Morgan Enos, who writes the regular Mondays with Morgan column for us, grew up in Southern California. Here is his personal tribute to Brian Wilson:
Professionally writing about jazz over the past five or six years has been a clinic in trial and error — full of crash courses, recalibrations, and occasionally bumping into the walls. But writing about the Beach Boys feels like riding a bike. It’s a language I’ve spoken since childhood — and I don’t mean the tired music-critic flashpoints: genius, “teenage symphonies to God,” the fun-in-the-sun-to-sophistication arc. I even worship their idea-free albums. I know the terrible root beer song, “Hey Little Tomboy,” and the one that goes “Pat her on the butt.” Give me a couple of drinks and I’ll defend Mike Love. Hell, I’ll even defend Dr. Landy.
If you’re wired a certain way, like me, this is the piper we all pay. I was an off-center, music-obsessed child who grew up on a secluded hill in Atascadero, California, born into the insular religion of Jehovah’s Witnesses. The culture of the area boiled down to wine tasting, country music, and little else. Luckily, my father, Scott, had a substantial classic rock collection, and I devoured it. And growing up in Southern California’s car culture, he deeply loved the Beach Boys.
He could tell me in surgical detail what Gary Usher’s hot-rod lingo meant — “tach it up,” “fuel-injected Stingray,” “413.” As a teen, I got lost in the obvious masterpieces. On a one-way ticket to New York City at 24, starting a new chapter with my now-wife, I put on Brian Wilson’s 2004 reworking of SMiLE. The haunted choir of “Child is the Father of the Man” made me temporarily leave my body. Less than a year later, on May 5, 2017, he unexpectedly died on that hill while planting bushes. He was hours from visiting me in New York for the first time.
When I got the news on Wednesday that Brian Wilson died, it threw me for an absolute loop — even though that angel on earth, and consummate survivor, could have died twice my lifetime ago. I pulled out the photo shown in this article, of Dad and I about to see Wilson at the Mid-State Fair in Paso Robles, 2016. His live show had a reputation — the diminished Wilson as the hollow center — but he was locked in, and it was beautiful. We had a very complicated relationship, but there’s nothing complicated on our faces here. All the petty squabbles and religious debates melt away in this photo. Whatever’s out there, this was heaven on Earth.
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London based musician and producer Alex Bonney expresses the indelible mark which Brian Wilson has left on him in the form of a pair of haikus.
Bonney adds:
‘I can’t think of many other records that I’d say this about, but I suggest listening again to ‘Pet Sounds’ in the original mono version. There’s something wonderful about all of those sound colours emanating from the centre of the (stereo) image, merged together like a portal into a dream world. RIP Brian, you had a very special vision’
Two Haikus for Brian Wilson:
You heard in one ear
a mono cosmos of sound
for all to explore
Pet Sounds takes us far
sad songs about happiness
the echo still rings
Brian Douglas Wilson. Born 20 June 20, 1942. Died 11 June 2025. In sadness
One Response
Morgan,
A very touching interfusion with your Dad, his influence, and your seriously stoic upbringing. Brenna is so lucky to have you as an influence!
We sometimes have to play with the devil in our own early years to appreciate our Elders. “Play with the Devil”, must be my next creative project!