i.m. Brian Douglas Wilson 20th June 1942 – 11 June 2025
So you fought against your father Murray and won,
Beating him back for the bruises inflicted on brain
And ego, but thankfully not the hands
Which played and found their own way to the waves
To capture in song beach bound beauty, as well as
Those particular warnings in water that perhaps
Only strange sea-life and those secrets beneath
Understand. You found from terror the tune from which
Melody was soon mastered, with harmony housed
By blood angels, more earthbound that most and less lithe:
The sweet and sad voiced cherub Carl, alongside the substance
Stained Dennis, with Mike tough Love, your cousin, Al Jardine
And Bruce Johnston; and yet now sadly each Wilson has fallen
Beneath death’s sharp scythe. You were never right, Brian.
Unmade, you sourced all sense through song writing.
Feeling the world through piano or the strong steel strings
Of a bass. Founding the rhythm to rise in magical keys
Of ascension; from Pet Sounds, Surf’s Up and Smile
We can hear the McCartney and the Messiaen too
Take their place. Unfurling flowers of sound, ecstatically
Scored, voices soaring. Whether illuminated by Asher
Or swirled by Van Dyke Park’s abstract airs, yours were
America’s songs at that particular time before madness,
Both your own, then your country’s; for just as you lost
Resonance we’ve lost care. For now nobody knows
What is good as there is too much surrounding swirl
To contend with. We can no longer sift as the surface
Is mottled and marred, foamed and smeared. But on
Starting you showed how pearls are seen through sea water.
You were before you time. Each song oystered, even as
Your surrounding shell cracked while cheered. And so
The great submersion began as you became a submarine
Of a person. Imprisoned first by dark drug use and then
By Eugene Landy of course, anchoring. Sad in sand,
You declined, becoming a kind of ghost while still living.
Another acidic Barrett, and with some of the same
Hankering to live in your own world beside but not
Necessarily in tune with others. Your speech was distracted,
Along with your wild eyed stare. Your soul slurred. But look
How you continued to play having reached the sacred
Summit so early. Like John and Paul’s innovations,
Your summers saw genius strive through staves to stroke
Birds. Yours was a generation who set just what it means
To make music. In the classical past the composer,
Even when commandered became star, but the public
Were not shown suffering, or not in the way you were
Used to. And while soaked in sunlight, from which you
Often ran, there were scars. The success proved too bright.
It may be down to all those fights with your father.
A clearly envious monster, whose own discontent bred
Your curse. Which it took you decades to break,
Without full repair ever sealing. And yet split apart,
Your sweet pieces which bled from blame to bank
Reimburse the cost claimed on you. You were a man
Who made moments that once eased your nation,
And many more as they echoed for over sixty years
Round the world. Talent tames at its test. You passed
Yours with surfing colours. Now may new God vibrations
If those are what you feel softly strobe across the next
Concert hall, or piano placed sandbox. May you be at peace
And pool with your brothers and may your wretched Dad
Keep it clean. Sail on Sailor in bed, bath, or over soft ocean.
The surf you once painted shimmers anew. Compose dream.
David Erdos 12/6/25
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