My upbringing isn't far off from the famed Wilsons of the Beach Boys, that of immense suffering and semi-regular lashings behind shuttered blinds; adulthood consisting of entire days thinking about how I'm going to get high, weeks of getting high, waking up naked in your neighbour's front foyer, hanging out with possible cult leaders but who could know, taking lots of LSD and falling asleep on your neighbour's back deck only to realize that in your stupor you co-authored a hit-album with the voices in your head, it's all very relatable.
What is largely Brian Wilson's (and certainly not Mike Love’s) seminal record, Pet Sounds is 59 minutes of brotherly in-fighting and bad reactions to lysergic acid smushed up and rammed directly in your ear-holes like a half-litre of mint chocolate chip ice cream on one of those days. You think it will make you feel better, but it won't, you'll just end up with thick, creamy phlegm and the savoury taste of tears at the corners of your mouth. I hate this album, Pet Sounds is a sad album that only brings on sad feelings, but it's wearing a happy hat and I fucking hate happy hats. Admittedly, your esteemed author doesn't know much about the Beach Boys, in fact, I'll display my sole preparatory research because I'm so confident in the deep, so deep it's in my stomach, bond that I've made with this album.
The bouncing, sing-song harmony in the intro track, Wouldn't it be Nice, blast me right the fuck back to being dosed with bad acid and locked in my dad's 1986 Ford van. The gorgeous layered vocals are ringing through my head ad infintum, in the middle of the night I wake up in a cold sweat convinced I can still hear the glockenspiel from Sloop John B.
5 Dennis Wilsons out of a Charles Manson