Yet his commitment to communicating his feelings, which were often downcast but ever hopeful, overcame has limitations. Still, in order to enjoy this tribute you'll need to come to grips with the fact that Wilson's singing abilities were limited and his mood was bluer than the ocean.
The only Beach Boy who personified the Beach Boy image of sun, surfing, girls, cars and sex (the screaming at Beach Boy concerts was all aimed at Dennis) was the least talented in the conventional sense of the word, yet the artistry that coursed through the Wilson family's genes was present in Dennis who, because of his limited musical training and his troubled temperament, found expression in its rawest, most pure form, as this set demonstrates.
Listen to 'Fairwell My Friend' and you'll know. It's a song dedicated to a friend's father, who had been a member of the fragile singer's support system.
There wouldn't be a Dennis Wilson solo album (the first Beach Boy solo album, released in September of 1977 on James William Guercio's Caribou Records, distributed by Columbia) without the support of his many friends, who participated and contributed not out of pity or sympathy, but because they genuinely believed in his talents. They also knew that without their support there wouldn't be a Dennis solo album: he was simply too broken.
Now this record review will become personal: I met Dennis Wilson once, but before getting to that, looking through the credits I found many familiar names of people I'd not thought about in decades.
Among the guitarists was Ed Tuleja. He had the first Telecaster I'd ever seen live. It was at Cornell in the basement of University Halls #3 my freshman year, 1964. Tuleja was in a group called Oz and the Ends fronted by another freshman, Ozzie Ahlers. The first song I heard them rehearse was called '(Everybody learn to) Master the Bate.' In fact, I recorded it (in stereo) but the damn tape disappeared from my apartment around 1977. I wish I still had it!
I was the first floor's resident audio dweeb and lived across the hall from the group's bassist Peter Truitt, who asked me to help them with their P.A.. They had meager resources and couldn't afford a decent horn-based speaker system. All they could afford was a really crappy Radio Shack dynamic driver-based system that barely cut the vocals through the instrumental din. I felt I'd let them down, but that was all they could afford.
Anyway, Ozzie and Ed were really good players, even back then at 17 or 18, so I'm not surprised they both stayed in music. My most vivid memory of Ed Tuleja was walking down the stairs at the student union, Willard Straight Hall, into the Ivy Room, which at the time was the cafeteria and lunch-time hangout for the entire campus, and hearing for the very first time, The Byrds' version of 'Turn, Turn, Turn.' Both of us melted on the spot as the tune played on the jukebox, barely audible above the noisy cafeteria din. Then we parted and went to our assigned segregated tables in the rigid fraternity hierarchy.
Keyboardist Ron Altbach also was at Cornell and hung around the Oz and the Ends rehearsals. He plays accordion on this Wilson album and his name can be found on other Wilson family projects.
Oh, another familiar name was the late arranger Jimmie Haskell's. Haskell wrote and arranged all of the musical links on the animated film 'Animalypics' that I'd co-written and on which I did voices along with Gilda Radner, Billy Crystal and Harry Shearer.
So how did I meet Dennis Wilson? Well, that's a long, somewhat sordid and embarrassing story that puts no one in a good light, but here goes: I had this troubled friend I'd met at a poker game in L.A. in the early '80s attended by, among others, the rock critic and cultural commentator Richard Meltzer, who I'd met years before in New York.
Meltzer memorably wrote an autobiography, the first sentence of which was 'I wouldn't fuck my mother with a ten foot pole.' Meltzer kept a parrot in his New York apartment that liked to perch on the fireplace mantle. The parrot would just sit there and of course left droppings. The droppings formed a massive (and disgusting!) stalactite that clung to the side of the fireplace, eventually making its way onto the hearth.
Rather than cleaning it up, Meltzer chose to put newspaper paper down on the hearth. Eventually, the guano overflowed onto the wood floor. Meltzer spread more newspaper on the floor to catch the growing guano flow. Why bring up the parrot? Why not? It's not something you see every day and Meltzer wasn't someone you met every day either.
Flash forward a few years to the poker party and this guy I'd never met needed a ride home to Santa Monica, which was near Venice, where I lived. We got back to his place and after looking through his record collection I realized we'd end up friends, which we did, despite his many eccentricities and oddities that I won't go into here.
One night he killed himself in his car (a real Mini-Cooper, of which he had two) in the parking lot at Will
Rogers State Park by putting the barrel of a 357 Magnum in his mouth and pulling the trigger—not before injecting his two dogs with poison.