Brian Wilson's new album daring, nostalgic

The ex-Beach Boy's latest combines the familiar with the innovative.

By Lindsay Eanet

Published Sept. 4, 2008

There's this thing they have every summer near my hometown called the Ravinia Festival. It's sort of a Summerfest for yuppies where suburbanites bring blankets, booze and hors d'oeuvres and listen to established pop and rock concerts. The Beach Boys come every year, and by "The Beach Boys," they mean Mike Love and a guest appearance from John Stamos.

But no matter how many times Uncle Jesse bangs it out, I can't endorse any incarnation of The Beach Boys that includes neither of the band's true visionaries: deceased drummer Dennis Wilson and his brother Brian, a musical legend who came out of the depths of insanity-sandbox to make his masterpiece, 2004's SMiLE, the highest-scoring album on Metacritic and perhaps the most revered album of the decade. And now he's back with a self-produced follow-up, That Lucky Old Sun.

The sun-drenched sighs that open the album sound straight out of a '64 Beach Boys release, now backed fully with strings and clarinet for an added richness, an almost symphonic feel. It becomes clear that with Sun, like its predecessor, Wilson aims to expand upon the distinctive sound he helped create with his old band by adding new sounds and movements. He's always seeking room to innovate but never losing that original effortless, endless summer aesthetic.

The title track bleeds into "Morning Beat," homage - big surprise - to a beautiful morning in Wilson's beloved L.A. The harmonies remain unadulterated with a simple, grooving organ and guitar as accompaniment, painting a perfect image of the Santa Monica Pier. When Wilson sings about it, you're there.

Nostalgia serves well for the most part, especially on Wilson's vocals. Songs like "Forever She'll Be My Surfer Girl" and "Live Let Live," which had the potential to be sunny surf albums, have a haunting sense of longing now being sung by the aging former Beach Boy, and the effect is beautiful. "Good Kind of Love" has the piano bounce and catchiness of a cheesy '70s sitcom, but Wilson's affable delivery makes it much more fun than that.

But reaching for the old doesn't always work out. "Mexican Girl" is far too literal - think flamenco guitars, maracas and a Spanish verse sounding too much like a bad Brill Building appropriation. Although it's a step outside the box for Wilson, the lack of innovation leaves much to be desired.

A series of "Narratives," spoken word vignettes written by collaborator Van Dyke Parks and set to fitting music are featured intermittently between songs. The results are inconsistent: "Room with A View" feels like Dr. Seuss as read by William Shatner while "Venice Beach" swells with sensual description ("poppin' like lime shrimp dropped on a hot wok") and alliteration. "Cinco de Mayo" follows up on "Mexican Girl" for a nice pairing. Although all of these are vivid and Wilson's efforts made clear, the narratives do more to distract from his brilliance as a musician.

Most of the finest moments happen near the end, with Wilson at his most daring. "Oxygen to the Brain" is just all-around goofy; a bouncy, youthful song that fades into the exquisite "Can't Wait Too Long," whose harmonies are reminiscent at times of The Beatles' "Because." "Going Home" is practically a rock opera, with over-the-top vocals on the bridge and harmonicas. What follows is the heartbreaking, epic closer "Southern California," which features Wilson at his most earnest with the opening lines: "I had this dream/singing with my brothers/in harmony/supporting each other."

It's all vocals and piano, a blend as natural and expansive as the Pacific, an excellent end to another chapter in Wilson's ever-expanding musical career.