Until Friday night in the sleepy burg of Easton, Pennsylvania, "Pet Sounds Live" was a rock & roll oxymoron. In fact, much of the material from the Beach Boys' 1966 masterwork -- often cited as rock & roll's masterwork -- has never been performed in front of an audience. Conceived in the troubled twenty-three-year-old mind of Brian Wilson , who had recently sworn off the road after suffering an emotional breakdown, Pet Sounds is the quintessential anti-live album: elaborate orchestrations, lush harmonies and intimate, melancholic reflections -- not the sort of stuff you take to Budokan.

For the crowd assembled at Easton's historic State Theater, Wilson and his ten-piece band and performed Pet Sounds the only way anyone could: with a full-scale symphony orchestra. Before they did, the two factions took the stage separately. First, the orchestra played a sweeping thirty-minute piece that drew from Wilson's most memorable (as well as most obscure) melodies. Following the arrangement of longtime Wilson collaborator Van Dyke Parks, the strings, woodwinds, brass and percussion segued from bits of early hits like "Surfer Girl," "In My Room" and "Don't Worry Baby"; through more elaborate concoctions like "California Girls," "Kiss Me Baby" and "Good Vibrations"; through lavish eccentricities like "Heroes and Villains," "Surf's Up" and "Our Prayer," in which the strings replicated the Beach Boys' original a capella harmonies. The gorgeous, epic construction proved that Wilson is not only one of America's finest songwriters but that he has more in common with Gershwin than Simon.

Afterwards, entering the stage to shouts of "We love you, Brian," Wilson and his band -- composed of grizzled vets and early-twentysomething hipsters -- played a career cross section of their own. Opening with a snippet of the Barenaked Ladies' song "Brian Wilson" (featuring the chorus "I'm lying in my bed just like Brian Wilson did"), Wilson, seated center stage at his electric piano, showed good humor throughout. Offering sensitive readings of such reflective songs like "'Til I Die" and "Please Let Me Wonder" and rollicking takes of tracks like "Darlin'" (which he dedicated to his two-year-old daughter) and "Help Me Rhonda," Wilson relished the role of entertainer.

One hour and a half into the proceedings all the musicians took the stage together and Wilson announced that the moment of truth was upon us. After a loud, accidental thud, he quipped, "Well what did you think? That was it." Then, welcomed by a shower of red swirling lights, the State Theater echoed with the gleeful sounds of "Wouldn't It Be Nice," which soon yielded to the moving "You Still Believe In Me" (complete with bicycle bell and horn), a song famous for making Paul McCartney cry. Wilson didn't nail all the vocal parts as he wrote them thirty-five years ago, but Pet Sounds is perhaps most revolutionary for its vulnerability, so in that spirit Wilson's greatest triumph was being willing to try.

Another humorous, endearing touch was Wilson's habit of thanking the audience mid-song, like a consummate Vegas showman. For example "That's Not Me" opened with the lyrics, "I had to prove that I could make it alone now ... thank you! ... but that's not me." Early on, the band (mainly the keyboards) overwhelmed the orchestra, but the horns fought back loudly during "I'm Waiting for the Day," and the instrumental "Let's Go Away for Awhile" featured a perfect blend.

After a slightly sped-up version of sore-thumb sea shanty "Sloop John B," a song Wilson was pressured into including on the album by Capitol Records, Wilson joked, "Now, here's side two of Pet Sounds." With that, the French horn and sleigh bells announced the beginning of "God Only Knows," and Brian filled in admirably for his late brother Carl, whose lead vocal is one of pop music's best. Wilson turned his back to the audience to enjoy "Pet Sounds," the album's other instrumental, which was recharged by extended drum and saxophone solos. With him barely budging and his piano cutting him off just below his shoulders, Wilson looked like a one of those classical music busts, and his compositions backed up the image.

When the final notes of "Caroline No" wafted around the theater, a sampled version of the famous train whistle sounded the end of Pet Sounds, and another rock & roll "never" was put to sleep.

All remained for a fine reading of Pet Sounds' sister song "Good Vibrations" before disassembling. Wilson and band then returned sans orchestra to play more favorites like "I Get Around," "Surfin' U.S.A.," "California Girls" (which Wilson called the Beach Boys' best record), and "Love and Mercy" (a song he promised would make the audience members "feel love in [their] tummy") over the course of another set and two encores. Brian Wilson, the man who once couldn't be dragged on stage, now has a helluva time getting off. And his audiences' tummies are the better for it.

BILL CRANDALL
(June 11, 2000)