Pacific Ocean Blue

Week 22 - Dennis Wilson - Pacific Ocean Blue

Many of you know Lowell, my co-pilot at the record store; he’s a dashing sweetheart, an archival genius, and he possesses a towering knowledge of the counterculture music of the 60s and 70s. One day, a man came into the shop and told me about a particular Grateful Dead album that he was “discussing with my son.” I wondered if by some weird coincidence, he had met my daughter out there in the world, and somehow managed to talk with her about some mid-era live Dead bootleg (she was 3 at the time, I believe). So I tried to clarify, but he persisted, almost amazed that I wouldn’t remember having a literal grown man for a son. Well, he meant Lowell, who I always actually thought seemed far older than he was in reality, but according to this fellow, I was the old man. But the best part of this anecdote is that I can now confidently refer to Lowell as “My Son.” I felt that was an apt place to begin, because I believe it was Lowell’s love of the Beach Boys that finally brought me to this perfect album by middle brother Dennis Wilson.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Beach Boys, especially that perennial classic, Pet Sounds; it’s hard to top in its sheer wizardry, as well as truly crystallizing a particular era of studio artistry. Do a little research and you’ll reel from the enormity of the arrangements; also, I recommend the film “Love and Mercy” to get a better idea of what Brian Wilson was going through while constructing that masterpiece. I never really understood his struggles until they were reflected and magnified by Paul Dano’s perfect performance. Still, to me, Pacific Ocean Blue is my favorite Wilson record, at least it is now; we must always remember that when new information becomes available, it’s important to reassess. Dennis’ record has similar hallmarks, after all, he was the drummer of the Beach Boys and grew up in the same bedroom as Brian and Carl. He was the self-described black sheep, and you can see it as you follow along the timeline of his life. Most disconcerting is his relationship with Charles Manson in the late 60s, out of which he did extricate himself before the grisly murders at the end of that decade. Some biographers attribute Wilson’s descent into heroin and other destructive behaviors to this close brush with complete evil, and if so I would think that it specifically informed this 1977 solo debut, a nuanced and dark take on a California sound. His voice has a grain to it, but of course he is a Wilson, so it still sounds gorgeous and layered, but it feels like a sparkling gloom (if that is even possible). I’m not sure if feelings can be actually imbued into a sound, or if the listener brings those feelings to the music, making each listen forever unique; does context forever color a recording? Would I feel the weight of these songs differently if I didn’t know what I know? Regardless of if there are objective answers to these queries, I have to say I love that albums are ready to receive your own personal imprint; and sometimes, it’s impossible to remove them. 

One of the things that I’ve always loved about music is that when it is performed, there is an electric and mystical thing that happens between the players and the audience; an indelible compound is bonded, and that compound wafts into space on an infinite track, though it remains an eternally pure collection of moments that will outlive everyone that has or will live. I feel like we’re stamping ourselves, psychically connected, with each of these sessions, and maybe it’s everything we do, forming a loose angelic scaffolding that reaches up and up and up. If we could look at a map of this world, representing each human interaction, there would be such a vast, psychedelic snowflake, consisting of millions of strings and dimensions, and it would likely be akin to both a fractal image of striated muscle as well as a silent and frightening mass of color hanging in the deep recesses of space. And each of these strings lead back to a single heart, knowing instinctively that they’re part of a complex machinery that is cold and dead but also so alive and precious, deserving of zero consideration and literally every adoring eye on earth.

I stumble down these romanticized pathways willingly, often, with little to guide me but the album and a constantly simmering anger. Why do we divide ourselves when we are all the same interstellar, blood-filled bodies? There is a willful ignorance that’s become so pervasive that we’re beholden to fools who can’t accept science, and need to have their fears turned into a brash and bullheaded hysteria, weaponizing it against anything that is different. They want a status quo of comfort, free of nuance, at the expense of other folks’ access to the same comfort. I’m not really sure how many times I can say this stuff, and I know far stronger and braver people than myself have been saying it over and over again, into the barrels of rifles and under threat of state-sponsored violence. I try to put my feet in the shoes of those who would stand with a flag, talking with authority about something of which they have absolutely no idea; why are they so angry? Why can’t they listen? Any time I come into contact with one of these folks, I get the impression that they are only waiting to shout, without considering anything else. It’s so important that they are right, that they justify their fear with faulty (and often straight up fictional) statistics; it all really boils down to identity. A lot of the conservative / “traditional values” base is terrified of disappearing, losing their identity in a new America which as I’ve said before is Black and Queer and Trans, Feminist and Spanish-speaking, celebrating our Indigenous sisters and brothers, rather than whitewashing and denying the true history of this country. They’re so scared, that they are trying to erase these people and perspectives before this happens, robbing their fellow countrypeople of identities. 

I know that there has got to be an English teacher out there who is aghast at my sudden sharp turns, constant tone shifts, and semicolon abuse; to you I say: I am sorry, but I won’t stop. When I first began these essays, I really just wanted to capture that Lester Bangs vibe of narrative and critique; to begin to introduce people to Nova Arts by starting to pepper this aesthetic and curation into the community, preparing folks for concerts and art events that would both comfort and reach into the unknown. After George Floyd, I didn’t want to be another white voice taking up space, but I did want to magnify Black voices and Black art. Eventually I figured it could be helpful to be a different kind of angry white man; one full of love, trying to redefine how we use any platform that we have to lift up an active anti-racism. Maybe you don’t see the connection right away between Pacific Ocean Blue and the resistance against a different sort of white anger; the deranged and dangerous kind. But in the invisible skeleton of love and action that is endlessly pouring out of my heart, they’re both there; we can revel in the deep beauty and sadness of Dennis Wilson’s songs at the same time we are nursing a stupefied anger at such a limping, sorry world. We can, because I’m doing it already, and I’m nobody, but also a bright shining star; and so are you.

Dennis Wilson - Pacific Ocean Blue

Saturday August 29th 2020, 7pm

Just put it on at your house using a stereo or the internet or whatever you want.

-Eric Gagne, Nova Arts