By Travis Grant

My musical tastes began assembling early in life. As a child, I explored my parents’ record collection and gained exposure to many genres and artists. But it wasn’t until my teenage years that I remember crossing the Beach Boys’ path and being underwhelmed. At that age, my mind was no longer the developmental sponge it had been in early childhood. In order for a band’s music to root itself in me, it had to deliver a walloping blow in a memorable setting. The assurances of those who had lived through the height of the Beach Boys’ fame couldn’t convince me of the band’s greatness. I needed a better segue, a push to actually listen and eventually come around to an appreciation.

I had heard all of the Beach Boys’ popular songs in lamentable contexts. Songs like “Surfin’ USA,” “Surfin’ Safari,” and “Help Me Rhonda” were played at the weddings of relatives, somewhere between the “Grease Medley” and “Billie Jean.” This was precisely the time when my bored, teenage self was looking to slip behind the community hall for a bootlegged beer.

In the early part of this century, I rarely ventured into music’s archives. New music was too exciting: Radiohead was determining the shape of things to come with Kid A; Beck’s Sea Change was a stained-glass window into personal heart ache; Hayden picked up the torch of Neil Young’s early sound and released the beautiful record, Skyscraper National Park; and along came Wilco, a band that takes residence high in the tower of song. At that point in my life, the Beach Boys didn’t even register. They were an unknown artefact.

In 2006, the pub at my university was an exchange ground for music, new and old. I used to sit with my friend, Trevor, and swap digital albums over beer. One day, Trevor gave me Endless Summer – a Beach Boys greatest-hits record that was released on Capitol in the early 70s – and Pet Sounds, which I would later recognize as one of the greatest albums released during the 1960s, second in sheer magnitude only to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. But on that day and for many months afterwards, seeing “The Beach Boys” on my ipod inspired little curiosity.

And then I discovered them. Parents of the world have many different strategies for calming their children. Some use bottles of warm milk. Others speak in soft, soothing tones. I play my child music. A few months ago, I was driving home from the grocery store. My two-year-old had gone the entire day without a nap and decided to let loose a purple-faced tantrum in his car seat. With patience thinning, I grabbed my ipod and chose the Beatles, but as I lifted my thumb from the navigation wheel, the ipod’s cursor slipped to the Beach Boys. (Anyone who owns an ipod has experienced such a slip). I quickly chose Endless Summer and, thanks to another slip, played the second song, “Surfer Girl.” Like Haitian voodoo, the song’s vocal harmonies entranced my son, and he calmed to a smile. In the weeks that followed, he demanded to hear the Beach Boys whenever we were in the car.

Since then, I’ve heard Endless Summer and Pet Sounds countless times, and I’ve grown to be a considerable fan of both. With a curious ear, I began noticing things I loved about the music: Chuck Berry guitar riffs, complex 4-part harmonies, jamming Wurlitzer organ tracks, and – feeding my tastes as a hobby historian – an insight to the fads and fashions of 1960s American surf culture.

Around this time, my brother found an original pressing of Summer Days (And Summer Nights!!) on thick, pre-oil crisis vinyl. I went to his place on a Saturday night and listened to it on his turntable, through a vintage pair of Danish-made Dynaco A-25 speakers that throw sound with a deep, low-end presence. My brother’s stereo verified the subtleties of Brian Wilson’s compositional and studio perfectionism, as well as his under-lying musical genius. This experience moved me to explore every corner of the Beach Boys’ career.

I’ve never been one to declare a favourite album from any artist. I prefer to keep slots open for incoming information and changes of heart. But currently, the Beach Boy’s have two records that I’m tending to favour: Beach Boys’ Party, and Smiley Smile. On a recent Goodwill excursion, I found an original pressing of Beach Boys’ Party. I had no idea what to expect when I put it on my turntable. I was pleasantly surprised by what’s presented as a live acoustic recording.

Beach Boys’ Party was released during the Christmas of 1965. Capitol Records – the Beach Boys’ label at that time – wanted the band to throw together an album to sell during the lucrative holiday shopping season. Fearful that a greatest-hits record would signal the end of the band’s creative and popular height, Brian Wilson – who was in the middle of working on Pet Sounds – suggested an album of cover songs, to be recorded in a studio and dubbed over the background noise of a party, giving the impression of an impromptu jam session. The tracks on this record are acoustic covers of doo-wop and rock & roll songs from the early 60s, written by the likes of Phil Spector, the Everly Brothers, the Beatles, Bob Dylan, and the Regents. In addition to the sound of bongos, and an acoustic bass and guitars, I love that the band’s voices and harmonies aren’t possessed of the usual piquancy of vocal tracking techniques and innovations found on other Beach Boys albums. On this record they sound unpolished, as though they were actually playing a party.

Smiley Smile marked the end of Brian Wilson’s creative leadership within the band. After Pet Sounds, Wilson began work on what was to be an even greater follow-up: Smile, a project he claimed would be “a teenage symphony to God.” Despite months of work on the record, Wilson abruptly scrapped Smile after John Lennon played him a reel-to-reel recording of “A Day in the Life.” Wilson claims that hearing the song sent him into years of over-eating, heavy alcohol and cocaine abuse, and a schizophrenic delirium, from which he continues to suffer. In an effort to keep up with contractual obligations to their record label, the Beach Boys quickly released Smiley Smile in 1967, to the confusion of fans and the dismay of certain band members, who had begun describing Wilson’s work as “avante garde shit.”

Critics often say that Smiley Smile is an under-realized, slapped-together project. The argument that it was quickly assembled certainly stands (it was finished in just two months). But I would argue that this is part of what makes it an incredible record. Smiley Smile is an album written on the verge of madness and it marks a frantic paradigm shift in Wilson’s song writing. For me, it burns brightest of all the Beach Boys’ efforts. The song structures and instrumentation are ahead of their time, giving Smiley Smile a strangely contemporary feel for listeners with modern tastes. Adding another layer of intrigue, Wilson’s imploding personal life is strongly felt on this record. The songs, which are a collaboration of Smile material and new compositions, appear in a disjointed and fragmented manner that reflects his unreeling mental health at that time. Sadly, the refreshing white light of Brian Wilson’s genius on Smiley Smile came to pass as his psychological state went supernova. Removed as the band’s creative lead after the record flopped commercially, Wilson’s new path of song writing was never further explored.

Although the Beach Boys didn’t have an early influence on me, their impact through later discovery has been no less significant. When heard in the right format (180-gram vinyl) and through the right sound system, the depth of composition, arrangement, and absolute talent in the Beach Boys’ music becomes ripe for consideration and appreciation. Bury your memories of bad wedding DJ’s; forget the sound of an over-played track navigating your emotions through a light-hearted moment in a kitsch romantic comedy. The Beach Boys’ are worthy of your own personal discovery or reacquaintance – whichever it is.

Albums listened to while writing this: Surfer Girl, Pet Sounds, Beach Boys’ Party, Smiley Smile.