Brian Wilson

Like it or not, Perugia's now forty-plus-year-old flagship summer festival has long shed its jazz prerogatives, though not its desire to host artists who have made music history: this year's edition proves it, with its centerpiece being one of the most glorious dinosaurs of pop-rock. Riding the wave of renewed youth for Beach Boys songs among the Primavera generation, the success of the well-received biopic "Love And Mercy", and the triumphant celebrations for the fiftieth anniversary of "Pet Sounds", Brian Wilson is enjoying a luxurious third act, continuing the re-emergence from darkness that began at the turn of the millennium with the release of the chimerical "Smile", with which he laid his ghosts to rest once and for all. That said, the precarious psychophysical health of the Californian genius (which played such a large part in turning him, much against his will, into an improbable hero of popular culture, one of the few elder statesmen respected even by punks thanks to his status as an involuntary freak) remains an unknown, and it's one of the reasons that makes every one of his performances unique and precious, including the one I'm about to tell you about: Brian Wilson is the kind of artist you go see live chiefly to find out how he's doing.

With a delay justified by the uncertain weather and the slowness with which the audience settles into their seats, the curtain rises on a small orchestra already arranged on stage, featuring at least three prestigious guests: original Beach Boy Al Jardine, his son Matt, and longtime collaborator Blondie Chaplin. At the center, of course, can only be Him, a weathered sultan perched behind the piano like a guru; and it's Brian himself who opens the evening, greeting the audience and announcing the first song, the programmatic anthem "California Girls" (undermined by some technical problems resolved a couple of songs later), followed by a string of evergreens drawn mostly from the early surf era, from "I Get Around" to "Don't Worry Baby" by way of "Surfer Girl". The atmosphere is informal and very "American", with our man introducing every song and presenting the band members as if he were a casino lounge host. From the start, though, both the artist and the man appear as relaxed in the between-song banter as he is struggling during the performances, his exhausted voice coming and going and throwing off the sound engineers, often requiring the support of Jardine and Chaplin, who sing entire songs to spare the stoic leader too much strain: at times it feels like watching a sort of slicked-up Daniel Johnston, clinging to the keyboard with all his strength to keep a balance that was never really his to begin with, a rock martyr devoted to a suffering as heroic as it is tender. The contrast between Wilson's tragic struggle and the impeccable skill of the musicians backing him creates a moment of great intensity, as if loyal soldiers were closing ranks around their wounded commander: an almost Christ-like centerpiece scene, curiously counterpointed by songs about sun, sea, cars and pretty girls.

After about ten songs, we finally reach the most anticipated course: "And now, we're going to play the 'Pet Sounds' album!", Wilson croaks amid the audience's jubilation, and here comes the supernatural intro of "Wouldn't It Be Nice" to copiously open our tear ducts. The album that changed the shape and substance of auteur pop forever unfolds before us through a skillful combination of vintage timbres and contemporary technology, managing the difficult feat of not letting down one of the most elusive sounds ever achieved, and bringing home an architecture of vocal harmonies that holds up against the original kaleidoscope. Brian's performance keeps wavering, but once again his anguish only makes every note, every line, every gesture monstrously gripping, as if it could always be the last. We also appreciate a gift that shows just how much the author loves his audience: where anyone else would have trimmed such complex melodies to accommodate now-limited vocal abilities, Wilson chooses to perform the songs without any kind of manipulation, not caring about the imperfections and achieving an all the more touching effect. Considering we're talking about a seventy-five-year-old who has been through the wringer, who could easily live off a comfortable pension and instead still roams the world delighting his many fans, his dedication to the cause is nothing short of admirable. And let's be honest: the Beach Boys' songs are so perfect that ruining them is a feat beyond human possibility, and hearing this legendary album live is such a moving experience that it raises one's threshold of indulgence, if only for the subtle self-irony with which Brian mumbles lines like "I feel so broke up, I wanna go home" or "I guess I just wasn't made for these times"…

As "Caroline, No" fades out, emotion mixes with a kind of daze, to the point where it's hard to tell whether you've just heard some rowdy rock'n'roll or a baroque music suite, so dense and three-dimensional is the Spectorian wall of sound erected in the final, pearly half hour. And if a dazed state is the best moment to land the finishing blow, Brian doesn't need to be told twice and pulls out of his hat the song that, more than any other, secured his immortality: "Good Vibrations" lives up to its title and is instantly a sparkling psychedelic party, electrifying the musicians themselves and showing off their skill. In an ever more contagious climax, the circle closes with another truckload of early classics: "Help Me, Rhonda", "Barbara-Ann", "Surfin' USA" and "Fun Fun Fun" are brought back to life while still preserving their unmistakably sixties flavor. Everyone comes down from the stands and rushes to the foot of the stage to dance as if in front of a giant living jukebox, in a wildly colorful limbo that turns history and geography upside down.

Summer, however, doesn't last forever, and this evening too is drawing to a close: the farewell can only come with a "Love and Mercy" as sweet as a goodnight kiss. The song isn't even over before Brian is already on his feet, unsteady and visibly tired, but smiling. A formal collective bow, and the curtain falls once more. No encores or crowd-pleasing theatrics: in the presence of History, the conventions of live performance can be set aside without a second thought.

All things considered, a performance with something for everyone, solid but never stiff, openly nostalgic yet far from mothballed — energetic from start to finish, in fact, with songs fired off one after another in a powerful single act and the band running at full throttle. And Brian, a visionary titan as fragile as a child in a dark room, remains a human being it's hard not to adore.

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