The Listening Post

by

Buried Treasure: Thunderclap Newman, Hollywood Dream

Hollywood Dream Thunderclap NewmanThunderclap Newman is a band that probably never should have existed. On paper, they shouldn’t work. There’s an overweight, jazz-loving multi-instrumentalist who looked nothing like the typical rock god of 1969 and who spent his days working in the post office. Then there’s the songwriting drummer who sang with a high, reedy voice. The guitar player was a 15-year-old…how good could he be at that age? Their producer was a genius who’d just released a sprawling two-record rock opera with his own band. Nothing in this cocktail should mix together well in any way, but they do—brilliantly.

Pete Townshend, ever the restless creative force while wrestling with The Who’s Tommy, assembled the band alongside manager Kit Lambert to spotlight the songwriting talents of his friend and former chauffeur, John “Speedy” Keen. What emerged in 1970 was Hollywood Dream, a wildly inventive, beautifully ramshackle album that captured a moment when British rock still had room for quirk, heart, and unfiltered imagination. This is anything but a polished product; it feels like a living, breathing experiment that somehow coalesced into something timeless.

The album opens with its anthem and statement of purpose, a track that still sends shivers down the spine decades later. “Something in the Air” features a soaring chorus, chiming guitars, Speedy’s high, thin vocals, and a revolutionary spirit in the lyrics. It hit Number One in the UK in 1969, knocking The Beatles’ “Ballad of John and Yoko” from the top spot, and the Top 40 in America. It’s a generational call-to-arms wrapped in psychedelic pop perfection with a wild, discordant piano solo, and it remains one of the greatest singles of its era. Even now, more than half a century later, it feels urgent and hopeful, like the air is thick with change. Townshend’s involvement as producer and bass player (under the name Bijou Drains) gives the song extra power without ever making it sound like so many of the heavier rock bands of the time. It would later be covered by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers on their Greatest Hits album.

The rest of the album is one gem after another. “Hollywood #1” features a barrelhouse piano solo from Andy “Thunderclap” Newman that wouldn’t sound out of place in a saloon in the old West. It also hints that Jimmy McCulloch, the teenage guitarist, might be pretty good after all. The next song “The Reason” allows McCulloch to come to the fore with a blindingly incandescent guitar solo that seals the deal…the kid’s a prodigy. (There’s a reason Paul McCartney later hired him to be the lead guitarist for Wings.)

One of the absolute highlights is the Dylan cover “Open the Door, Homer.” The band takes Bob’s Basement Tapes gem and makes it their own with a loose, folksy charm that fits the band’s eclectic vibe perfectly. Newman’s piano work swirls around the melody, McCulloch adds tasteful guitar flourishes, and the whole thing swings with an easygoing warmth. It’s respectful without being reverent, and it slots beautifully into the album’s flow, showing how this ragtag group could interpret outside material and infuse it with their own personality.

Then there’s “Accidents,” a beast of a track that clocks in at nearly ten minutes. Yes, it’s too long—there’s no denying that in a streaming age where attention spans are shorter than a TikTok clip—but what a magnificent sprawl it is. McCulloch once again delivers some truly ripping guitar playing that cuts through the haze like lightning, full of youthful fire, fluid runs, and raw energy. The track builds and wanders like a trip down the river Styx, with dynamic shifts, solid drumming from Speedy, Newman’s reeds, and blistering guitar moments that reward repeated listens. It also features a true rarity in the world of rock and roll: Newman’s extended kazoo solo. The song, a sort of precursor to the Final Destination films about unexpected death, has emotional weight and musical ambition, moving from introspective passages to roaring climaxes. Flaws and all, it’s a great song that showcases the group’s willingness to take risks and push boundaries. Not everything needs to be radio-friendly; sometimes you just let the music breathe and the guitars wail. Ironically, it was released as a single that strips the song of its extended solos, sound effects, and other aspects. The single version, clearly a different take of the song and not just a remix, is still not radio friendly, but it highlights just how irrepressibly catchy horrible deaths can be. It’s available as a bonus track on the expanded version of the album.

The rest of the album maintains that high standard of inspired weirdness. McCulloch’s playing throughout is a revelation—sparkling with precocious talent and a tone that bridges bluesy bite with psychedelic swirl. Songs like “Wild Country” and the instrumental title cut “Hollywood Dream” paint vivid pictures with piano, guitar, and Keen’s distinctive songcraft. There’s a cinematic quality to the production, thanks in large part to Townshend’s hands-on approach. The album feels like a hazy, sun-dappled road trip through eccentric British countryside and Hollywood fantasies. Newman’s jazz-inflected piano and wind instruments add unexpected color, while McCulloch’s incendiary leads give the record real muscle. It’s not a slick album, and that’s precisely its charm. The seams show in the best way, giving Hollywood Dream a humanity and warmth that is missing in modern music.

Listening to this record today is a reminder of a time when record labels (and benevolent rock stars like Townshend) were willing to bet on unlikely characters and give them space to create. Thunderclap Newman didn’t last long—the band dissolved after some touring struggles—but they left behind this gem that deserves far more recognition than its “one-hit wonder” tag. It sits comfortably alongside other cult favorites from the era, full of melody, invention, and that indefinable British eccentricity that made the late ’60s and early ’70s such a fertile ground for rock music. If you love The Who’s more adventurous moments, a bit of psychedelia, or just beautifully off-kilter songwriting with some genuinely fierce guitar work, this is essential listening.

In the end, Hollywood Dream is a testament to the power of collaboration between misfits and the quiet genius of letting talented people be themselves in the studio. It’s optimistic, reflective, rollicking, and tender by turns, with McCulloch’s explosive solos on “Accidents” and “The Reason” standing as particular high points that demand to be cranked loud. Put it on, crank it up, and let it wash over you. You’ll be humming “Something in the Air” for days, air-guitaring through the sprawl of “Accidents,” smiling at the charm of “Open the Door, Homer,” and wondering why this album isn’t celebrated more widely. A true buried treasure.

Grade: A

by

Rock is Dead…Again? YUNGBLUD and the Next Resurrection

“Rock and roll’s got no future. It don’t matter.”—Roger Daltrey, in The Kids Are Alright (1979)

The Who’s frontman said this as punk music was starting to fade and be overtaken by New Wave boys with short hair and skinny ties. It’s the kind of comment that invites debate. Kiss bassist Gene Simmons has been saying that rock and roll is dead for many years now, and it’s hard to argue the point. A look at the most-streamed songs across the world shows few to no traditional rock bands. Taylor Swift may be the closest you can get and I’m sure she’d be the first to tell you that she’s no rocker. Hip-Hop and Girl Pop dominate. The streaming universe is awash in anthems by twenty-something girls in skimpy clothes singing so-called empowering lyrics over a repetitive beat. The songs are written by committee, and often by the same people across multiple artists. Jack Antonoff, Amy Allen, Julia Michaels, and Diane Warren are just a few of the songwriters whose work is everywhere but who remain behind-the-scenes. Usually the artist will get a songwriting credit, but how much they contribute is open to investigation. Check the songwriting credits for your favorite hip-hop artist…most of them read like the phone book.

That’s not really a knock on the performers. This is the way record companies work now. It’s a modern-day Tin Pan Alley, matching songs to singers. “Beyonce will do a great job with this one.” “This has Sabrina Carpenter vibes.” I’m certain there’s genuine talent involved with these performers, but the trend right now is to over-produce and process that talent, to “guide” it if you will, towards an audience of pre-teen and teenage girls. Studio software like Pro Tools can give a remarkably good singing voice to any wino off the street. Bad pitch is easily fixed. Even instruments can be “fixed.” The drumming is a little slow? No problem, and no need for the drummer to do it again. Just press a button and hear the magic. You want strings on your ballad? No need to hire a string section, just bring out the synthesizer and set it to “violins.” So while I’m sure there’s talent in the mix, it’s being morphed by machines and record companies to give you a “sound” that might not otherwise be there. It’s making you conform.

Rock and roll music has always been about the opposite of conforming. It started as a noisy, squalling racket that had the older generations clutching their pearls and looking for fainting couches. Frank Sinatra was the epitome of cool, standing at the microphone backed by Nelson Riddle’s orchestra, and singing in a smooth, magnificent voice. Elvis Presley was the epitome of a hooligan, dancing at the microphone, thrusting his hips and shaking his legs, wailing old blues songs that were written by (whispers) black people. And don’t get me started on the outrageous flamboyance of Little Richard. The term rock and roll was just a blues euphemism for sex, and that was unacceptable in polite society in the 1950s.

But rock and roll found its audience…the teenagers whose grandchildren are now listening to Taylor Swift. Then, in a chapel in Georgia, a quickie wedding ceremony in Mississippi, a draft board in Memphis, a grand jury room in Missouri, and a field in Clear Lake, Iowa, rock and roll died. Little Richard found religion, Jerry Lee Lewis married his 13-year-old cousin, Elvis went into the army, Chuck Berry was arrested for violating the Mann Act, and Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper were all killed in a plane crash.

But rock music proved very resilient. There were still echoes of it, but the rough edges were sanded off. The Beach Boys carried the flag, but their music was much less raucous and focused more on folk-like harmonies. The girl groups produced by Phil Spector turned out some marvelous music, but the star was the producer. Then came the Beatles and their British cohorts, and rock and roll was not only alive but thriving and more popular than ever.

The obituary for rock music has been written many times. When the bloated, symphonic sounds of Progressive Rock became popular, as singer-songwriters, disco chanteuses, and pop stars achieved great fame, many fans lamented the death of the three-minute, hard-charging, rock song. Then came punk and brought it all back to basics. As punk faded and those effete English boys with skinny ties and odd hair styles ascended, people mourned the loss of guitars, bass, and drums in favor of cold synthesizers. Then hair metal hit the mainstream and guitars were back. As that brand of glam metal turned quickly into one godawful power ballad after another, an outcast with unwashed hair and sporting a cardigan sweater brought it all back again.

But rock and roll music was always there even in the times when its death was being proclaimed. The charts always had at least one or two rock bands in the list. That is no longer true.

So the question is: Is rock and roll music finally dead, or is it just waiting in the wings for another generation of disenfranchised kids? The first part of the answer is that no form of music ever truly dies, it just fades from popularity. There will always be people playing rock and roll music just as there are still people composing classical music, or playing jazz. Somewhere out there is a piano player leaning into the writings of Scott Joplin and playing ragtime. So no, rock music isn’t dead. It’s just no longer the zeitgeist.

The fact is that there is still great rock music being made. In just the past few years, there have been great albums released by the Rolling Stones (Hackney Diamonds), X (Alphabetland and Smoke & Fiction), the Avett Brothers with Faith No More singer Mike Patton, (AVTT/PTTN), Grant-Lee Phillips (In The Hour of Dust), the Ruen Brothers (Ten Paces), Ty Segall (Possession), the Grip Weeds (Soul Bender), Vintage Trouble (Heavy Hymnal), Smashing Pumpkins (Aghori Mhori Mei), and Jack White (No Name). But all of those albums have one thing in common: they were made by artists whose careers stretch back decades. Where are the new faces in rock and roll?

For a hot minute magazines like Rolling Stone championed Harry Styles but he turned out to be just another pop star, the male equivalent of Sabrina Carpenter. More recently the attention has turned to an English singer named Dominic Harrison who calls himself YUNGBLUD (the capital letters are his). With no shortage of ego, YUNGBLUD maintains that his mission is to bring back old-fashioned rock and roll music.

In his acceptance speech for Best Rock Performance at the 2026 Grammys (for his live cover of Black Sabbath’s “Changes”), YUNGBLUD declared that rock music is making a comeback and playfully challenged pop music:

“And everyone in a guitar shop or a bedroom with a dream…rock music’s fucking coming back. Watch out, pop music. We’re gonna fucking get you. God bless rock music, and God bless fucking Ozzy Osbourne.”

As they say: Big, if true. And somewhat surprising since his earlier albums leaned much more heavily on the current sounds of the pop charts: electronic drums, synthesized strings, mixing rapping with singing, catchy choruses, and a lack of anything really approaching sophistication. There are elements of rock that come through those earlier albums and each album subsequently gets a little bit closer to where he is now, but they remain solidly in the pop music camp. The leap in quality from his eponymous 2022 album to Idols is staggering, and YUNGBLUD knows it: “Would this be the album you would expect me to make next?” he told Apple Music. “Fuck no.” Hopefully this means Dominic Harrison has found his voice and now knows what YUNGBLUD is supposed to be.

Yet YUNGBLLUD didn’t win the Best Rock Album Grammy, losing to Turnstile, a punk-influenced band that sounds exactly like every other punk influenced band in the world today. In its own way this is almost as bad as handing a Best Metal Performance to Jethro Tull over Metallica, because within the range of my hearing the best rock album of last year is, along with Ty Segall’s Possession, clearly YUNGBLUD’s Idols. What gives young Dominic Harrison the nod here is the sheer, naked ambition of his album. It’s a sweeping, string-laden album full of rockers that pays tribute to everybody from Elton John and David Bowie (“Supermoon” and “Change”) to Blur and Oasis (the Britpop refrain of “Lovesick Lullaby”). It’s been a very long time since a rock artist started an album with a nine-minute long song (“Hello Heaven, Hello”), or capped a three-minute song with a four-minute instrumental coda that features a duel between heavy guitar and strings courtesy of players from the London Symphony Orchestra (“Ghosts”). In a time when streaming playlists of most popular songs all sound the same, the Cinemascope vision of Idols is nothing short of breathtaking.

Does any of this mean that YUNGBLUD is the future of rock music? No, not necessarily. YUNGBLUD could follow this effort with nothing even remotely approaching this level of quality and then quickly fade from view. Such is life in the vagaries of the pop charts. But what Idols does prove conclusively is that rock may have a future after all. This is his fourth album, following three albums of decidedly lower quality, and his third to debut at number one in the charts in much of Europe, though American success remains more muted. He is already a big star in his homeland, where rock music still has a grip on the public imagination. If rock music does have a future it will probably come out of England again. But while we wait, the success of Idols and the brash braggadocio of its creator gives rock music fans something to focus on and enjoy.

by

Ty Segall: Possession

Ty Segall PossessionIn 2008 a brash rocker came out of San Francisco with his first, self-titled, album. Ty Segall was a brief, noisy album of distinctly lo-fi rock. Under the murk and the distortion was a Nuggets-style garage rock album (at 23 minutes closer to an EP). Since then Segall has been releasing albums on his own and with various side projects at a pace that even Ryan Adams and Guided By Voices can’t hope to match. By my count, he’s put out 28 albums in the past 18 years. Of course, anyone who is that prolific is someone who by definition does not have an editor, and Segall has released some real junk over the course of his career. Some of his albums border on noise, and not a pleasant noise. But Segall is also capable of writing some incredible songs, and several of his albums are truly excellent. Such is the story of a restless, inventive musician who clearly burns with the desire to create. A new Ty Segall album is always worth checking out because you never know what to expect, and when he’s good he’s exceptional.

Segall is at his best when he leaves the lo-fi aesthetic behind and records conventional rock songs. This is when he combines the raw power of The Stooges, the Glam rock of T. Rex, and psychedelic influences of early Pink Floyd and Sixties garage rock and emerges with something that is distinctly his own. Possession is Segall at his best.

Released in May 2025, Segall circles back to the sweet spot he hit with 2014’s Manipulator, when he traded in lo-fi chaos for sharp production, tight songs, and a stunningly high level of pop craftsmanship. The rough edges were still there; Segall is, at the end of the day, a descendent of garage rock, but Manipulator was a huge step forward that proved he was capable of moving from the garage to the arena. At least to theaters. Though it was released eleven years later, Possession is the spiritual successor to that earlier album, taking Manipulator‘s advances and building on them. It is tighter, punchier, more focused, and packed to the rafters with smart pop sensibilities. Where the earlier album sprawled over 17 songs in nearly an hour of music, Possession has no excess baggage, clocking in at a concise 40 minutes over 10 songs.

Every song on the album is a gem, and reflects the variety found across Segall’s earlier albums while retaining a consistency of sound and approach that is occasionally lacking. The fact that this album comes on the heels of 2024’s Love Rudiments, a nearly unlistenable album of instrumental percussion tracks, makes it all the more remarkable. It’s as if Segall knew he was going off the deep end and made a decision to get back to basics: bright acoustic guitars, fuzzy electric guitars, smart lyrics, great melodies, and tight songs. This is the sound of a genuine artist who has assembled a lifetime of influences and brewed them into something entirely his own. Over a career this inability to repeat himself, while admirable, has led to a remarkable inconsistency.

Segall plays almost everything on the album including all guitars, bass, drums, and vocals and it’s an impressive feat because it never sounds like it isn’t a full band playing off each other. Most one-man shows have the sound of one ginormous ego trip, but Segall plays every instrument with equal facility and with sympathy for each. He is one of rock’s most tireless and inventive voices.

From the album’s opening, the 1970s-infused blast of sunshine “Shoplifter” segueing into the pop genius of the title track, Possession offers up one treasure after another. “Buildings” taps into Segall’s Glam influences, sounding like a mutant T. Rex outtake. “Shining” delivers a huge chorus and ferocious guitar work, while “Skirts of Heaven” slows things down while retaining the dirty sound of Segall’s guitar in a nice counterpoint to an excellent string and horn section. Perhaps best of all, maybe even the highlight of his career, is “Fantastic Tomb,” a story song that ties together the tale of a robbery gone wrong and Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado” over two distinct music motifs (and an absolutely ripping guitar solo near the end of the track).

The album ends as strongly as it begins. There truly isn’t a wasted note here. “Another California Song” ends the album on a funny note even as the lyrics tell the familiar tale of failed dreams so prevalent in Los Angeles. It provides a more than suitable closing to the album by taking all the elements of the preceding songs and blending them into a sweet confection undercut with bitter lyrics.

Possession stands at the top of Segall’s work, surpassing even the excellent Manipulator and 2018’s sprawling epic Freedom’s Goblin. It’s the most mature work he’s done to this date, in addition to being the catchiest and smartest collection of his songs. At a time when rock music is back on its heels, this album is an essential listen.

Grade: A+

by

The Grip Weeds: Soul Bender

Grip Weeds Soul Bender Garage rock came out of the 1960s, a form of raw, back-to-basics rock and roll. The gateway drug for garage rock is the legendary collection Nuggets, originally compiled by future Patti Smith guitarist Lenny Kaye and released in 1972 as a two-record compilation of great lost tracks from the sixties. It has since been expanded into no fewer than five four-disc box sets, focusing on America, international, modern, Los Angeles and San Francisco. They represent an alternative view of the history of rock and roll, one where the big bands of the era are only heard through their influence. And it’s possible to hear all those influences in the three minutes it takes to spin out one of these songs. Part of the fun of garage rock is how it teases the ear, reminding you of something else but remaining fresh.

New Jersey’s Grip Weeds, named after John Lennon’s character in the movie How I Won The War, is a modern garage rock band that has just released their ninth album, Soul Bender. They are also in many ways the definitive band in this genre. The influences are there: the jangly guitars of The Byrds, the cascading drums of The Who, the harmonies of the Beatles, etc. But the beauty of the Grip Weeds is that they have assimilated their influences so well that they transcend them. On Nuggets it’s easy to say, “This band sounds like The Yardbirds” or “This could be a Kinks song.” The Grip Weeds sound like The Grip Weeds and simultaneously nobody else and everybody else. Many bands wear their influences on their sleeves. The Grip Weeds have them etched into their DNA.

Soul Bender captures the band at their best. It features the differing patterns of the 1960s in a distinctly modern weave. Released in June of this year on JEM Records and recorded at the band’s own House of Vibes studio, the album is a tour-de-force of melody, guitar crunch, a pounding rhythm section, and exquisite vocals. The result is reminiscent of a time long ago yet also timeless.

From the “Hard Day’s Night”-ish opening chord of the title track to the Odessey and Oracle feel of “Love Comes in Different Ways” the influences are there for trainspotters but make no mistake, this is an original band playing original music. Kurt Reil (vocals, drums), Rick Reil (guitar, keyboards, vocals), Kristin Pinell Reil (lead guitar, vocals), and Dave DeSantis (bass, vocals) have created a heady confection that is one of the best albums of the year (maybe the best).

The music on Soul Bender is varied without ever losing sight of the goal. From the loping duet between Kurt Reil and Kristin Pinell Reil on “Promise (Of The Real)” to the breathy psychedelia of “Column Of Air” to the Byrds-y “Gene Clark (Broken Wing)”, Soul Bender presents what is essentially a hidden greatest hits of a bygone era gussied up with a 21st century sheen and modern production values. The effect is never less than a joyful blast of what the radio should sound like today.

The secret weapon of the band is undoubtedly Kristen Reil. Aside from sterling harmonies and the occasional lead vocal (her voice on “If You Were Here” could have come straight out of Susanna Hoff’s mouth), she’s also an ace guitarist. Her lead guitar adds a level of excitement to the songs, particularly on “Conquer and Divide”, where she steps to the fore and plays two volcanic solos that lean heavy on the whammy bar. There’s a good reason Little Steven’s Underground Garage channel on Sirius named it the “Coolest Song of the Week.”

It’s heartening to hear new music like this. From their first album (House of Vibes) way back in 1994 the Grip Weeds have maintained an astonishing level of consistency in their work. Over nine studio albums (one of them, Strange Change Machine, a double CD set), plus a live album, a Christmas album (!), and a covers album (Dig) the band is still going strong, sounding as fresh now as they did when Nirvana and Pearl Jam were all over the radio. It’s no mean trick to sound so nostalgic and so new at the same time, but they pull it off with memorable tunes, great production, and incendiary playing. The Grip Weeds are the real deal.

Grade: A

by

The Death of Summer: Brian Wilson and Sly Stone, RIP

It’s been a rough week for popular music with the death of two of the most important figures in the culture of the last 70 years. On the surface, Brian Wilson and Sly Stone could not be further apart. Wilson was the sun-kissed, clean cut all-American kid singing pop songs with his family about surfing, girls, and cars. Stone was the perpetually high black hippie singing funk and soul songs with a racially and sexually integrated band about togetherness, self-empowerment, and enjoying life to the fullest. Wilson marked the first half of the 1960s, Stone was a product of the second half of that decade.

On further reflection, several striking similarities are also evident. Both were geniuses. Both bands were built around family members. Both made it into the 1970s with increasingly scattered results. Both were casualties of drugs and mental illness. Both were unbelievably influential on their peers and their descendants.

Sly Stone, born Sylvester Stewart in 1943, was a disc jockey, producer, and musician in San Francisco who led the Family Stone, a funk outfit that had a great love for all types of music and incorporated rock, soul, psychedelia, gospel, and pop into their sound and blew the doors off of the boundaries of the music scene. Beginning with his Top Ten hit, “Dance to the Music” he began a string of classic songs and albums that redefined the music of black America. This was not the hardcore funk of James Brown, nor was it the Memphis soul of Otis Redding, or the gorgeous pop symphonies of Motown. This was, well, all of that thrown in a blender. The result was unique to Sly and the Family Stone, but others were paying attention.

It’s simply impossible to imagine the sound of black music in the 1970s and beyond without hearing and understanding Sly and the Family Stone. Beginning with his first breakout albums, Music of My Mind and Talking Book, and culminating with the magisterial Songs in the Key of Life, Stevie Wonder had clearly been paying close attention to Sly. Without Sly, there is no Philly soul, no Jacksons, no Parliament-Funkadelic, no Earth, Wind, and Fire, no Spinners, no War, no latter-day Temptations. Follow the trail into the 80s and beyond and there’s no Terence Trent D’Arby, no Prince, no Red Hot Chili Peppers, no Fishbone, no OutKast, no Vintage Trouble. James Brown can rightfully claim the credit for inventing rap, but one wonders if the more music-oriented rappers would have picked up their instruments without Sly leading the way. All these bands and performers were paying homage to Sly Stone in their different ways. Even Talking Heads’ more funk-oriented songs from the early 80s were directly inspired by Sly.

Stone peaked with 1968’s album Stand! and the three singles that he released to close out the decade. “Hot Fun in the Summertime” remains one of the all-time great summer songs, as good as anything Brian Wilson’s brothers had released. The double A-side that he released at year’s end, “Thank You (Falletinme Be Mice Elf Agin)” and “Everybody Is A Star” pointed the way to the seventies on the first side and summarized Sly’s sixties on the second half.

Brian Wilson, the heart and soul of The Beach Boys, was a fragile genius who turned the California dream into a universal language. Born in 1942, Wilson’s early life was steeped in music but scarred by the abuse of his father, Murry, a domineering figure whose cruelty left lasting marks. It was a smack from the desperate wannabe songwriter Murry that rendered Brian deaf in one ear. Wilson’s genius took a while to become evident. The early Beach Boys, as enjoyable and as fun as they are, were mainly variations on a theme: surfing is cool, and life is best lived at the beach. But the genius was lurking all the time, poking his head up in introspective songs like “In My Room” that hinted at a more melancholy side to the songwriter. The musical and vocal arrangements were also getting more sophisticated. As a kid, sitting in front of the stereo with headphones on listening to the then-new Endless Summer compilation, I was drawn more to the intriguing arrangements of the music on “California Girls” and the vocals on “Help Me, Rhonda” than I was to “Surfin’ Safari”.

Brian Wilson Beach Boys

Still, nothing prepared the music-loving America of 1966 for the explosion of brilliance that was Pet Sounds. Surely the winner of any competition for “Worst Cover/Best Album” in history, Pet Sounds was Brian Wilson’s attempt to pick up the gauntlet the Beatles had thrown down with Rubber Soul. Brian has stated that his album was an effort to create something that had “more musical merit than the Beatles.” For their part, the Beatles flipped over the Beach Boys album. Paul McCartney still calls it his favorite album. It wasn’t the lyrics on Pet Sounds that were revolutionary, though they broke from surfing and cars. Singer Mike Love even complained about that to Brian, telling him to “stick to the formula.” No, it was the musical arrangements that completely upended rock music. This was music that demanded to be taken seriously. Even the brilliant musicians who provided the instrumentation, Los Angeles mainstays The Wrecking Crew, familiar and fluent in every type of music around at the time, were confused by what Wilson was asking for in the studio. Confused, but also in awe of the results. Harpsichords, tympanies, barking dogs, bicycle bells…nothing was off-limits in Wilson’s imagination. Anchored by “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and “God Only Knows,” Pet Sounds remains one of the greatest albums ever recorded. And it was such a flop Capitol records rush-released a greatest hits album just two months later. The fact is that nobody (except other musicians) was ready to hear Brian Wilson’s genius yet.

Wilson’s brilliance reached its apogee with the following single, “Good Vibrations,” a song whose intricate arrangement stuns the listener to this day. But Wilson’s attempt at a follow up album, Smile, was mired in a sea of LSD, pot, and mental illness. He’d had a nervous breakdown in 1964 which led to him giving up touring to concentrate on the records, and now he had another, far more serious one. Smile was abandoned. Parts of it were released on the albums Smiley Smile and Wild Honey, providing a tantalizing glimpse into what might have been. While he “finished” Smile in 2004 as a solo artist, the fact remains that the full Beach Boys-treatment remains the great lost album of the sixties.

Wilson’s career was a rollercoaster of brilliance and breakdown. His mental health struggles, compounded by drug abuse and the manipulative control of psychologist Eugene Landy, derailed him for decades. Landy, initially a savior in the 1970s, became a Svengali-like figure, isolating Wilson until a 1992 lawsuit freed him. His wife and guardian Melinda Wilson died in 2024. Brian Wilson lived out his life suffering from dementia, a tragic ending to a tragic story.

Sly Stone’s life mirrored Wilson’s in its descent. Drug addiction, particularly cocaine, and erratic behavior unraveled his career by the mid-1970s. The Family Stone fractured, and Stone became a reclusive figure, his output dwindling as he battled personal demons. His later years were marked by legal troubles, financial ruin, and health issues, culminating in a prolonged battle with COPD that eventually killed him.

While their stories are tragic, the music they left behind stands testament to their genius. As the drugs got worse Sly Stone’s music turned dark, but his work from the sixties remains fresh, sunny, bold, and optimistic. It’s the perfect companion to the hot nights partying after spending the day on the beach, where Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys provide the soundtrack of the endless summer. The musical world is greatly diminished by their loss.