In 2004, Brian Wilson finally climbed one of the biggest artistic mountains of his life, recording and releasing a complete version of Smile, which since 1966 had been perhaps the most legendary unfinished album ever. It was a triumph that returned Wilson to the spotlight, crowning an extremely spotty solo career with a true jewel. In fact, Wilson had already released the now nearly forgotten Gettin' in Over My Head earlier in 2004, to virtually no fanfare. Smile, though, was different. We knew it was brilliant before we even heard it, and though I still prefer my own bootleg of the original 60s recordings, it was something of a relief to hear Wilson finally purge the project that derailed him so long ago.
If Smile finally cleared out Wilson's closet, That Lucky Old Sun neatly closes the circle he began drawing in 1961 with the single "Surfin'", returning him to an idealized Southern California after Smile brought him across the country and through its history. Musically and lyrically, That Lucky Old Sun is as cohesive as its predecessor, though more modest in scale and ambition. Wilson and co-writers Scott Bennett and Van Dyke Parks have created an amazing portrait of L.A. and Wilson's place within it, blending nostalgia with hope for the future and honest biographical detail. The title track is an appropriately chosen oldie, written in 1949 by Beasley Smith and Haven Gillespie with lyrics that contrast the toil of life with the easy indifference of nature to our travails. In the past, it's been a hit for Frankie Laine, Louis Armstrong, and Frank Sinatra, but here, Wilson uses it as a musical thread to tie his album together, reprising it three times after opening the album with it.
Also aiding the album's suite-like feel are four spoken interludes written by Parks that paint images of L.A. life with the writer's characteristic sense of wordplay and rhythm. From a listening standpoint, these are the low points of the album, as Wilson's narration isn't very compelling, especially when he's asked to wield a series of Spanish phrases after "Mexican Girl". The narratives do, however, flesh out the album's geographical portrait. The lyrics to the songs themselves are often just as vivid, such as the opening verse of "Morning Beat", which borrows its rhythmic feel from the Beach Boys' early singles. "The sun burns a hole through the 6 a.m. haze/ Turns up the volume and shows off its rays/ Another Dodger blue sky is crowning L.A." perfectly captures a sunny day in the city Wilson still loves. References to star-studded concrete, the Capitol Building, the Hollywood Bowl, the Hollywood Hills, and even smog are sprinkled throughout the album and complete the picture.
Wilson's backing band, largely similar to the crew that worked on Smile and he has been touring with, is versatile, handling both old-school rock'n'roll and big, pretty ballads with ease. Members even do their best to approximate the harmonies of the Beach Boys when necessary-- especially since, with Wilson's falsetto gone, it's up to his mates to hit the high notes. Though it's just as orchestrated and complex as some of Wilson's classic work, the record doesn't capture that sparkling, big-room sound; as a result, it can occasionally feel a little hermetically sealed, especially with the way the background vocals are mixed and compressed.
As interesting as the portrait of Southern California the album paints can be, it's the self-portrait Wilson embeds in his wider narrative that carries the majority of the album's emotional weight. "Forever She'll Be My Surfer Girl" is clear self-referential nostalgia, but he digs deeper elsewhere. "I am a diver, a long line survivor," he sings on "Live Let Live", a line knowingly provided by Parks. "Oxygen to the Brain" and "Midnight's Another Day" are direct attempts to put Wilson's past mental and substance troubles to bed. "I laid around this old place/ I hardly ever washed my face," he signs on the former, following it up on the latter with, "Swept away in a brainstorm/ Chapters missing, pages torn."
Wilson washes his hands of those missing pages on two celebratory numbers, "California Role", which uses its title's nearly unforgivable pun to actual good effect. But it's "Going Home" that most firmly validates his renewed artistic currency: "At 25 I turned out the light/ Couldn't handle the glare in my tired eyes/ But now I'm back." And he is, with his finest non-Smile album since the golden age of the Beach Boys. Lucky us.
