I Saw Brian Wilson and It Was Great or Re-Discovering the Joy of Going to Shows by Yourself

Many of my most cherished adolescent memories involved going to shows by myself. When I was a teenager I was absolutely OBSESSED with music, particularly Britpop and Hip Hop. AND I had no friends. So going to shows solo was pretty much my only choice. 

But I loved, loved, loved going to those shows. There was nothing like the sad thrill of losing yourself in the sweaty intensity of a mosh pit. I had an unforgettable blast at those shows despite being sober. 

I was COMPLETELY sober. No weed. No beer. No pills. No Molly. No shrooms. No acid. Just a clear, lucid, sober teenaged brain wild with suicidal depression and absolutely mad for music.

I was an unhappy young person, is what I’m saying. I’m not sure if that comes through sufficiently in the multiple books I have written about my lifelong battles with depression and its relationship with music and pop culture fandom, The Big Rewind and You Don’t Know Me But You Don’t Like Me, but it’s a major theme in my life and my literature. 

As I got older my passion for music cooled a little even though I was a professional music critic. Sad teenagers are WAY more passionate about music, particularly new music, than professional music critics. 

I did not go to shows by myself at anymore. I had a group of friends and coworkers I could go to shows with, and because I was the head writer for The A.V. Club I got into shows for free AND collected sizable bribes of both the financial and booger sugar variety. That’s right: the Lilith Fair people paid me a fortune in cash and Columbian gold to promote their festival and I never even wrote about them. EVER!  

I can write about that now because the statute of limitations for flagrant bribery has to have run out, right? 

When I moved to Georgia seven years ago I more or less stopped going to shows by myself because I had stopped going to shows altogether. That’s what happens when you have kids: your time and energy have to go them, and not into tricking Sarah McLachlan into giving you a diamond-studded Rolex by promising her an exclusive interview with The A.V. Club. 

Since then I have mostly just seen acts I’ve written books about or with and/or have a personal relationship with: “Weird Al” Yankovic, Insane Clown Posse and those wacky hippies from Vermont, Phish. 

A little less than a year ago we moved to a suburb with a big amphitheater more or less in our backyard, and I vaguely vowed to get back into going to shows whether I had anyone to go with or not. 

I never pulled the trigger until about two weeks ago, when Brian Wilson was playing with Chicago at a venue a 15 minute Lyft ride from my home. I REALLY wanted to go because I love the man’s music and whole “thing” but I was out of practice when it came to going to shows spontaneously. 

Thankfully this happened to be one of the rare nights when my wife was not seeing clients as a virtual therapist so I was able to make that fuzzy aspiration a reality. I bought lawn tickets cheap, took a fuck ton of drugs and then headed out to the show. 

When I got there I couldn’t help but notice that everyone there was old as fuck and also not on drugs. You know that look that old people have when they’re not fucked up? Everyone there had it except for me. 

As someone whose “scene” is Phish and Insane Clown Posse and that curious Yankovic fellow, that seemed weird to me. You’re really going to see the man who gave the world Smile and sip a Bud Light? 

It was fucking great all the same. Despite the crowd and the hardcore normie vibe of a band made up of dudes in their sixties in Old Navy attire, this was Brian fucking Wilson, which meant that when he played the hits he was literally playing some of the greatest songs ever. 

This was one of the true geniuses of contemporary music. It’s amazing that he was even alive considering his age and history, let alone touring the country. He was unmistakably a diminished figure. The band did a lot of the heavy lifting while he sat at a piano and sang some songs while other musicians performed others. 

That didn’t matter to me. I had an amazing time listening to Brian Wilson and senior citizens who shop at the Gap play songs from Wilson’s 1960s Golden Age. He played the hits primarily but also some less expected numbers like “Darlin’” and “Sail On Sailor.” 

I loved every minute of it. I was glad that I was there to experience it because I don’t know how many more tours Wilson has in him and that was definitely a memorable way to spend a Wednesday evening. 

I figured I would stick around for some of Chicago’s set because I had already paid for the ticket and Chicago is a huge band that, in 1985, taught a nine-year-old Nathan the true nature of love with “You’re the Inspiration.”

They were fucking huge during that magical time when I first started paying attention to music, around 1984 and 1985. It was reasonably engaging! They alternated between horn-fueled 1970s jammy fusion and super synth pop stuff from the 1980s. 

Some of the songs started to sound a little familiar and then I would realize that it was a goddamn number one anthem like “I Want to Know What Love Is.” 

I was having a good time but I had gone there to see Brian Wilson and I wanted to make sure I had a ride home so I ducked out a few songs early and procured transportation home easily. 

It was a great night all around but I did find it strange that the crowd for Chicago was much bigger than the one for Wilson. I knew that they were popular but it seems wrong for them to pull more oldsters than the genius behind The Beach Boys.

No, not Mike Love. Or John Stamos. The OTHER genius, the main one. The guy they make movies about. 

I had such a good time that I resolved to go to another show by myself there as soon as possible. I’m thinking of doing to either Willie Nelson, The Gorrilaz or both. 

I’m glad I went. It brought back all the feelings of escape and exhilaration I felt going to shows solo as a KID plus I was on drugs, which made the experience even better. 

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