They are two maverick visionaries, makers of some of the most enduring pop music of our time and also some of the most misunderstood. They are longtime friends whose working relationship was forged in a blast furnace of creativity and pain in the 1960s, and has now come full circle. In 1995, Van Dyke Parks and Brian Wilson did what they tried and failed to do in 1967: Make a fully realized album together.
The beautifully orchestrated pop melodies of that album, “Orange Crate Art” (Warner Bros.), composed by Parks and sung by Wilson, are nothing less than a vindication, Parks says, for the spectacular failure that was the aborted Beach Boys album “Smile,” which the two composers abandoned 28 years ago.
“We succeeded against all odds to make our friendship mutually dynamic and serving, and escaped the tyranny of past deeds,” the composer says of “Orange Crate Art.”
Parks’ collaborations with Wilson produced such Beach Boys classics as “Heroes and Villains” and “Sail on Sailor.” But the two will forever be associated with the unreleased “Smile,” which has passed into legend as rock’s great “lost masterpiece.” To Parks, it is a personal disaster he discusses only with great reluctance.
“We are both struggling as adults to put childhood behind us, and the less I say about my failures the better,” he says. “I left the project because it was not going well. I resigned before it was necessary to fire me. I didn’t want to test Brian’s allegiances any further than I already had.”
With the 1966 Beach Boys masterpiece “Pet Sounds,” Wilson had begun exploring a more mature, introspective art-song approach, which he hoped to carry a step further with the ambitious “Smile.” But the other Beach Boys, principally singer Mike Love, objected to the more esoteric nature of the new songs, and advocated a return to the band’s sun, fun and surf sound. Wilson, already addled by drug addiction, found himself emotionally torn, and eventually abandoned his ambitions to create a high-concept song cycle.
“It galls me that (`Smile’) is referred to as this unfinished masterpiece,” says Parks, who calls Capitol Records’ plans to release a boxed set of the “Smile” sessions “ill advised.”
“I would consider it a violation of the creative sanctuary, to present intricacies of unfinished songs to the vulgar public gaze. It would only be done for vanity or greed, or, in this case, both. And not my vanity, because (`Smile’) embarrasses me.”
(A Capitol spokeswoman says the “Smile” boxed set, originally planned for release this fall, has been shelved indefinitely.)
Parks says his reunion with Wilson began with an offhand remark he made during a solo performance in 1991. Parks introduced a new song for which he had not yet written lyrics called “Orange Crate Art” by saying he someday hoped to get Wilson to sing it. Seeing his remark reported in a review of the show “urged me on to do just that,” Parks says.
Though the “Orange Crate Art” sessions were difficult to arrange, with Wilson weighed down in litigation involving the Beach Boys, Parks says the two worked quickly and efficiently once they got together.
“In one 2 1/2 hour session, Brian was able to record five separate vocal parts, and we still had time for a Chinese chicken salad,” Parks says with a laugh. “I had the words and tunes, which liberated Brian to sing, instead of him doing his usual job as this musical force. And I think he enjoyed it immensely.”
Wilson sounds in terrific voice, his three-octave range showcased by Parks’ long-lined melodies and framed by lush, orchestral arrangements that evoke California’s sun-splashed geography and also recall an era of pop songwriting when melody rather than rhythm was the guiding force. At the core of the album is a longing for an idealized California that, as Parks says, “is still just barely within reach.”
When it is suggested that the album has a nostalgic tone, its booklet adorned with early 20th Century California art, its music immersed in notions of what California has lost, Parks bristles.
“Nostalgia represents resignation and there is nothing resigned about this record,” he says. “It asks, `Why did we come to California?’ Once it seemed this invincible, impenetrable place. There is an ecology of California, and a lifestyle born of it, that this record wants to defend.
“Since I came here in 1955, it’s dreadful what we’ve done to this land. We’ve lost 90 percent of the wetlands in California, and I know what we’ve done to the valleys and farmers, and it sickens me.”
While Parks isn’t interested in making political statements, “I try not to lose sight of that essential subtlety that suggests the real importance of any song, that somehow might move someone. So I hope there is a rugged idealism about this album, because if it weren’t possible to pursue a better life, I would not write another song.”
– The Grateful Dead’s future is in serious doubt with Jerry Garcia’s death last August, but the music will surely have a life of its own. That much is clear from three exemplary releases that showcase various aspects of the band’s legacy.
“The Music Never Stopped: Roots of the Grateful Dead” (Shanachie) is a 17-song collection that functions as a reverse tribute album: a collection of cover tunes that the Dead pulled out regularly in concert, as performed by the original artists. The disc shows the music and tradition that underpin the group’s sound, a blend of folk, country, blues and early rock ‘n’ roll, from rarities such as Obray Ramsey’s “Rain and Snow” to staples of the rock lexicon such as Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away.” Extensive liner notes detailing the origin of the songs, and cover art by legendary cartoonist R. Crumb round out an excellent collection. Particularly illuminating is the original version of Bonnie Dobson’s apocalyptic folk song, “Morning Dew,” later made famous by the Jeff Beck Group as well as the Dead.
Leaping into the digital future of the band, John Oswald’s “Grayfolded” (Swell/Artifact) is a two-CD deconstruction of the Dead’s most adventurous and open-ended composition, “Dark Star.” Oswald, who coined the term “Plunderphonics” to describe how he manipulates and layers or “folds” recorded music, compresses 25 years of “Dark Star” performances into two epic tapestries. With the enthusiastic participation of the Dead, who opened their archives to him, Oswald was able to create the illusion of the band harmonizing or jamming with itself from different eras. The first disc, “Transitive Axis,” plays like the ultimate concert version of “Dark Star,” whereas the more experimental second disc, “Mirror Ashes,” is accurately described by Oswald as an “ambient dance” record, not all that far removed from the work of the Orb or Aphex Twin.
The band itself is the focus on “Hundred Year Hall” (Grateful Dead Productions), yet another in a long line of live releases, the second multiple-disc set to be officially released from the Dead’s 1972 European tour. Some purists consider this the end of the Dead’s greatest period — founding keyboardist Ron “Pigpen” McKernan would die the next year — and the performances are generally solid, if not revelatory. The first disc is dominated by relatively terse renditions of concert favorites, from “Bertha” to “One More Saturday Night,” while the second is devoted largely to epic reworkings of “Truckin’ ” and “Cryptical Envelopment.”
– Chicago attorney Paul Weiss, one of the spearheads in an ongoing class-action suit against Ticketmaster over concert-ticket fees, will continue working on the case from his new office in the Pacific Northwest. Weiss, who departs the Loop firm of Harvey Walner & Associates in a few days to join Hagens & Berman, antitrust specialists in Seattle, says the Ticketmaster case will resume next month.
