PREFACE An Introduction To The Beach Boys Cover Story
TO THE CASUAL OBSERVER, and indeed to the casual music buyer, the album cover, or CD cover if you will, quite possibly holds little pleasure. It is there for one purpose, and one purpose only … to stop the everyday dust and grime of the modern world ruining the simple pleasures of the audio delight. To these unfortunate souls the design work, the intricate layout, the glossy photographic images has little meaning beyond that. And I for one find that sad. I cannot understand that some people, quite often genuinely nice people at that, can find little satisfaction in the 12” by 12” cardboard record sleeve that so neatly houses their expensive purchase. Do they not realise the sweat and labour that probably went into the thought behind the delicate artwork ? The endless hours spent hunched over tiny photographic negatives and the arduous weeks utilised discussing the differing styles of text for the all-too important sleeve notes featured on the rear ? Have these people no soul ? No heart ? Oh no, no no …
Possibly not, and yet ‘tis sad to say, for I too was once one of those misguided, unenlightened wanderers. I too failed to relish the importance of the swirling colour schemes, the production credits and the intricate placing of the dreaded barcode …
If my mind once again reaches back into the swirling mists of my youth, when my shorts were always that little bit too baggy, the girls were simply there to have their pig-tails pulled, and Jimi Hendrix was to be found setting alight to his axe at Monterey … not that I was there you understand, no parent in their own right would allow their six-year old child to parade around the Californian peninsular alongside a few thousand enlightened spirits, each out of their frazzled minds, bathing in the beauty of mid-sixties musicianship. Especially, those landlocked in the eastern counties of a chilly United Kingdom. A shame, but my parents meant well … anyway, pulling my thoughts back on track … where was I ? Oh yes, the wonder years of my youth.
I remember that my first purchases of the musical variety were often influenced by the simplicity of both the marketing and the music itself. The mid-to-late 60’s sounds that were sweeping through the industry were not for me back then. The vibrant inter-changing rhythms and feedback-influences of Hendrix, Clapton, Townshend, Barrett and company meant little to my innocent mind, and even the recent experimental meanderings of those acknowledged tunesmiths, Lennon and McCartney, failed to alter my all-too simplistic visions - whilst the packaging that represented their endless hours of studio toil indicated either too many hours locked in a darkened room ... or an upturned tin of Dulux. To my then-uninitiated way of thinking, the cover that protected my valuable vinyl delights need do no more than to offer me up a picture, an image of those who made the grooves on the record talk to me. I wanted clear pictures, smiling faces, no frills and no fancy colouring, thank you very much. And my first long-playing record offered me exactly that …
The debut album from that madcap, swinging TV sensation The Monkees was simplicity in the highest order, and I loved it. The music was nothing more than good clean fun (and it still is …), and the record sleeve stuck to the same principals. Legend would have us believe that the photograph featured on the album front cover was hastily snapped during a five-minute break in the groups filming schedule for their top-rated comedy TV series (with Mike Nesmith clearly counting off the final few seconds), but boy, that was good enough for me. I could now clearly put a face to all four group members (although thinking about it, with hindsight, I saw them on TV every week anyway …) and I studied that picture hard. I looked at Davy, I looked at Micky, I looked at Peter and, yes, I looked at Mike. I’ve no idea why but I did, and that made me happy.
Try telling that to the fanatical followers of Cream, The Moody Blues, Pink Floyd, The Grateful Dead . They just had weird paintings and fuzzy images to look at.
The first time I listened to a record of The Beach Boys came about a number of years after these early musical wanderings. Following on from my love of The Monkees came brief sojourns with The Partridge Family, The Osmond Brothers (along with their noticeably attractive sister), Mud, The Rubettes … all of whom made a short visit into my small musical world, and whilst many had subsequently been discarded by the next in line my interest in the sleeve designs still held little fascination to me (although I must confess that I was duly impressed with the fold-out cardboard “Rubettes” cap that came inside their deluxe gatefold sleeve). Then, like a bolt of lightning shooting across the sky … it hit me.
MID-1974. ALMOST THREE DECADES back in time. It was probably a June morning. The sun was streaming through the living-room windows, the trees were green, the birds were singing ... and I was on school holidays. Mindlessly passing the days in a joyful concoction of endless fun, fun and yet more fun. Along with a certain sense of youthful exuberance and inquisitiveness.
The day had started off pretty much as yesterday had, and the day before, and even the one before that. Nothing planned. Just the average holiday ideals for a twelve-year-old kid. Breakfast first, maybe have a wash, maybe throw on some jeans and a t-shirt, then hang around in the sunshine until my best friend Jon surfaced. He only lived down the road, it shouldn’t take him too long. Just a quick breakfast, maybe have a wash, decide which tank-top to put on, subject to mood ... Things were that simple back then. Or so it seemed ...
My elder sister had left the house early that morning and so I virtually had the place to myself. We’d had an argument the evening before and she’d smashed my forehead against the coffee table in the living room, hence her hastened exit. She had no wish whatsoever to talk to me ... and that was just fine as far as I was concerned. It was just a brother and sister thing, but the bruised, throbbing lump above my right eye was the remaining evidence. A deep mauve in colour, and deeper still when prodded, although I don’t believe the table sustained any notable damage. Nevertheless, I chose to avoid the self-inflicted additional pain and instead chose to seek revenge by way of drawing over the posters tastelessly blu-tacked to her bedroom wall. There were dozens of them, randomly sprinkled from carpet to ceiling, creating a garish rainbow of 1970’s nausea, and so the actual choice of selected graffiti took a considerable amount of time. After all, revenge was an important matter to me back then. However, once completed, the Bay City Rollers looked noticeably far, far better for it. The moustaches, the beards, the eye patches ...
Anyway, so it was that I found myself browsing around her bedroom early that day. Y’know how it is, inquisitive younger brothers an’ all that. Curiosity, a subliminal need for understanding, nosiness ... call it what you will, but at one stage I started casually flicking through her record collection. For what is was worth. Aimlessly passing over such titles by Guys & Dolls, David Cassidy, The Jackson Five ... purposely bending the corners on her New Seekers covers ...
Hey, wait a minute ... what was this ??
Back in time ...
July 2nd 1917
Murry Gage Wilson born
in Hutchison, KS
September 28th 1917
Audree Neva Korthof born
in Minneaoplis, MN
1922
The Wilson family move to Calfornia
1928
