed by his successes, and free from interference, Brian Wilson told his wife that he was going to make the best album ever. He recruited a lyricist called Tony Asher and they began to sketch a series of new songs, each one starting with a conversation – something to set a mood to write within. Wilson discussed a series of topics with his new partner – his childhood sweetheart, Carole Mountain; the temptation he had for his wife’s sister; the optimism of young love versus, in his view, its pessimistic conclusion.
It’s some shift, only a year before they were singing songs like this:
Tried Peggy Sue
Tried Betty Lou
Tried Mary Lou
But I knew she wouldn’t do
Barbara Ann, Barbara Ann
Still, this was a new mood and the songs came thick and fast – ‘God Only Knows’ taking just twenty minutes, which is obviously the best use of twenty minutes by anyone ever.
Once the songs were complete they went to the studio and, with the help of over sixty musicians, they weaved the magic that you can hear today. Wilson was in charge throughout, meticulously conducting the disparate parts to realise his vision. There were so many people that even the most up-to-date release contains, at best, a guess as to who contributed what. My favourite entries from the liner notes, which are illustrative of the sheer weight of numbers on show, are as follows:
Ron Swallow – Tambourine (uncertain).
‘Tony’ – Sleigh bell.
The use of inverted commas around Tony has been making me laugh for about thirty-two years now.
Meanwhile, back in 1966, the rest of the band returned from Japan to overdub their vocal parts.
‘Japan was great Brian, what have you been up to then?’
‘I’ve just made Pet Sounds, lads.’
Carl Wilson then sang ‘God Only Knows’ at the age of nineteen and the rest of the group chipped in with their harmonies, despite some of them raising various objections about the change of direction. Mike Love said ‘it sure don’t sound like the old stuff’, and, you know what, he was absolutely right about that.
Pet Sounds was released to moderate sales and only a distant fanfare. Lennon and McCartney heard it and went straight home and wrote ‘Here, There, and Everywhere’. Andrew Loog Oldham took out a full-page ad in the NME and declared it the greatest album ever made.
Brian Wilson, meanwhile, took it home and played it in bed. He was twenty-four years old and was overwhelmed by what he’d managed to produce.
As he listened to it, he cried his eyes out all the way through.
Which is where we bring the story to an end – Brian Wilson lying in bed with his sound washing over him.
For me, it’s a joyous conclusion, one that celebrates the veneer and refuses to dig deeper – that tells a different truth to the other truths that are out there. It could just be me, but sometimes the journey doesn’t have to be so arduous – it doesn’t always have to be about the destination.
Sometimes you can just sit still and admire where you are.
Thanks for reading my alternative history of The Beach Boys.
When I was a very young child, at the end of the fifties, we lived in a neighbourhood in the notorious Lawndale community on the city’s West Side. It was gang-riddled and you had to watch your back. But in the midst of all that, in those days, there were doo-wop groups on every street corner. There were impromptu doo-wop contests, so I heard lots of falsetto, exquisite falsetto. Plus our local Roman Catholic Church had a superb Irish tenor who sang Low Mass every day before we went to class – Bach mostly.
Then, as a teen, it was Little Anthony and the Imperials; then Curtis Mayfield, Jerry Butler and The Impressions; the entire Motown stable; Mahalia Jackson in Gospel; Muddy Waters and Koko Taylor, the blues; my dad had Frank Sinatra albums; Johnny Mathis. There was Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson; Dinah Washington, Miriam Makeba. Throw in the entire Civil Rights Movement – a big part of my growing up – and why would a kid like me listen to some California surfing dudes?
Plus… they just didn’t look like they would know anything about me and my life. The Beach Boys were what was known as ‘white bread’ – clean-cut; nice lives. What would they know about segregation or gangs, or having to endure getting your hair chemically straightened every month?
If you watched TV – and I did a lot then – they were kind of all over it. I mean their ethos. They seemed to me to be that all-American dad, coming through the front door after a day at the office yelling: ‘Honey, I’m home!’, and mom emerging from the kitchen in a lovely dress, heels and pearls and the perfect meal ready.
‘Surfin’ USA’ was their theme, not mine.
If my friends and I were going to the beach in those days, it was to de-segregate it.
That’s the truth.
Let me start by saying that I’m a synaesthete. Synaesthesia is a cross-wiring in the brain in which several senses come together. Until about a decade ago, I thought that everyone heard music the way I do: I see images… whole movies even, sometimes in colour and sometimes with their own smell. So needless to say, listening to any music is not a simple experience for me. Which is why I have instinctively avoided Pet Sounds.
And was quite right to do so!
Let me take you into my world. I’ll start at the bottom and take you to the top:
1. The barking dogs almost made me want to commit homicide. I’m still shaking. I get it, but it’s so jarring, so thrown-in. The train. It really jarred me because Wilson felt to me like he was tripping. I read later that he was experimenting, and it’s all over some of these instrumental sections. I can understand why it didn’t chart well in America at the time because those bits seem careless, and a loss of control compared to everything else. Horrid.
2. The instrumental segments… made me wonder if Burt Bacharach had listened to them and created his Broadway show Promises, Promises out of them. I’m saying this as a compliment. If Wilson had gone on to write for Broadway, just with those bits he would have been a zillionaire. I don’t know where they come from, or how they came to be. They’re just there – out of the blue and quite, quite amazing. It still blows my mind hours after hearing it. Very skilful, and throw away all at the same time.
3. Now to the masterpieces:
a) The minor one: ‘Sloop John B’
Frankly, if you ever want to know what the folks who flock around Donald Trump have playing in their brains – it’s this. This is Middle America (I almost said ‘the whole shooting match’!), the thing-that-they-are. Wilson nailed it and that’s why everybody in America at the time was singing it. Even me at times. Real sing-along ‘God Bless America’ stuff with those gorgeous harmonies.
b) ‘Caroline, No’
Exquisite. It’s about being a guy on the edge of manhood. In love with a girl. This is the stuff sixteen-year-old guys feel and you know it as a sixteen-year-old girl, and you also know that you have the upper hand. It’s really naked; keening. Perfect.
c) ‘God Only Knows’
In Sonnet 43 Shakespeare writes:
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee . . .
The pop version of that sonnet is ‘God Only Knows’. For me, this was a piece of cinema, so I don’t have the space to talk about it. But it’s a singer’s K2 of emotion; control; picture painting; mood-setting. Out-there and beyond. It’s about a human being trying to save their life and it pulls no punches. Really surprised that my idols: Nina; Miles; and Kurt never covered it. Would have been great to hear what they would have done with it.
Not soon. No. It’s too much for my brain, really.
If you can take it: a 9.