Because congenital hipsters abideth not the earnest, one can’t help but suspect that they and other stunted sorts scorn Wilson for his utter lack of irony.
BRIAN WILSON: WHAT I REALLY WANT FOR CHRISTMAS (Arista)
Oh, the record store bins are quite full/But each Tuesday’s grim and spiteful/So if the newbies are leaving you cold/Spin the old, spin the old, spin the old!
Those who sneer at the mention of Brian Wilson will enjoy yet another opportunity to flaunt their contempt for the Beach Boys’ mastermind with the issuance of his latest CD, What I Really Want for Christmas. Let them. The rest of us, meanwhile, can relish the new holiday disc, which features the same musicians who backed him last year on the (literally) career-defining Smile.
Because congenital hipsters abideth not the earnest, one can’t help but suspect that they and other stunted sorts scorn Wilson for his utter lack of irony. By way of example, fully two-thirds of this 15-track Arista release comprises traditionals, among them “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” “The First Noel,” and “Auld Lang Syne,” all boasting new arrangements by him, all presented with unapologetic pageantry. Elsewhere, Bernie Taupin provides the lyrics to the title track, one of two new compositions here, and Wilson even nervily (yet quite serviceably) revisits “Little Saint Nick,” one of many past collaborations with his perennial nemesis, Mike Love.
Awash with harmonies and melodies, resplendent in its symphonic jubilance, What I Really Want for Christmas closes with an a cappella version of “Silent Night”—almost. “Hi, this is Brian,” Wilson remarks directly following that chestnut. “I’d like to wish all of you and your families a very merry Christmas and a wonderful new year.” After everything preceding that wish, only a pre-haunting Scrooge could doubt the man’s sincerity, and even after all this time, after all the pharmacological and emotional travails, after all the bad cess and worse press, the music still testifies to his genius. A first-rate gift.
If folks only just play these tracks/Mr. Wilson will make ’em feel swell/’Cept the “I hate this holiday” hacks/Who’ll be aurally sent straight to—
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