Thank You, Brian Wilson

For the music. All of it. And for the opening G power chord to “I Get Around,” that blasts out of my speakers, and still, since the first time I heard it, blows my mind.  

The day my brother and I brought the “I Get Around” single home, we lifted the lid of my parents’ walnut stereo/drinks/record storage cabinet, centered the .45 on the turntable, raised the tone arm and dropped the needle in a groove. And wow. That first chord and then the acapella vocals. Wow. We picked up the tone arm and placed the needle cartridge back at the beginning of the spinning vinyl. And we did that over and over and over again. And wow, after wow after wow.

My mother finally screamed, “Stop doing that you’re going to break the stereo,” paused from spraying and wiping Lemon Pledge across the dining room table and pleaded, “and you’re driving me crazy.” So, we set the stereo to automatic repeat and listened to “I Get Around” from the G power chord to the final “wah-wah oohs” at the end at least twenty times.

Thank you, Brian Wilson, for making me and all of us Massapequa Park girls believe we owned happy, sunny days and wish we all could be California girls. We tried so hard.

We brushed Summer Blonde and Sun-In into our hair. Shampooed with Lemon Up, didn’t rinse, slathered baby oil and iodine all over our bodies and baked in the June after-school backyard sun to get our ready-for-the beach surfer tans and natural blonde highlights. 

We South Shore of Long Island girls who dreamed of being California girls wore gingham two-pieces and flowered Villager one-pieces. Stuffed six friends into one Corvair convertible and drove top-down to Gilgo, our local surfer beach. Every sunny weekend, we sat on blankets, and if we were lucky, some friend’s surfboard as long as we promised to help her carry it back to her car. Long boards were heavy. 

We East Coast girls who longed to be some West Coast boy’s little surfer girl swooned over guys with bushy blonde haircuts, wearing madras and pastel, button-down Oxford shirts—with socks that matched—chinos and loafers with dimes where pennies were meant to be. For prom, we crossed our fingers for orchid wrist corsages. And after we crowned our king and queen, we drove to the ocean. In our gowns and shoes dyed to match—our dates in their rented tuxes—gangs of us slept safe in the magic of the beach. 

Soon enough, we grew out our not-at-all natural highlights. Filled charity boxes with our tartan kilts, matching crew neck sweaters and knee socks, peter-pan collared blouses and madras shorts, shirts and minidresses. 

We hung on to the Beach Boys forever. 

Thank you, Brian Wilson, for your music. All of it, from the first note to the last. God only knows what I’d be without it.

© copyright 2025 Barbara Worton