134. Brian Wilson
London Palladium
22 May 2016
There are some gigs that come preloaded with significance, and this one was a living, breathing footnote in music history. Brian Wilson, 73, frailer than a wilted daisy, but still: Brian bloody Wilson. We knew, even before the lights dimmed, this was likely the last time he’d shuffle onto a UK stage. This was almost certainly going to be a “be there or regret it” moment.
Wilson sat behind a piano all night, looking all of his years, but every time he opened his mouth to sing you could see something flicker, like a pilot light still burning away inside him.
Those heavenly falsettos? Long gone. However he had on stage assistance, with Al Jardine’s son drafted in to pick up the slack. Fair play: he nailed it, the harmonies slotting in as smooth as melted sugar and seamlessly meshing with Wilson’s rather more limited and slightly tremulous delivery, smoothing out the wrinkles.
The first half was essentially Beach Boys karaoke deluxe: “Our Prayer”, “California Girls”, “I Get Around”. The kind of sunshine-pop that can still shift furniture even when played by blokes old enough to qualify for bus passes. Blondie Chaplin, the old Flames guitarist, once plucked by Wilson in the late ’60s, saunters out as the night’s surprise “plus special guests”. His heavy, bluesy licks tore into “Wild Honey”, “Funky Pretty” and “Sail On, Sailor”, dragging the set briefly into something rawer and dirtier.
After the interval came the jewel: Pet Sounds played in full. The 1966 record that lit the fuse for Sgt. Pepper’s and gave us “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”, “You Still Believe In Me” and, of course, “God Only Knows”, a song Wilson, with a little twinkle, reminded us was Paul McCartney’s favourite.
It’s true the performance creaked a little, and there were musical sleights-of-hand all over the shop to disguise the gaps that age has carved out. But no one cared. This wasn’t about technical perfection; it was about being in the room.
Then, as if the whole thing hadn’t already been an exercise in time travel, the encore detonated. “Fun, Fun, Fun”, “Help Me Rhonda”, “Surfin’ U.S.A”, a triple-decker sugar rush that yanked the entire Palladium onto its feet.
For a moment London wasn’t London anymore. Brian Wilson had taken us to sunnier shores and as we stepped out into the Soho night it was very clear that we had just seen a legend’s final wave goodbye.