It happened. I met Brian Wilson.

Longtime readers know that Brian Wilson is totemic to me. There's really no other way of describing the influence this man/icon has had on my life. I don't know if anyone here remembers this, but I had a Beach Boys-inspired blog circa 2001/2002. I even met my ex-husband on a message board devoted to the then-unfinished "Smile" album. (He was the only other person I knew who could be brought to tears by an acetate recording of five stoned guys making chicken noises.)

The first time I listened to Brian Wilson's music-- like really listened to it-- I went out, bought a cheap Fender practice bass, and began writing songs about surfing and muscle cars in the midst of a bleak Chicago winter. I taught myself to play by watching a VHS tape of a Beach Boys concert from 1964. Brian played with his thumb, so I played with my thumb. Brian wore his bass high across his chest; I followed suit. I stopped just short of singing out of one side of my mouth.

Once I was able to blunder my way through a selection of self-penned surf ballads, I began frequenting a poorly attended open mic night at a shitty bar. I called myself Bonaventure (seriously!) and would swagger up there with my bass, just a bass, and sing stuff like:


Elaine
Don't blow your cool
I love you.


And I'd usually fuck up because I was terrified, and I'd whisper I'm sorry into that beat-up, spittle-flecked mic. And once a stranger yelled back "Never apologize!" She was right. She's still right.

Bottom line, I didn't hear music until I heard Brian Wilson's music. I bought every album. Downloaded any pathetic, murky snippet I could scavenge. (Brian had a coughing fit in 1972? Find me the torrent!) When he began touring again, I went to the shows. I cried at the shows. I didn't care that Brian looked gray and bewildered; his image never relied on rock starvirility. Even at his coolest he was just Brian. The big guy who channels angels.

(P.S. I love that clip so much.)

So anyway, this week I somehow got invited to an private, in-studio performance of "That Lucky Old Sun," Brian's upcoming album. The event was at Capitol Records, a building shaped like a stack of '45s where the Beach Boys recorded some of their greatest tracks. I had known the show would be intimate, but nothing could have prepared me for being seated on a stool maybe six feet from Brian. (I was starstruck by the band as well; I'm such a nerd that I know all of their names.)

So they played the show, it was fucking amazing, and it was all around me. Darian Sahanaja came over in between sets to chat. I started babbling about how they recycled part of an unfinished song from 1967 that I love. Then Darian asked me if I've ever met Brian. I hadn't. And then I did.

I've often wondered what I would say to him. I wound up shaking his hand, telling him that the new material was "stunning," and thanking him. Based on the handful of words I managed to utter, he probably assumed I was a casual fan at best. Fine by me. There's no way I could have said everything in those few allotted moments.

To be honest, I've been a little down on Hollywood lately. But nobody knows California like Brian Wilson. And "That Lucky Old Sun,"-- an improbably profound tribute to Errol Flynn, Mexican girls, surfers and stars-- reminded me that there is a heartbeat in L.A. You just have to listen. Listen. Listen.