When Brian Wilson’s new release came out last week, in all honesty — and may the gods of Rock ‘n’ Roll smite me for saying this — I wasn’t expecting much when I sat down to listen to the 66-year-old former Beach Boy’s latest work.
Though generally well-received by critics (including this one), That Lucky Old Sun has its flaws. It’s good, but it’s not Wilson’s best. The scattered success of the album is not unique to Wilson — his contemporaries, big names of the 1960s who have forged new albums in the years since, have received similar reviews. Wilson’s musical creativity, like that of his brilliant contemporary Paul McCartney, has faded but still shows flashes of genius. McCartney’s last album (Memory Almost Full) simply wasn’t memorable, save a few excellent songs (please, rock gods, have mercy). Of course, when you have a reputation like Wilson or McCartney, your past work makes for some pretty tough competition.
In the same way that Memory still has its gems, That Lucky Old Sun is, overall, a pleasant surprise. Despite Wilson’s long-running history of mental illness and depression (including more than three years during which he confined himself to his bed and overate), the album is chock full of bouncy and blissful tunes that remain strongly reminiscent of his Beach Boy days.
In fact, the consistently bright mood of the album — which at times seems to tease the boundaries between cheerful and sickening — is among the album’s few flaws. Only “Midnight’s Another Day” gives any hint of the struggles that defined Wilson’s life for decades. Still, the song’s lyrics and dramatic piano part are truly affecting, providing more of a window into Wilson’s mind than any other song on the album. One particularly personal line reads, “All these memories / made me feel like stone. / All these people / made me feel so alone.”
At the other end of the mood spectrum from “Midnight’s Another Day” are the four awkwardly gleeful “Narratives” — my main issue with the album as a whole — that surface occasionally between songs on the album. The narratives, which feature Wilson’s voice performing something like a poetry reading, successfully cross the line from sweet to sickening. The verses are odd and disjointed, as though words were chosen at random with no connection other than a rhyme scheme.
Although the narratives’ lyrics may at times flirt with poetry, it’s hard to believe Wilson put too much thought into them. A line appears in “Narrative: Between Pictures,” for example, claiming that “‘To be or not to be’ / now is part of the heartbeat in L.A.,” inadvertently making the suggestion through literary reference that the entire city is suicidal.
While Wilson’s evident enthusiasm here is admirable (aren’t we all glad to see him back on his feet, both literally and figuratively?), the way he delivers his pseudo-poetry is admittedly a bit over the top. His voice randomly fluctuates, adding emphasis to rhymes and attempted puns, making the tracks sound like a preparation for storytime with Mister Rogers.
As for Wilson’s voice during the actual music, listener appreciation is dependent entirely on expectations. Those avid Beach Boy fans who hoped the new album would be a showcase for Wilson’s voice (despite the fact that four decades have passed since his days with the Beach Boys) will be mildly disappointed.
Wilson’s pipes, like McCartney’s and those of every other 60-something-year-old musician (with the exception of James Taylor), occasionally show their age. In songs like “Forever She’ll Be My Surfer Girl” (which thankfully, given the singer’s age, turned out to be a nostalgic ode rather than a song about actually surfing), Wilson once again pulls out his 1960’s-esque falsetto. While the song is altogether successful, the high notes are quavering and a bit frightening.
For someone his age and with his rocky psychological history, Wilson’s new album That Lucky Old Sun is a bundle of joy, despite the occasional vocal and lyrical faux pas. Given my preliminary expectations, the album is worth every second — excepting the horrendous narratives — it takes to listen to it.
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