Icon: The Beach Boys

On the surface of their earliest hits, there is little to suggest that the Beach Boys' destiny would prove more than a one-hit wonder stretched over the lifeline of a fad. Surf music had deeper roots than the hula hoop or the twist, but there was still the same sense of novelty when it emerged from Southern California to make its mark on the national charts. The sound was reverbed guitar, tribal... drums, catchy chants about the pleasures of seaside recreation and simple melodies garnished, in the Beach Boys' case, by Chuck Berry licks and harmonies influenced by Brian Wilson's love of the Four Freshmen along with other early white vocal groups (the Four Preps "26 Miles" comes to my mind as a precursor of the Pacific's allure).

Composed of three brothers (Carl, Dennis and Brian), a cousin (Mike Love), and a school friend, Al Jardine (who left the group for school and was replaced by David Marks during these early albums), the group coalesced around the Wilson family piano in 1961, and found a raison d'etre in the burgeoning surf scene that Dennis frequented. As the Pendletons, they cut "Surfin'" in October of 1961; when it was picked up by Candix Records, they found their name changed to the Beach Boys. The record made a splash (!) locally and even touched the lower edge of the national charts. Capitol capitalized on their renown, signing the band at the urging of their father Murray who had assumed managerial duties, and by mid-1962, the Boys had cracked the Top 20 with "Surfin' Safari" / 409" quickly followed by "Surfin' USA / Shut Down," which made it all the way to No. 2.

The albums surrounding these hits, combined here in a two-fer, are understandably hurried and patchy affairs, with the well-produced hits gathered amid surf instrumentals ("Misirlou," "Let's Go Trippin'") and peculiar explorations outside their genre ("Ten Little Indians"), along with the first intimations of Brian facing the ocean's existential depths in "Lonely Surfer."

On the surface of their earliest hits, there is little to suggest that the Beach Boys' destiny would prove more than a one-hit wonder stretched over the lifeline of a fad. Surf music had deeper roots than the hula hoop or the twist, but there was still the same sense of novelty when it emerged from Southern California to make its mark on the national charts. The sound was reverbed guitar, tribal... drums, catchy chants about the pleasures of seaside recreation and simple melodies garnished, in the Beach Boys' case, by Chuck Berry licks and harmonies influenced by Brian Wilson's love of the Four Freshmen along with other early white vocal groups (the Four Preps "26 Miles" comes to my mind as a precursor of the Pacific's allure).

Composed of three brothers (Carl, Dennis and Brian), a cousin (Mike Love), and a school friend, Al Jardine (who left the group for school and was replaced by David Marks during these early albums), the group coalesced around the Wilson family piano in 1961, and found a raison d'etre in the burgeoning surf scene that Dennis frequented. As the Pendletons, they cut "Surfin'" in October of 1961; when it was picked up by Candix Records, they found their name changed to the Beach Boys. The record made a splash (!) locally and even touched the lower edge of the national charts. Capitol capitalized on their renown, signing the band at the urging of their father Murray who had assumed managerial duties, and by mid-1962, the Boys had cracked the Top 20 with "Surfin' Safari" / 409" quickly followed by "Surfin' USA / Shut Down," which made it all the way to No. 2.

The albums surrounding these hits, combined here in a two-fer, are understandably hurried and patchy affairs, with the well-produced hits gathered amid surf instrumentals ("Misirlou," "Let's Go Trippin'") and peculiar explorations outside their genre ("Ten Little Indians"), along with the first intimations of Brian facing the ocean's existential depths in "Lonely Surfer."

Surf and turf. Though the Beach Boys would continue to mine their twinned subculture for all it was worth, there are only so many ways in which you can celebrate going fast on a curling rush of water or a hot turbocharge of pavement. These albums, respectively the group's third, from 1963, and their fifth from a year later, show that no matter what the topic, Brian Wilson's innate musicality was coming... to the fore of the Beach Boys sound.

Inspired by the mega-productions of Phil Spector, and Brian's own musical roots in complex vocal harmonies and chord progressions, as well as the overabundance of talented studio musicians in the L.A. area, this highlights some of the Beach Boys" most favored hit singles and offers intimations of Brian's sense of romantic yearning for a way of life that he could perhaps only view from the security of his imagination: "In My Room" is a touching evocation of a place to "lock out all my worries and fears." With Al Jardine drafted back into the band to bolster Brian's increasing avoidance of touring, the implications of the elder Wilson's increasing eccentricity were on the horizon.

The jewel of this collection, of course, is "Surfer Girl," a paean to desire in search of fulfillment that ironically was the first song Brian ever composed, using "When You Wish Upon A Star" as a model. Other signs pointed to Wilson's growing sophistication as a producer: The strings that embellish "The Surfer Moon," recall another lush Capitol vocal group of the time, the Lettermen.

Surf and turf. Though the Beach Boys would continue to mine their twinned subculture for all it was worth, there are only so many ways in which you can celebrate going fast on a curling rush of water or a hot turbocharge of pavement. These albums, respectively the group's third, from 1963, and their fifth from a year later, show that no matter what the topic, Brian Wilson's innate musicality was coming... to the fore of the Beach Boys sound.

Inspired by the mega-productions of Phil Spector, and Brian's own musical roots in complex vocal harmonies and chord progressions, as well as the overabundance of talented studio musicians in the L.A. area, this pair of albums highlights some of the Beach Boys" most favored hit singles — "Fun Fun Fun" and "Don't Worry Baby" — and offers intimations of Brian's sense of romantic yearning for a way of life that he could perhaps only view from the security of his imagination.

The ephemera, not only the album filler that helped to flesh out this release — "Denny's Drums" unlocks the inner Cozy Cole of the middle Wilson, along with an arcane "Louie Louie" — but bonus tracks are amusing and revealing, especially in the mock-serious verbal byplay of "Cassius Love vs. Sonny Wilson" (shades of fisticuffs to come). Shut Down Vol. 2, the first of four (!) Beach Boys albums released in 1964, came out in the moments before another "Bea-" group on Capitol changed the shape of popular music, and showed that Brian Wilson was readying to cage-match their challenge.

California's auto-motivating culture souped up a custom hot rod craze that supercharged the internal combustion engine, chopped and flamed and metal-flaked its surrounding bodywork, and naugahyded its plush interior. This romantic recasting of a transportational device was as much a part of the Beach Boys universe as the ubiquitous surfboard, and when popping the clutch proved as popular as riding a wave, Brian Wilson quickly put together an album's worth of fuel-injected... ditties in 1963 that celebrated the American garage even before amplifiers and guitars were moved in. Filled with the lingo of auto subculture and motor mechanics, these are windows into what might be called the analog era of gas-engine tinkering, and a time when "cruising" was a teenage sport (see American Graffiti). Along with the hit title track, the flag-waving of "Be True To Your School" and the socket-wrenchings of "Custom Machine" and "Car Crazy Cutie," can be found one of the most glorious of Beach Boy tributes, "Spirit of America," which salutes Craig Breedlove's successful topping of 400 mph at the Bonneville Flats in August, 1963.

All Summer Long, the Beach Boys's sixth long player, is a transitional album, with the band balanced between the youthful innocence of their image and Brian's growing mastery of his art. "I Get Around" would be the devil-may-care hit single and "Little Honda" the twist o' the throttle, but the opening vocal blend of the Pomus-Shuman classic "Hushabye," the caring poignancy of "Wendy," or the immediacy of nostalgia in the title track... and "Do You Remember" resonate the changes to come.

1964 had been a tumultuous year for the Beach Boys. Successfully weathering the English Invasion, with a live concert album topping the charts and finishing the year with the Christmas gift-wrap of "The Man With All The Toys," it was also an annum that saw the group schism with their father-manager, and Brian Wilson suffer a nervous breakdown on tour.

His decision to retire from the road and concentrate his energies in the... studio was a blessing in disguise, especially given this moment when the album format as well as rock 'n' roll was beginning to take itself more seriously. While the first side of Today! is hit-driven, with Bobby Freeman's "Do You Wanna Dance" leading off, "Help Me Rhonda" rounding off, and even more shing-a-linging with "Dance Dance Dance," "When I Grow Up (To Be A Man)" captures the moment when maturity beckons. The second side thusly takes Brian into a more wistful and personal exploration of who he might become, from "Please Let Me Wonder" to the psychic caverns "In The Back of My Mind." A version of the Students' "I'm So Young" evokes an innocence that is less adolescence and more a rebirth of discovery.

Perhaps in reaction to Today! — which found Brian Wilson in a more wistful and personal exploration of himself — Summer Days has the feel of a strategic retreat, since Capitol (and Mike Love) thought the group was straying too far from its appointed mission as beachfront emissaries. But even in retrenchment, celebrating femmes of all geographics — "The Girl From New York City," "California Girls," not to mention "The Little Girl... I Once Knew" — and challenging Phil Spector to a duel — "Then He Kissed Her" — and shifting time signatures like grains of sand as in "Let Him Run Wild," Brian had gone too far to turn back now.

The free-for-all contrived fiesta that is Party! finds the band at their most revealing. With Brian Wilson's closeted recording of what would become Pet Sounds, ever-hungry Capitol Records needed product for the holiday season of 1965. Thus, in November, the Beach Boys took acoustic instruments and some friends (like Jan Berry of Jan and Dean) into the studio and let the tape roll while they versioned their favorite songs, adding party hoots... and hollers afterward. The performances are loose and infectious, the set-list a signifier of the band's roots and branches: the Everly Brothers' "Devoted To You," novelties like "Alley Oop" and "Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow," even Dylan ("The Times They Are A- Changin'") and the Beatles. "Barbara Ann," a cover of the 1961 Regents doo-wop hit, became a surprise hit single, showing that Capitol was not wrong in assessing rack-jobber demand.

Stack O Tracks is a behind-the-control-board look at what components comprised the band's considerable studio acumen.

With Brian Wilson's closeted recording of what would become Pet Sounds, ever-hungry Capitol Records needed product for the holiday season of 1965, which resulted in the free-for-all contrived fiesta Party!. This sense of marketplace also resulted in the unintentional fascination that is Stack O Tracks. Originally intended as a play-and-sing-along disc, complete with chord charts and lyrics,... as well as a do-anything-to-revive the Beach Boys' commercial fortunes post-Pet Sounds, it is a window into the frame that surrounded the group's vocal harmonies, the individual hooks and textures and free-floating melodic lines that bedded and embedded their songs. Budding producers might listen for the triangle's ping in "In My Room," the plate reverb on the drums in "Help Me Rhonda," the jingle bells (ahhhhh...) as they meld with strings on "God Only Knows." And then let the karaoke begin!

Even weighted with the expectations that surround it, fore (when Brian Wilson set out to create what might be regarded as his first solo album), to aft, when its sense of masterpiece has long been acknowledged as a crucial part of rock's (and I use the term advisedly) growth to artistic awareness, Pet Sounds wears its classicism well. Built piecemeal over a landmark year straddling 1965 — when it was begun with... a reconfiguration of the folk chestnut "Sloop John B" — and 1966, when it was released to critical and cult success, if perhaps sailing over the heads of many Beach Boy fans who had come to expect yet another variation on the group's formula (not to mention the Beach Boys themselves, especially the practical-minded Mike Love), it is a pilgrim-agical journey that takes our narrator — lyricized by Tony Asher — from the found innocence of childhood ("Don't Talk - Put Your Head On My Shoulder") to the lost innocence of maturity ("I Just Wasn't Made For These Times"), ultimately giving oneself over to an acceptance of a universal creator ("God Only Knows") that bears some resemblance to a madcap producer in a recording studio crafting an oratorio from the many sound waves that make up our existence. "I remember how you used to say," Brian sings in the stately "O Caroline No," that "you'd never change but that's not true," all the more for the album it graces. Pet Sounds celebrates a sense of spiritual love as much as the early Beach Boys hosanna'd the joys of sun and surf; and in its textural complexities and layered orchestrations can be found our own groping quest for the light of being, the promise of salvation that we find through musical expression.

Influenced by the ambitious sonic invention and experimentation of Phil Spector and the Beatles, partaking of the psychedelicacies of mid-'60s mind-expansion, and synthesizing layers of sound in unlikely combinations, placing Theremins and chuffing bass harmonicas and accordions and unlikely percussives alongside doubled and tripled guitars and basses, the whole entity hoisted aloft — like the John B's sail — by the stratospheric vocal blends of the Beach Boys as guided and single-minded by Brian, the effect was of a grandeur that still provides wonder at its reach and grasp. As Wilson mixed-and-matched his ideas, an approach that would often find a part created for one song transplanted and segued to another, Pet Sounds became a template of possibility, breaking open boundaries of perceived limitation of what popular music could aspire to, and doing so in a way that was hardly academic. What strikes most in a re-listen — whether the accepted mono version, or a stereo reconfigure bonus'd as part of the 40th anniversary celebration — is that as much as the album was regarded as a startling breakthrough, it still enjoys the traditional pleasures of melodic exultation, soaring chorus and explanatory verse, all couched in the vulnerability that is our human condition when faced with the unknown, and the answers received when we raise our voice in song.

The enigma that is Smile begins on the highest note of hopeful aspirations, an invocation of "Prayer" that augurs well for a concept album its architect intended to be a "teenage symphony to God." As the lovestruck year of 1967 began, all signs pointed to its eagerly awaited masterpiece grandeur — the success of "Good Vibrations," which had evolved from the Pet Sounds sessions to show Brian Wilson's technique of cutting-and-pasting wildly... divergent soundscapes could combine commercial and artistic success — and Brian's immersion into a world in which everything clamored to make music.

There are tales of Wilson and his entourage sitting around the dinner table, crafting rhythmic patterns with silverware and place settings; putting a microphone on the musique concrete of vegetables crunching and barnyard animals baying and household tools banging; all snippets of song attempting to tie the four elements of this planet in a spherical radiance, along with Van Dyke Parks's retelling of the Ply-mythic journey across America from the time of the Mayflower to the return-to-the-sea of "In Blue Hawaii." It also undertook to untangle the Wilson family dynamic ("Child is Father of the Man"), reassert the primacy of wonder ("Wonderful"), trace a musicological tale that encapsulated twentieth century music from Tin Pan Alley (the sepulchral sample of "You Are My Sunshine") onward, and sell millions. Capitol had already printed up the cover, but there was no way Brian was going to meet a deadline that was rapidly stretching into infinity.

Reassembled and finished in 2004 by Brian and his helpmeets in the Wondermints, and even performed live to rapturous crowds, Smile has proved worth the wait. Though some of its songs would be found in truncated form on other Beach Boys albums, Smile does hold fast to its concept, meant to be listened to as a whole, melodic themes interspersing, rising to the surface only to be dragged beneath the waves and reappear in another setting, all simply gorgeous in texture and imagination. It is filled with humor, sometimes verging on the cartoon-esque, episodic yet never disjointed. The spine of the album is provided by "Heroes and Villains," (which, in edited form, did translate well to its eventual hit-singledom and inclusion on Smiley Smile), and its good vs. bad carousel view of life's dichotomy. "Mrs. O'Leary's Cow," with its invocation of flame (and the visual of L.A.'s greatest session musicians sitting in the studio dressed in fire hats as Chief Wilson directed them); and the quench of the healing waters of "Surf's Up" — are other highlights of one of the most deservedly celebrated albums of all time.

The other Beach Boys were not so sure, and the sessions devolved into endless arguments over what was right for a group founded in less cerebral pleasures. In the end, capsized by Brian's increasing descent into manic unpredictability, Smile became the Great Lost Album, and this, like a prodigal son, is the Finding.

The dashed hopes of Smile resurfaced in the might-have-beens of Smiley Smile, and though the album provoked disappointment when first released, over the years its sense of anticlimax has been burnished into a warm glow. It does contain (Brian Wilson originally objected to this) the song that will forever shadow Pet Sounds: "Good Vibrations," capturing the auditory feel of life-in-motion in the same way Gershwin's "Rhapsody In Blue" recreated the sound of... skyscraper America; and rerecorded sparser versions of songs meant for Smile: "Vegetables," "Wonderful" and "Wind Chimes." Though the Smile versions are more fully fleshed, I admit to a preferred affection for these original cuts that I heard without spoiler-alert comparison, and like the fact that the essences of the songs shine through in all their unvarnished wackiness and compassion. Another Smile fragment is the delightful "Fall Breaks and Back to Winter (Woody Woodpecker Symphony)," which shows Wilson's indebtedness to animated soundtrack and effect.

The Beach Boys were suffering an identity crisis of no mean proportion, cancelling out of the Monterey Pop Festival in a year when Brian's aspirations might have given them a new, hipper audience. This recording reasserts the primacy of the group, perhaps out of necessity since Brian seemed increasingly unable to provide leadership or even musical guidance.

The Beach Boys were suffering an identity crisis of no mean proportion, cancelling out of the Monterey Pop Festival in a year when Brian's aspirations might have given them a new, hipper audience. This recording reasserts the primacy of the group, perhaps out of necessity since Brian seemed increasingly unable to provide leadership or even musical guidance.

Wild Honey does have its charms ("Darlin'" was originally tracked for a Wilson side project, his... production of the future Three Dog Night, until Mike and Carl took the tapes in a huff and sang over them, which may account for the R&B leanings of the album) but it's pervaded by a retro feel and a sense of song styling that, even in its back-to-basics, was a seeming step sideways; it showed the band in a holding pattern. Increasingly reclusive, alternately acquiescent and contrary, Brian Wilson shied away from his muse, preferring to find his personal Garden of Eden in "Country Air" and the winking punch-line of "I'd Love Just Once To See You…in the nude."

Finishing up both the '60s and their obligations to Capitol, this album reveals not only the considerable schisms within the band, but their out-of-step attempts to keep pace with a rapidly-changing culture. In an America increasingly spelled with a "k," amid assassinations and turmoil in the streets, the Beach Boys could well appear an anachronism — and sometimes their naivete turned on them. But with Brian absenting himself from the studio ("Busy... Doin' Nothin" kind of sums it up), the other Boys stepped to the fore.

Finishing up both the '60s and their obligations to Capitol, this pairing of albums reveals not only the considerable schisms within the band, but their out-of-step attempts to keep pace with a rapidly-changing culture. In an America increasingly spelled with a "k," amid assassinations and turmoil in the streets, the Beach Boys could well appear an anachronism — and sometimes their naivete turned on them, as in Dennis Wilson's well-meaning dalliance with... the Manson clan, documented on "Never Learn Not To Love" on 20-20. But with Brian absenting himself from the studio ("Busy Doin' Nothin" kind of sums it up), the other Boys stepped to the fore, especially Carl, whose production of "I Can Hear Music" is matched by the unexpected flowering of Dennis ("Be With Me"). Al Jardine steered the band back into folkish waters with "Cottonfields," perennial Beach Boy wingman Bruce Johnston had a chance to see what he might contribute with the instrumental "The Nearest Faraway Place," and even Mike Love's infatuation with the Marahishi ("Transcendental Meditation") gave the band a spiritual dimension where least expected. Despite his abdication, Brian's spirit permeates these albums, with Smile outtakes like "Cabinessence" and an expansive "Our Prayer" showing where the oversoul of the Beach Boys still resided.

The dawning of the 1970s promised fresh beginnings for the Beach Boys, with the reemergence of their own Brothers Records label and a new parent company at Warner Bros. Sunflower was an auspicious debut, with contributions from all members of the band and a sense of unity that made this their most cohesive collection of songs since the pre-Smile era. Most startling was the emergence of Dennis, whose "Forever" is stately, touching... and soaring, complemented by a raunchy "Got to Know the Woman" and the catchy album-opener "Slip On Through." Brian and Mike's "All I Wanna Do" floats on gossamer wings, and in a more perfect world, "Add Some Music to Your Day" shoulda-coulda-woulda been a chart topping hit single. But to the Beach Boys' consternation, the single and album never gained traction, and though Sunflower remains a fan favorite to this day, the band found themselves out of sync with their potential audience.

The dawning of the 1970s promised fresh beginnings for the Beach Boys, with the reemergence of their own Brothers Records label and a new parent company at Warner Bros. With Sunflower, an auspicious debut, the band found themselves out of sync with their potential audience. Surf's Up attempted to rectify that, with input from new manager Jack Rieley who urged them to write more socially aware lyrics (resulting in the dire "Student... Demonstration Time"), add more modern instrumentation (the synthesizer squiggles in "Don't Go Near The Water") and most importantly, insisted that Brian return to the glory that is "Surf's Up." Though Van Dyke Park's lyrics are still abstruse to the point of obfuscation, under Carl's supervision (Brian still had problems confronting his unfinished masterwork) the song was stitched together from demo versions and original backing tracks, with a new ending based on "Child Is Father to the Man" from the Smile sessions. When set against the goofiness of such as "Take A Load Off Your Feet" and "A Day In The Life of a Tree," and the rarified beauty of Bruce Johnston's "Disney Girls (1957)," the album resonates on as many levels as the complex intra-personalities of the Beach Boys themselves.

With Brian unreliable and out of the loop, it devolved for Carl Wilson to take the helm of leading the Beach Boys in the studio. Highlights include the gospel-ish "He Come Down," and "Marcella" which sounds like vintage Beach Boys, not surprising since it was reworked from a Today! track. New members Blondie Chaplin and Ricky Fataar added a slightly harder edge to the group sound.

With Brian unreliable and out of the loop, it devolved for Carl Wilson to take the helm of leading the Beach Boys in the studio. New members Blondie Chaplin and Ricky Fataar added a slightly harder edge to the group sound.

For Holland, the entire band decamped across the ocean with family and friends and a custom-built recording studio in hopes of regenerating their creativity and Brian Wilson's involvement. Ironically, the beyond-the-sea perspective... afforded them the look-back of "California Saga," where Mike Love and Al Jardin crafted a tripartite valentine to their home state; and Brian's "fairy tale" trip to the intersection of "Mt. Vernon and Fairway" (where the Love family had resided), a bizarre narrative concoction whose out-of-placeness (not to mention spaceness) resulted in it being included with the album as a bonus EP. Thankfully, Warners insisted on a recognizable hit single, and "Sail on Sailor" was added to Holland when the group returned home, becoming one of their most beloved songs.

They may have had their ups and downers in the studio, but the Beach Boys were always a reliable touring act, and this 1973 set captures them in topnotch form, waving the flag of their classic hits to a rapturous crowd. The core band of Carl, Mike, Al, Dennis, Blondie Chaplin and Ricky Fataar, is aided and abetted by such as Billy Hinsche (who was the only non-celebrity offspring in Dino, Desi,... and Billy) and Carli Munoz, who would later help produce Dennis Wilson's second album, and the accumulated fullness of sound befits the arenas that embraced them. You know the songs, and each era is well represented, whether the simplistic joys of the surf years, the more complex emotional undercurrents of "Caroline No" and "Heroes and Villians," or the band's then-recent hits "Marcella" and "Sail On Sailor." There is a sense of excitement and celebration in these performances, the band at its live high point, before ennui, loss and the rigors of the road wore them down.

In the four years since they'd gathered collective energies for a studio album, the ghost of Beach Boys past had returned to haunt the band. Capitol's somewhat tacky Endless Summer compilation, on the cash-in strength of a nostalgia for the pre-hippie '60s exemplified by American Graffiti, had gone triple platinum in 1974, and continuously on the road, they'd surfed their new popularity, even if the man behind the greatest hits had seemingly... vanished into the black hole of his own paradoxes. "Brian is back!" proclaimed the hoopla for 15 Big Ones, but was he? At least half of this supposed return-to-form are oldies, and though no one does golden goodies more reverently than the Boys of the Beach, do we need another "Blueberry Hill" or "Chapel of Love"? Enough fans agreed that the album went gold, but it did seem as if the Beach Boys had yet to shake their past tense.

A virtual solo album, with only minimal help from his band, Brian's continual creative paralysis had resulted in an association with a hard-line psychiatrist, Dr. Eugene Landy, who made him sit at the piano each day and took a tough-love view of his bad habits. But power is a deceiving thing, and soon Landy began to think that he creatively knew better than Brian, with mixed results and certainly an estrangement from... the rest of the Beach Boys. Still, this eccentric disc plumbs depths that Brian hadn't ventured into since the aborted Smile sessions, and cuts like "Johnny Carson" or "Solar System" reveal a skewed sensibility that results in one of pop music's most idiosyncratic voices roaming where he might, within his own parabolic orbit, around an astral plane that only he could negotiate.

With its title standing for Maharashi International University, M.I.U. is hardly transcendent. They owed one more album on their Warner contract, and were on the verge of moving to Columbia. It was Mike Love's idea to record the album on the college campus in Fairfield, Iowa, and with Brian once again in mental and pharmaceutical collapse, he was only able to talk Al Jardine into joining him on the project. Though it... carries the Beach Boys name, and Brian as "executive producer," it is a patchy affair, though the oldies — especially a rousing "Peggy Sue" — are heartening, and "Belles of Paris" wears its Chevalierisms humoresquely. Mais oui? We may!

The Beach Boys' move to Columbia regenerated the band, especially since label president Walter Yetnikoff was not a man to be trifled with. Calling Bruce Johnston back into the fold, they seemed to return to form with "Good Timin'," Dennis's heart-on-sleeve "Baby Blue," and Carl's "Full Sail" and "Angel Come Home." The much reviled disco track, a reworking of a Wild Honey composition and clocking in at more than 10 minutes, "Here... Comes the Night," certainly shocked Beach Boys fans the world over, but hey, this was 1979 and everyone wanted in on the dance floor. It remains an amusing curio, curious and curiouser.

Even as the Beach Boys attempted to deal with their creative malaise and Brian Wilson's disengagement from recording, fate had an ironic masterstroke in store for the band. The Southern California beach paradise of a decade previous must have seemed a carefree nirvana after the upheavals of the later '60s and '70s, and fuel-injected by the success of George Lucas's American Graffiti, Capitol repackaged the best of the Beach Boys' pre-Pet Sounds... oeuvre in an anthology that touched on this yearning for a simpler time and a more innocent collective soul (whether fact or nostalgia-hazed fable is another question). Aside from sociological explanations, what made this collection so resonant as to go to number one on the album charts in 1974, even as punk was readying its assaults on rock's dinosaurs, is the sheer quality of the music presented, its sunny optimism and yearning underscored by harmonies that invite the listener to find their own place in the sing-a-long, our universal dreams and desires made into the wish fulfillment of song.

There weren't many hits left over after Endless Summer had gotten first dibs on the Beach Boys catalog, but its chart dominance was so inescapable that there was little doubt a follow-up would soon be forthcoming from Capitol. Which makes Spirit of America a cultist's delight, most especially for the inclusion of its title cut, a tribute to land-speed record holder Craig Breedlove that could easily be overlooked on its original album.... Other worthies include "The Little Girl I Once Knew," (with its unheard-of mid-song silences) and "Break Away." The title is significant as well, since a large part of the Beach Boys' appeal was their embodiment of the promise of mid-twentieth century America, unbounded and ever idealistic. Where there's a choice between the truth and the myth, print the myth.

Interspersed with studio chatter, radio promos, live recordings, alternate versions, backing tracks, remixes and individual band members introducing cuts, this aural biography is a collector's potpourri, following up on a similar culling of the vaults in Endless Harmony. The title becomes prophetic on disc one, where you can hear the once-and-future Boys rehearsing their first single, "Surfin'" in the family home on 9th Street in Hawthorne, as well as take their first... stabs at the Four Freshman harmonies blended with doo-wop onomatopoeia that would become their vocal trademark. The radio promo for disc jockey Murray the K, directed by their father, Murry, is only one of many undiscovered jewels in this collection, as well as hearing the stark tracks from the Party! album without overdubbed soiree noises, and, most astonishingly of all, the group harmonizing "The Lord's Prayer." Truly.

The Beach Boys as heard through Brian Wilson's monophonic ear are reflective, not so much about ephemeral pleasures as states of being, a "California Feelin'" (the only "new" song on the album, though it dates back to 1974) that replicates the cliff-hanging on a continental shelf which defines the western coast, within the interior space of an all-too-vulnerable human psyche. That weightily said, this 2002 cherry-pick is also an imminently listenable collation... of the Beach Boys' deeper fathoms, defining the expansive parameters of Brian's artistic range and his ability to create a sound that is his alone, instantly recognizable and capable of conveying the most contrary of emotions: sadness couched in beauty, humor in pathos, uplift in the catharsis of musical expression. Along with great hooks, choruses, and celestial harmonies: God only knows, and thus recommends.

Mix and match, remix and matchless, this complement to 2004's Sounds of Summer shuffles the Beach Boy deck once again, adding more modern stereo balancing on several cuts, highlighting the occasional alternate version ("Breakaway"), and unearthing oddities, such as a "California Dreamin'" that features Roger McGuinn on 12-string guitar. Beyond strip mining, what it does, more than anything, is unite the various Beach Boys eras into a single overview, showing that despite... many upheavals, their level of craft and songmanship is the reason why their I-can-hear music continues to touch hearts and elevate souls, and will always be ripe for another joyous repackage.