Brian Wilson died last Wednesday. He was 82, which is a pretty good age for anyone to reach, especially one as scarred as him. May he rest in peace.

For someone who grew up with a vague image of the Beach Boys as stripe-shirted surfer boys singing songs about girls, cars, and beaches, songs with great harmonies but seemingly not much depth, it took me a while to realize the greatness of Wilson’s artistry — and even longer to understand just how far he pushed the limits of what pop music could be. He was one of the guiding figures who helped move pop beyond the shallow tripe he and others had been churning out to heights of sound that some would argue still haven’t been matched. His masterpiece Pet Sounds pushed the Beatles towards Sgt Pepper and laid down guidelines for the entire industry of where to go. That album is still always ranked near the top in most Greatest of all Time lists.

But Brian wasn’t just a hitmaker. He was a fragile genius wrestling with the limits of his own mind and the pressures of a band and industry that often didn’t understand him. Just as he was pushing the industry forward and working on his magnum opus, SMiLE, he broke. The strain of everything snapped and he was sidelined with mental illness for the next two decades, an illness that was often made worse by a certain exploitive cousin and bandmate. But that is a tale for another day. If you know, you know.

So for this week’s Three Tune Tuesday, hosted by @ablaze, I wanted to skip the “Fun, Fun, Fun” side of things and choose songs that show Wilson’s more introspective, complex, and vulnerable brilliance. These aren’t songs for the beach. These are songs for lying awake at 3 a.m., wondering if your soul is in the wrong decade, or if it belongs anywhere at all.

Let’s go.

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1. I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times
Pet Sounds (1966)

Even surrounded by Pet Sounds’ lush orchestration and emotional openness, this track stands out. Brian sings about feeling out of step with the world — not in a rebellious “you don’t get me” teen way, but in the voice of someone who has genuinely tried, and failed, to belong. The use of the theremin gives it an unearthly edge, as if he’s broadcasting from a place we can’t quite reach. It’s also one of the earliest pop songs to contain such naked, aching self-doubt.

This is the one that made me realize: oh, this guy wasn’t just writing about waves and cars. He was drowning.

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2. Surf’s Up
Surf’s Up (1971, originally composed 1966)

This is the ghost of SMiLE. It’s ornate, mysterious, and possibly one of the greatest unreleased (at the time) songs in pop history. Van Dyke Parks’ lyrics are poetic and impenetrable, but they match the almost Baroque structure of the music — every melodic shift and harmonic swell tells its own kind of story, starting with the title which is a play on words, not referring to surfing at all (which the song isn’t about) but about the band shedding their image.

Wilson called it his proudest achievement, and you can hear why. It’s a beautiful song with a complex messaging. The final wordless section floats upward like a spirit leaving the room.

Carl sang the 1971 release. Presumably Brian wasn’t in any condition to do so. It is wonderful — as Brian often said, Carl had the voice of an angel — but the version the band put out for The SMiLE Sessions released in 2011 which features Brian is my favorite version.

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3. ‘Til I Die
Surf’s Up (1971)

Written during one of Wilson’s darkest depressions, this song somehow makes grief sound beautiful. The lyrics — just a handful of images — evoke helplessness in the face of time and nature: “I’m a rock in a landslide / Rolling over the mountainside.” It’s barely two minutes long, but it captures the heaviness of a lifetime.

For all its sorrow, though, it doesn’t feel hopeless. Just honest.

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Bonus: Good Vibrations (SMiLE version)
Brian Wilson Presents SMiLE (2004)

Yes, we all know “Good Vibrations.” But this version is different. It’s not the 1966 radio hit single with the fade-out chorus and bright polish. This is the SMiLE version: dreamier, fuller, stranger, switching out some of Mike Love’s lyrics for Parks’ updated ones. Built with vintage gear and sung in Wilson’s older, cracked voice, it feels like a man finishing a conversation he started four decades earlier.

There’s something deeply moving about that.

Let me know what your favorite Brian Wilson songs are — or if you’re just now discovering how far his talent really stretched. There’s a lot to revisit.

❦

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