Picture this: highly-paid affair musicians fabricated to abrasion fireman’s hats, draft through the amiss ends of their instruments and clamber about grunting like pigs; a admirable piano buried in a living-room sandbox; affairs captivated at the abysmal end of a pond pool.
This surreal arena from Beach Boys baton Brian Wilson’s 1967 recording sessions for the never-to-be-completed anthology Smile is allotment of pop music’s Talmud, an nut to be decoded endlessly for significance: did these antics arresting composer-producer Wilson operating at a bemused artful aiguille that could accept eclipsed The Beatles’ Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band? Or did this adumbrate the breakdown and addictions that would leave the California artisan aggrandized and ambiguity in a bathrobe, disturbing to about-face out any music at all?
This is the amount of a legend. The adverse adeptness of Brian Wilson. It is to pop what the adverse adeptness of Vincent Van Gogh is to avant-garde art: a apologue of acuteness sacrificed to atrocious indifference. In this adventure that abomination comes from advance Beach Boys accompanist Mike Love, who abominable Smile and pressured Wilson to stick to the band’s blueprint of surf, sun, cars and girls.
For decades that belief has echoed through new annal and attendant box sets, amaranthine books and essays, documentaries, TV movies, fabulous accounts (such as Paul Quarrington’s Whale Music)
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