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Label: Capitol
Sound/Style: Imaginative, brightly hued and concept-linked California pop/rock
By Steve Morley
Beach Boys’ co-founder Brian Wilson was only 7 years old in 1949 when singer Frankie Laine scored his hit version of "That Lucky Old Sun," the bittersweet pop chestnut that forms the centerpiece of Wilson’s new album. Besides its clear connection to the solar furnace fueling much of the quintet’s summery output, the song’s yearning and leaping melody may have inspired Wilson’s own emotionally charged compositions, which sometimes draw from the pre-rock ’n’ roll era. Wilson, a schizophrenic famous for retreating into childlike reverie, has been known to find safety in a part-nostalgic, part-fantasy world. This is the kind of world he inhabits, although more lucidly, on That Lucky Old Sun. It’s a quirky but effervescent throwback that exhibits both his winning melodic sense and the fable-like vision of Southern California immortalized in his classic Beach Boys catalogue.
Wilson’s winsome melodies feature lyrics and arrangements written by members of his younger estimable backing band. Their understanding of the singer’s troubled past and his irrepressible musical spirit result in biographical songs like "Oxygen to the Brain" and "Midnight’s Another Day," perhaps the ultimate recovery anthem. ("Swept away in a brainstorm/ Chapters missing, pages torn/ Waited too long to feel the warmth/ I had to chase the sun…") To hear Wilson sing his own unstable history is a chilling reminder that he was once unable to do so. Far from being morose, lyrics like those in "Oxygen" function as a motivational testimony, with a phoenix-like Wilson declaring "never destroy when you can create." ("Let’s get the jump on it before it’s too late/ Friendly reminder, friendly reminder/ So take a lesson from one who knows/ Just where being lazy goes/ There’s a time to live/ A reason to live.")
Tracks like these serve to celebrate the pop legend’s mental and emotional restoration, even if his vocal control has clearly deteriorated. Thankfully, his vocally endowed band forms a harmonic cushion around and between his joyful but gawky delivery, creating what would be an uncanny Beach Boys imitation even without Wilson’s legitimizing presence. This lends freshness and credibility to songs built on obvious Beach Boys templates. The 1964 single "Don’t Worry Baby" is convincingly and sweetly retooled into "Forever She’ll Be My Surfer Girl," itself a reference to the 1963 hit—and the now-mythical bathing beauty who inspired it.
The album is not without moments that are mystifying, if not downright uncomfortable. "Mexican Girl" is an embarrassingly trite south-of-the border junket, and the goofy, abstract narratives that act as thematic bridges between songs are only rescued from eye-rolling ridicule by Wilson’s implausibly sincere delivery. It’s that sincerity, though, that redeems the album’s missteps and its over-earnest quality. The hyper-glorified view of Los Angeles at the core of the album’s concept is fanciful, to put it mildly. But the gratitude for each foggy new L.A. day shining behind Wilson’s wide-eyed bliss on That Lucky Old Sun is a heartening reminder that life—however dark it might become—can be lived on the bright side.
Audio Clips
"That Lucky Old Sun"
"Morning Beat"
"Good Kind of Love"
"Forever She'll Be My Surfer Girl"
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