#4. "Good Vibrations" (The Beach Boys)

At age 10, I was obsessed with the song "Good Vibrations."  The watery-sounding organ, the buzzsaw cellos, the eerie Electro-Theremin, and those sunny layers of signature Beach Boys vocals.  
Actually, I still can't get enough of that moment before the last chorus, where the group hits that ahhhhhh! and it hangs in the air like mist, just before the hook comes exploding back in.  Gives me chills, every time.
Throughout our 4th grade year, my buddy Bill and I would trade mixtapes, sharing whatever we were listening to at the time.  Usually, it was stuff like The Fat Boys, Beastie Boys, or Run DMC.  But, this one time, Bill got really into surf music right before Spring Break, and he brought me this mix of Jan & Dean and Beach Boys songs, dubbed from his mom's old vinyl.  I remember he kind of front-loaded the tape with their early 60s "party songs" ("Surfin' Safari," "Surfin' USA," "Surf City").  But then sitting in the middle of the mix was also the 1966 single "Good Vibrations."
Now, it's not as if it was the first time I'd heard "Good Vibrations"; it was a staple on oldies radio.  But there was something about hearing it in context of those other songs.  It was richer, deeper.  Important.  It seemed so out of place, I even wondered if Bill had let the tape run and recorded it by accident.  
In fact, the more I listened to the track (and I listened to it/analyzed it dozens of times that Spring Break), the more it reminded me of a slightly-psychedelic reimagining of my favorite piece of classical music as a kid: George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue."  Both songs seemed to be built from carefully constructed segments, which, taken on their own, were stunning in their level of detail.  But when the pieces were assembled, end-to-end, the result was even more astounding.
It didn't surprise me at all when the mastermind behind "Good Vibrations," Brian Wilson, recorded a solo tribute album to Gershwin in 2010 and had this to say about "Rhapsody in Blue" to NPR's Audie Cornish: "(When I was 4) my grandmother put on 'Rhapsody in Blue' for me, and had me lay down by the record player.  I just remember I loved it so much…The arranging, the impetus, the excitement, the beauty.  It was just an absolute work of art."
After hearing that conversation on All Things Considered, I started looking for more articles and interviews about Wilson's process.  And I discovered that my observations at age 10 weren't that far off.
Wilson worked on "Good Vibrations" in modules, breaking the song down into small bits, which he'd pore over with his group of choice studio musicians ("The Wrecking Crew"), sometimes recording a section a dozen times at one of four different recording studios around Los Angeles before they achieved the sound he heard in his head.  Then, when all of the individual pieces were recorded to his liking, he connected them all into what he called his "pocket symphony."  
In all, it took seven months of work and $50K—the most ever spent recording a "pop" single at that point—before "Good Vibrations" saw the light of day in October 1966.  But, in the end, who really cares about facts and figures when you're talking about something this timeless and priceless?
All I can say is, the world will always be a little better off because of the genius of Brian Wilson.

"Wouldn't It Be Nice" (The Beach Boys)

"Wouldn't It Be Nice" easily is one of the best album openers in rock music history.  The moment you hear the dreamy guitar intro, you can sense that Pet Sounds (1966) is not going to be another Beach Boys album filled with songs about hot rods and big waves.
Brian Wilson's God-given ability to not only craft amazing melodies but to also translate the sounds in his head into multi-layered, nuanced arrangements/orchestrations is on full display here.  The upbeat verses, which feature a carnival-like mix of tack piano, brass, woodwinds, drums, timpani, and twin accordions, are perfectly offset by the ethereal bridges, where the key shifts, the beat is suspended, and the guitar sings like plucked harp strings.
The lyrics, penned by Wilson's collaborator Tony Asher, perfectly match the mood of the music, conveying the emotions of young lovers who dream of the day they can get married and be together, forever.  It's teenage fantasy elevated to high art.
So who was this lucky bastard named Asher?
He was an ad copywriter whose agency had assigned him to write lyrics for advertising jingles.  As he told Rockcellar magazine in 2013, he happened to be at Hollywood's United Western Recorders studio one morning, supervising the recording of a new jingle, when he ran into Wilson at the water cooler during a break.  They struck up a conversation, which quickly turned to music, and ended up popping into an unused studio to play each other snippets of songs they each were working on.  
Eventually, Asher was summoned back to his client's ad jingle session, and he chalked up his chance meeting with Wilson to fodder for cocktail party conversation.
But then Wilson unexpectedly gave Asher a call and expressed his intentions to make a new album with a completely different tone and direction for The Beach Boys.  And he wanted Asher's help.
Says Asher, "He didn’t say, 'Do you want to try writing one song?'  He said, 'Do you want to write this album with me?'"

"Don't Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)" (The Beach Boys)

If there were any doubt about Brian Wilson being a genius, "Don't Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)" puts all uncertainties to rest.
Wilson and lyricist Tony Asher penned the song for The Beach Boys' groundbreaking album Pet Sounds (1966).  Just like the album's closing track, "Caroline, No," Wilson performed the piece as a solo number without the rest of the group; it's only his double-tracked vocal accompanied by The Wrecking Crew that you hear on the recording. 
Compositionally, it's an otherworldly hybrid of vocal jazz, doo-wop, and classical music.  There are glimmers of groups like The Four Freshmen and The Platters in Wilson's vocal treatment, along with rhythmic and melodic nods to J.S. Bach's arrangement of Italian composer Alessandro Marcello's achingly beautiful "Concerto for Oboe & Strings in D Minor."  
Production-wise, Wilson was taking cues from Phil Spector's Wall of Sound.  Touches like having Carole Kaye's electric bass and Lyle Ritz's upright bass doubling the throbbing bassline, which mimics a beating heart as Wilson pleads Listen to my heart beat, are right out of Spector's hit-making playbook.  But Wilson even takes Spector's techniques a step further, demonstrating that he truly understood how to arrange music on a level that bridges pop and classical conventions.  For example, having the vocals drop out and strings swell after he beckons us to Listen, listen, listen is like something Verdi or Puccini would do for dramatic effect in an opera.  As you listen, it hits you that you're literally hearing the love in Wilson's heart, translated into melody.  That section chokes me up sometimes if I'm not careful.
Amazingly, there are bits of the recording that Wilson opted to leave on the cutting room floor.  Specifically, he recorded—by himself—an intricate set of a cappella vocal harmonies for the song (ostensibly as a roadmap to show the session musicians the kind of sound and feel he was driving for) that he never included in the final edit.  You can hear his chill-inducing, 8-part harmony vocals here.

"Brian Wilson (Live)" (Barenaked Ladies)

My sophomore year roommate at UNC listened to Barenaked Ladies nonstop.  Luckily, I found them refreshing.  They lacked the angst-y/poseur-y bull crap that half the bands on rock radio embodied in the late 90s.  (Have I mentioned that I wasn't such a huge fan of 90s mainstream rock?  Maybe I have...)  They also had a knack for catchy melodies, lyrical wordplay, and close vocal harmonies, making them sound like no one else out there at the time.
The band's live album, Rock Spectacle (1996), made an appearance at least once a week in our dorm room.  While my roomie and his girlfriend enjoyed the goofy folkiness of the sing-along "If I Had $1,000,000," I always anticipated the more serious "Brian Wilson."
The song "Brian Wilson" was written by vocalist/guitarist Steven Page, a founding member of the band who actually left to pursue a solo career in 2009.  It's an extended metaphor, using both blatant and slightly obscure references to The Beach Boys' Brian Wilson, detailing a creative drought that Page experienced around his 20th birthday in 1990, when melodies and lyrics just weren't coming to him.  
When he wasn't staring at the ceiling of his basement bedroom to pass the time, Page was making late night trips to Sam The Music Man (a music mega-store that went belly-up in the digital music age) on Toronto's Yonge Street, just to try and get inspired.
As the lyrics convey, he obtained a copy and began listening, over and over, to The Beach Boys' album Smiley Smile (1967)--an album that consisted of a mishmash of tracks from Brian Wilson's abandoned pop symphony, SMiLE.  Eventually, he started seeing parallels between his own inability to write and Brian Wilson's 1967 mental breakdown, referencing in the song's chorus Wilson's years-long, self-imposed exile from writing and performing: Lying in bed, just like Brian Wilson did...
(He also references Wilson's controversial therapist, Dr. Eugene Landy, who from the mid-70s to the early 90s controlled literally every aspect of Wilson's life--sleeping, eating, shtupping, writing, recording--ostensibly to get Wilson off drugs and in a better frame of mind.)
The original studio version of "Brian Wilson," released on the 1992 album Gordon, is good, but it's lacking a certain spark that comes through in the live version.  In particular, Page's voice is more expressive, and the frenzied coda really delivers the feel of coming unhinged.
Quite simply, it's a smart song from a smart band.

"Surf's Up" (The Beach Boys)

"Surf's Up," a 1966 composition by Brian Wilson and lyricist Van Dyke Parks, was slated to be a focal point of the ambitious SMiLE—a song cycle that was, as Wilson called it, a "teenage symphony to God" and the intended follow up to Pet Sounds (1965).

Using clever wordplay, the song's lyrics describe someone feeling hollow inside after watching a staged performance, questioning the meaning of existence and human constructs, and then having a spiritual, transcendental awakening after hearing children singing.  
Quite simply, it's about death and rebirth.  Literally, a migration away from the surfing songs that had made them famous into something brand new.

But Wilson's new compositions for SMiLE, particularly "Surf's Up," sparked ire within the band.  It was especially hated by Wilson's bandmate/cousin, Mike Love.  

As Parks recounts in the 2004 documentary Beautiful Dreamer about the making—and Wilson's eventual 2004 revival—of SMiLE, Love took Parks to task for the lyrics of "Surf's Up," feeling the words were purposely inscrutable and too artsy for The Beach Boys' longtime fans.

Parks comments, "It sure is tedious to have to explain lyrics to people, and it wasn't something I wanted to do for a living."

Unfortunately, the SMiLE project was abandoned by Wilson before its completion.  Record label pressure to deliver the album, tensions within the band about his new art pop leanings (and his growing use of psychedelic drugs), as well as his deteriorating mental state all fueled the decision to shelve the album, which he deemed "inappropriate music."

(Regarding Wilson's mental health: one of the portentous events that led to the project's and his own breakdown was the recording of an evocative, chaotic instrumental piece for SMiLE called "Mrs. O'Leary's Cow," named for the infamous bovine that knocked over a gas lantern and sparked the 1871 Great Chicago Fire.  Intended as a symbolic embodiment of "fire" for a suite called "The Elements," Wilson convinced himself that the song had caused—on some metaphysical level—a warehouse across the street from the recording studio to burn to the ground, as well as a string of other fires across Los Angeles.  The incident marked the beginning of a slide into depression, culminating in Wilson retreating from both songwriting and the public eye for several years.)

After the project disintegrated, snippets of SMiLE popped up on various Beach Boys albums, including 1967's Smiley Smile—a disjointed, gutted version of Wilson's vision.  In 1971, Wilson's younger brother, Carl, worked to resurrect "Surf's Up" for an album of the same name, recording new vocals over existing backing tracks.  While that version is respectable, actually hearing the track in the context of Wilson's SMiLE from 2004 and being able to connect the dots musically to other tracks in the work (especially a song called "Child Is Father of the Man," which is reprised in the coda of "Surf's Up") illuminates the true genius of its creator.

(There are a number of versions of "Surf's Up" out there on the web, including "official" versions that people have edited together from 1966 demo tapes and the 1971 recording.  The one below appeared on 2011's The SMiLE Sessions, an album featuring outtakes, snippets, and songs that were awaiting final mixing from the SMiLE project.  This version is the closest to the arrangement on 2004's SMiLE and features the vocals of the band in its prime.)