If ever there was an artist so perfectly able to tap into the creativity of his inner child, it was Brian Wilson. In the time leading up to the May 16, 1966 release of the Beach Boys' grand masterpiece Pet Sounds, Wilson—who was only in his early twenties—erupted with a manic wellspring of ideas, visions, and fleeting thoughts.
The songwriter suffered a panic attack while on a flight from Los Angeles to Houston two days before Christmas in 1964, which prompted him to stop touring with his band altogether. Then came the 1965 hit “California Girls,” which reportedly marked the first time Wilson composed a song while under the influence of psychedelics. He took in the Beatles’ then-brand-new album Rubber Soul, which challenged him to rethink his entire method of music making. With an opus in his brain, he headed to the studio. Compelled to break out of the surfing boy band box the Beach Boys were locked inside, Wilson sat out of the group's tour of Japan in January 1966 to create the 36-minute pocket symphony that would shatter every preconceived notion the world had about the band—and even popular music itself.
Considering the lack of formal training Wilson possessed in terms of arrangement and composition, the way he translated his ideas to the album’s orchestral format is nothing short of magic. Though he was awed by Phil Spector’s production on the Ronettes’ 1963 hit "Be My Baby," with Pet Sounds, Wilson didn't construct a wall of sound as much as a sonic sandbox. (Later on, he would have an actual sandbox built in his mansion while he created the Beach Boys' intended follow-up, SMiLE.) And while Pet Sounds did yield its fair share of individual hits, the record was meant to be heard as a themed song cycle. At its root, the album is a story that takes you along the complete arc of emotions that coincide with falling in love with someone—from hope to elation to worry to despair—a far cry from the steady diet of songs about girls, cars, and surfing that had been the band’s primary M.O. since their formation in 1961.
Pet Sounds has cast a net of seemingly infinite magnitude these last 50 years, informing the worlds of rock, hip-hop, jazz, electronic, experimental, punk, pop, and just about anything else you can imagine in between. The wide swath of artists assembled for this feature represent but a modicum of the album’s vast measure of influence. Its scope transcends just about all lines of age, race, and gender. Its impact continues to broaden with each passing generation.
Brian Wilson directs from the studio control room while recording Pet Sounds in 1966 in Los Angeles. Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images.
Sean Ono Lennon
I’m embarrassed to say that—perhaps due to a lack of sophistication on my part, or the misheard echoes of a supposed rivalry between my father’s group and the Beach Boys—I was late to understand the music of Brian Wilson. It wasn’t until after puberty, after discovering Hendrix, after listening to Miles Davis, and after my own feeble attempts at songwriting that my ears opened up and I suddenly found my universe transformed by Pet Sounds.
I was 21 years old and had just about finished recording my first album, Into the Sun, at Sear Sound in New York. At the time, my only professional gig had been playing bass in Cibo Matto, and I was playing some of my tracks for their manager, and I remember him saying, “This kind of sounds like a Brian Wilson record.” Slightly offended, I replied cynically: “surf music?” After some quiet gasping, I believe it was the engineer Tom Schick who told me to be quiet. And suddenly I found myself listening to “God Only Knows.”
Brian once described how drinking water after his first hash joint felt like his “first glass of water,” and I felt the same way when listening to “God Only Knows” at that moment. This was the first time I’d ever heard a song. It was the beginning of my true musical education. No longer would I be self-taught; from now on I would be attending a graduate course at the Brian Wilson School of Music.
I ravenously consumed each song on the album, overcome by a sort of madness. I couldn’t stop listening to “God Only Knows” until I knew every single note of every instrument and vocal. I’d never played a major 6 or a minor major 7; I’d heard those colors before, but Pet Sounds made me see them and desire them, and to this day I hunger for them; for the intricacies of counterpoint, of suspending chords by avoiding the root note on the bass, and for the interlocking molecular geometry of well-composed harmonies. Brian Wilson is my Bach.
I could’ve learned these things from the Beatles perhaps, but that music was so primordial and fundamental to me—it had always been there, like the sun or the moon. Of course, after I returned to Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s armed with the X-ray goggles I’d been given while making my way through Pet Sounds, I suddenly heard that music for the first time as well. I can’t imagine a greater gift. Nothing has ever made me feel more connected to the universe and ultimately to the work of my father. For this, I have Mr. Wilson to thank.
Air’s Jean-Benoît Dunckel
In French, “pet” doesn't mean an animal, it means “fart.” So when I first read this album’s title, I thought it was really funny. Then I noticed that the music sounded much more harmonious than the kind of sounds that the French word referred to; I don’t know any other pop album that’s as sophisticated as Pet Sounds.
Yo La Tengo’s Ira Kaplan
I didn’t really like Pet Sounds when I first heard it. I was reading a lot about music at the time, so I knew I was getting to hear this legendary record. But I didn’t get it at first. It’s a very subtle record. But I just kept listening. And then one night I pulled it out and all the tumblers clicked into place and my appreciation for it was unlocked.
Wilson and his dog in Los Angeles circa 1965. Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images.
Matmos’ Drew Daniel
Everybody loves Pet Sounds. It is one of those records that is not just about its sounds and songs but also the total set of meanings we have attached to it as we listen, play and re-play it, cover it, customize it, sling it onto mixtapes and playlists, and embroider it with experiences over time. Pet Sounds has scored millions of private movies, intimate encounters, and even more close calls and near misses looked back upon with wistful regret. I have seen more than one student film that used “God Only Knows” as a trampoline on which to bounce back into private memories, and while I’m a sucker for this record like everyone else, I also feel that weird protective thing, thinking, Don’t use it in your art, it’s too powerful for that. It’s that kind of canonical album.
We have also learned that the beauty and sweetness of Pet Sounds is not as simple as it looks. The gambit of innocence is directly engaged in the cover image, in which we are invited to see adorable looking animals with soft fur, and adorable looking Beach Boys with shiny, clean hair as roughly analogous inhabitants of a peaceable, stoned kingdom. But we also know that, given the troubled back story of Brian Wilson’s life, such visions of innocence are always in dialogue with and threatened by experience, pain, limitations, and negativity—which made the appearance of Pet Sounds at a key moment in Patricia Lockwood’s long, brilliant poem “Rape Joke” so startling when I read it a few years ago.
As its title makes plain, “Rape Joke” is a harrowing poem about the question of whether we can gain control over trauma through humor, and about whether art is strong enough to provide a framework around shattering moments, and also about the way that abusers and rapists can, horrifically, attempt to close over the facts of their actions with token gestures of care and concern. It was, finally, the artwork strong enough to engage Pet Sounds, to incorporate it and not to be overwhelmed by it. Now, for me, the two artworks operate in a force field in which they necessarily include each other; there is no Pet Sounds without “Rape Joke” anymore, and no “Rape Joke” without Pet Sounds. I am not trying to ruin anyone’s favorite album, but I am being honest about the way that art changes over time as later works—when they are strong enough—start to talk back to them. Read it and weep.
“Nothing has ever made me feel more connected to the universe and ultimately to the work of my father. For this, I have Mr. Wilson to thank.”
—Sean Ono Lennon on Pet Sounds
Wilson circa 1968. Photo by Earl Leaf/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images.
Cullen Omori
Of all my favorite "psychedelic" records by ’60s juggernauts, Pet Sounds probably comes last for me, after the Rolling Stones’ Their Satanic Majesties Request and Sgt. Pepper’s. However, I do give Pet Sounds kudos for being the first to veer off the boy-band path and dig deep—real, real deep. The album offered a glimpse of how the studio, a place of more constraints than opportunities in the ’60s, could be used as an instrument. But the Beach Boys never really resonated with me—though the Brian Wilson movie they just made with John Cusack and the guy with the big schlong from The Girl Next Door was all right. I love the story about Brian Wilson pulling over to the side of the road to cry after hearing "Be My Baby" on the radio; I can relate to that story way more than Pet Sounds.
Ronnie Spector
I remember seeing Brian at Gold Star Studios when I was recording "Be My Baby"—he was so excited, peeking through the glass. Later, he told me he wrote "Don’t Worry Baby" for me as a follow-up to that song. I loved how he arranged harmonies; we both loved the vocal groups of the ’50s. I got a chance to sing with Brian when we did my song "I Can Hear Music,” and he did this incredible harmony that blew me away—there is no one else who could have come up with that part. The early to mid ’60s had a more simple approach to life and romance, and that’s what I miss about music now. Brian always had an innocence about his music, so pure. That's Brian.
Wilson works on a song in 1964. Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images.
Wild Nothing’s Jack Tatum
My parents had a big record collection, but they didn’t have any Beach Boys records. My dad was more into stuff like the Byrds and Buffalo Springfield, so in his mind the Beach Boys were just fluff. So I always had that idea in my mind that they weren’t worth listening to. And then high school comes around and somebody told me I should listen to Pet Sounds, and I loved it. I immediately went to my dad and said, “Did you even listen to Pet Sounds?” He was all like, “Well, yeah, it’s OK.” There’s a certain innocence to the album that is relatable. It’s like the first emo record.
Open Mike Eagle
I came to Pet Sounds when I used to write an online music column. I had fallen in love with the song “Cherish” by the Association and wrote that it was like a Beach Boys song but that it couldn’t be a Beach Boys song because they weren’t capable of doing anything that good. You could imagine the barrage of hate mail I got saying that I had obviously not heard Pet Sounds—and indeed I hadn’t. But then I listened to it and fell all the way in love. I had heard “Caroline No” years before, when it was covered by They Might Be Giants on their EP Indestructible Object. It was my favorite song on that record, and I had no idea it was a cover; I’ve made numerous beats out of both versions. I had also loved Frank Black's cover of “Hang on to Your Ego” and didn’t know that was a cover at the time either. I wrote a song about the financial crisis of 2008 over a beat that sampled “I Know There's an Answer.” Having become more familiar with the album and its production, I have heard a lot of those same found-sound techniques used by Timbaland, Dilla, and many more.
Chairlift’s Patrick Wimberly
I remember listening to Pet Sounds when I was about 7 years old—I assume it had something to do with my childhood love of the song "Kokomo." I think "Kokomo" brought the Beach Boys to a lot of people in my generation—that and their appearance on an episode of “Full House.” I liked the album then, but it wasn't until much later that I realized the depth of its artistry.
In 2012, when I married my wife, "God Only Knows" played during our first dance. It was performed by a group of my closest friends and musicians, and it was a beautiful moment in my life. The lyrics in this song are still some of my favorite lyrics ever written. To me, it is not just about falling in love, it is about being endlessly in love.
Talking Heads’ Tina Weymouth
When [Talking Heads] were signed to Sire, we were immediately under the wing of Warner Bros., which was the label of the Beach Boys at the time. And it helped us a lot that they were so in love with the Beach Boys, because there were difficulties with Brian Wilson, and his need for great care in regards to his condition—which was being a very sensitive artist—made it so that we were allowed to do what we needed to do as opposed to being pushed into a preconceived mold. I don’t think Talking Heads would’ve had the longevity we did if the label didn't have this wonderful view towards artists. That was the great thing about the music industry back then: There was room for everybody, and a few artists would sell a lot of records to enable those of us who did not sell in quantity to do our thing.
Wilson considers his options in the studio while recording Pet Sounds in 1966. Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images.
Sunflower Bean’s Julia Cumming
I remember walking to school and listening to "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times" over and over again and feeling like, Oh my god, this song is for me. It's for every self-deprecating, overly sensitive, emotional kid who is feeling lonely and just wants to figure it out. I mean, who hasn't been there? In another way, I feel like I wasn't made for these times because I can't figure out how turn on the TV in my own home and I play rock music in 2016.
Daedelus
I'm sure others can speak elegantly about the songcraft and extravagant orchestrations that produced arguably the most auteur album ever recorded. But I'd just focus on the Tannerin, which appears on "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times" (and more prominently on "Good Vibrations"). It’s a Theremin-like instrument that was used on sci-fi soundtracks, but completely from outer-space in pop music. The vision of Brian Wilson! The gumption even. It's like he plucked the future from 1966 and invented G-funk and acid house. I'm sure it must have sounded crazy on the radio dial, it certainly did for me.
Car Seat Headrest’s Will Toledo
There’s never been a perfect Beach Boys album; Brian Wilson was not that consistent of a writer. But Pet Sounds is an interesting piece because it’s the one that strives the most to achieve this technical perfection, which isn’t necessarily my bag. But it made sense for Wilson to do it, because he was trying to blend this high art with pop music—the struggle is to find complex ways to say something that is very simple. “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” is built around a very simple chord progression, but all these variations keep getting added in and changing everything. He was trying to figure out how much the general public was willing to accept as far as the complexities of a pop song.
“Pet Sounds is like the first emo record.”
—Wild Nothing’s Jack Tatum
Wilson circa 1966. Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images.
Ezra Furman
When listening to Pet Sounds, it's hard to think about anything but the total gorgeousness of the music and all the insanely deep emotions it provokes in me—which is why I never felt comfortable saying it had any influence on me. It's so advanced that I find it rather embarrassing when the average mostly-amateur indie musician claims to be influenced by Pet Sounds. Really? It's like the Ramones claiming to be influenced by Bach. I get that you listened to the album and loved it, but come on. You're not operating on anything close to that level.
Tacocat’s Emily Nokes
I imagined the lyrics on Pet Sounds were literal representations of how Brian Wilson felt in real life—he was sometimes in love, sometimes conflicted, sometimes wanted to go home, sometimes whining about Caroline’s hair. The subtle panic in his voice and the increasing drum intensity near the end of “I’m Waiting for the Day” felt far more interesting than songs about taking your favorite car to your favorite beach with your favorite girl and your favorite surfboard.
Mogwai’s Stuart Braithwaite
Along with Forever Changes and Are You Experienced?, Pet Sounds showed me that the late ’60s had been a period when music went on a rapid journey from pop to real invention, and the level of studio imagination is what I've mostly taken from this record. The possibilities displayed through multiple overdubbing were definitely an influence on the way Mogwai record our music, and Pet Sounds was one of the first places I heard it done.
Shilpa Ray
Whenever I listened to Pet Sounds, I dreamt of my great escape to Southern California, where loss, loneliness, change, and depression could be felt and expressed in Technicolor. I could envision Tommy Morgan’s bass harmonica as the warm blasts of the Santa Ana winds, Wilson’s organ as the big golden sun, and Carol Kaye’s basslines as the playful strut of beautiful beach bunnies dotting the coastline against the vast Pacific Ocean.
That said, this is not the SoCal of Black Flag, N.W.A, or Charles Manson. There’s no violence here, no gang or race wars, and no one dies in the end. Pet Sounds is the SoCal of a heavy, hazy, medicated ’60s love, for when you feel so broke up, you wanna go home. At the last fade, when you hear the train leaving, all the ear candy and innocence slowly disappears. Then the dog starts to bark and the anesthesia completely wears off. The movie is over, the dream is over, and it is time again for the browns and greys, the bills and work, the antagonistic exes and shit-covered snow. I know there’s no reality without grit, ugliness, or hate, but I still spin Pet Sounds from time to time for its gentle, meticulous way of mixing pain with palm trees to help the medicine go down.
Larkin Grimm
It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy just thinking about that music; I can sing the whole album from beginning to end from memory. I love "Caroline No" in particular, even if it's a little anti-feminist; just the idea that a woman could be ruined, that innocence and naivety are the most attractive qualities, that cutting her hair short and getting practical and real and wise would render her unlovable. But I love that song anyway.
PC Worship
It took me years to breach Pet Sounds’ exhaustive stature and cultural identity and really appreciate it beyond the soundtrack/FM radio monolith it became. I remember finally "getting it" in my friend's Ford Explorer in high school, while we drove around getting high in the suburbs, being taken aback that this music had been sitting in front of us this whole time, that there was this dark unfolding complexity within these short, recognizable pop songs that we had always been exposed to. It really is a strange album.
Wilson holds up a mirror to the Beach Boys, from left: Mike Love, Al Jardine, Carl Wilson, Bruce Johnston, and Dennis Wilson. Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images.
Talking Heads’ Chris Frantz
When I first heard “Sloop John B,” I thought it was a Beach Boys song, but it’s actually a Bahamian folk song. And one of my friends in the Bahamas said to me, “Oh, the Sloop John B was my grandfather’s boat.” It was actually a mail boat that would go across the islands, it’s how they get their supplies and so forth. The Sloop John B often didn’t work very well, but they could never stop to do maintenance because they were under pressure to deliver the goods. The thing was always breaking down on them. That’s where it comes from.
Mr. Lif
Pet Sounds’ relevance in my life has actually grown with time, because the themes Wilson touches upon are so heartfelt and real that one inevitably finds a route to his wisdom as we suffer life's bumps and bruises. His ability to be cognizant of the starry-eyed beauty of a new relationship while knowing that it is often merely a phase that will eventually be weathered by the realities of our complex selves is a trait to be admired and even coveted by the weary and jaded.
Cibo Matto’s Yuka Honda
Brian Wilson’s chord progressions tell the most heartbreaking yet beautiful and silently intense story of the duality of life, all from a place of hope. The six bar intro of “Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)” is worth a thousand books. I consider it to be one of the greatest chord changes ever written.
Deftones’ Stephen Carpenter
What I love most about Pet Sounds is how much it influenced Mr. Bungle’s California record. I feel like it’s the same album, ultimately—I mean, that’s the true California sound right there. I just love Mr. Bungle and how they can go from beauty to straight-bust-your-face-open. I can only imagine what the Beach Boys would have done if they had some really high-gain amps and just crushed you.
Primal Scream’s Bobby Gillespie
Screamadelica was greatly influenced by Pet Sounds. It’s all over that album, in those minor chords, that plaintive sense of melody, and the gentleness as well; the way he used percussion like a soft drum machine. We never had a drummer as good as Hal Blaine from the Wrecking Crew, but we could start sampling shit. After we discovered Pet Sounds, along with keyboards and drum loops, our songs became a lot softer.
Al Jardine and Wilson lay down vocals for Pet Sounds at Western Recorders studios in the spring of 1966. Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images.
The Church’s Steve Kilbey
It was 1981 and the Church had just had our first hit single. It was a balmy night and we were staying in a lovely apartment overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We smoked some weed, and our drummer stuck in a cassette tape of Pet Sounds, which I had never heard before. Suddenly, the warm night, gentle weed, palm trees, twinkling stars, and the smell of chlorine from the swimming pool all coalesced perfectly with this most divine and delicate music that was pumping off an old-fashioned ghetto blaster. How I marveled at those clever, quasi-classical arrangements and those complex vocal harmonies, the music perfectly suggesting love and summer nights and sweet, sweet romance. Then the most beautiful track, “Let’s Go Away for a While,” came on—it was the sound of longing and future days.
Tortoise’s Jeff Parker
The album is almost futuristic. It sounds like it’s from a different world. I aspire to make music as beautifully arranged as that. Even just the instrumental interlude from “I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times”— with the Tannerin and a different bassline in a different key going underneath—it’s some crazy stuff, like Burt Bacharach on acid.
Washed Out’s Ernest Greene
I grew up hearing the big singles from Pet Sounds on the oldies station my mom would listen to constantly but I remember the songs feeling a bit different. They were catchy, but there was something peculiar that was just under the surface. I realize now that that peculiarity was the sheer complexity in songwriting and arrangement—that there were so many instruments and harmonies present that my young ears weren’t used to hearing. I feel like with each listen I’m growing to appreciate it more and more. That is perhaps the biggest compliment I can give Pet Sounds—that after so many years of listening, I’m still learning new things from it.