The Day Summer Died: Farewell to Brian Wilson, the Pop Architect Who Challenged the Beatles

A sorrowful farewell to the great genius who dared to challenge the Beatles: the legendary Brian Wilson is no longer with us. What a heartbreaking piece of news we've received today. Brian has gone off to metaphysically surf into the great beyond.

Just like when we lost Joey Ramone in 2001, Lou Reed in 2013, and David Bowie in 2016. It hurts just the same. Maybe even more. Correct me if I’m wrong on the dates, but what can’t be corrected is the void he leaves behind. Wilson’s music moved me deeply for years. Pet Sounds remains one of my top three favorite albums of all time.

Just hours ago, it was confirmed that the founder and soul of The Beach Boys had left this world. As the Americans say, he’s gone to the great gig in the sky. And yes, it hurts. Badly. For some reason, I always seem to learn about this kind of news when I’m at home.

I’ve admired Brian for many years. Brian Wilson wasn’t just a great musician—he was a beautiful anomaly, a brilliant loner, someone who once dared to stare the Beatles straight in the eye. Wilson challenged them creatively, and nearly outdid them in a way few ever have.

Who else could do that back then? Maybe Bob Dylan. Maybe Hendrix. Maybe Clapton. But only maybe. Because Brian Wilson didn’t need a duo like Lennon and McCartney. He alone—with his fragile voice and volcanic mind—was enough to face them down. Wilson stepped into the studio and created symphonies from his imagination like no one else.

While half the world was singing about girls, surfing, and beach parties, Brian had other plans. Around 1965, his mind said enough. He suffered a mental breakdown that shook everything. But instead of giving up, he started building something else. Something immense. Wilson gathered the most avant-garde session musicians of the time.

He left behind the shorts, the waves, and the palm trees, and dove into a more introspective, emotional, human universe. At that same moment in the UK, Lennon and McCartney were thinking the same thing: pop had to go somewhere new. It had to be more serious. More ambitious. More artistic. It had to stretch to the furthest creative limits.

Brian understood that before anyone else. He wanted to introduce advanced recording techniques, complex vocal harmonies, profound lyrics. He wanted to make music that not only sounded good—but meant something. And when he brought those ideas to The Beach Boys, they looked at him like he was insane. “What is this, Brian?” they asked. “What kind of music is this? What do these lyrics even mean?”

Pet Sounds should have been a solo album. Because what he did there wasn’t just a record—it was a personal manifesto. A turning point. A cry for help in the form of a pop symphony. An emotional testament wrapped in sweet harmonies. Pet Sounds was beyond pop music. It was new classical music for the youth.

But at the time, both Wilson and his new record were rejected. Critics didn’t get it. The public ignored it. No one wanted to think. No one wanted to grow up. Everyone just wanted to keep dancing on the beach. Wilson's work was way too disruptive. Psychedelic, some would say a few years later.

And there he was, speaking to us about how hard it is to grow up, the pain of becoming an adult, the weight of feeling alone in a crowd. About music as something more than empty entertainment.

Meanwhile, the Beatles were taking notes. And a few months later, they responded with Sgt. Pepper’s. The world embraced them. Pet Sounds, on the other hand, was seen as the rambling of a broken genius. And that destroyed Brian. There was no Lennon, no McCartney, no George Martin who could understand the sounds erupting from his mind.

After Pet Sounds, when Brian began working on SMiLE, his most ambitious project yet, his mind said “enough” again. The creative race with the Beatles had pushed him to the brink. His own band’s lack of understanding isolated him. Another breakdown. Another abyss. And this time, he got lost. He withdrew. He faded. He became a shadow of who he was. The Beatles had defeated him.

It took almost 40 years for Brian to return and finally complete that album and present it to the world. Late, yes. But he did it. The finished version of SMiLE was a triumph—but it was a triumph that arrived out of context. I don’t know if SMiLE would have surpassed Sgt. Pepper’s, but one thing is certain: alongside the Beatles' music, Wilson created something transcendent.

Brian Wilson was so much more than a Beach Boy. He was the pioneer of psychedelic music. The craftsman of experimental pop. The one who dared to break all the rules without asking for permission. Without fear of judgment. There would be no Ramones without Brian Wilson. No Jesus & Mary Chain without Brian Wilson. No Radiohead without Brian Wilson. No Tame Impala, no Mercury Rev, no Animal Collective. That introspective, emotional, imperfect, honest pop? He invented it. He birthed it alone, with a piano, countless doubts, and everything working against him.

It hurts because a piece of summer leaves with him—a ray of sunlight that will never shine the same. Because Brian Wilson wasn’t just music. He was pure emotion. Humanity turned into sound. And now that he’s gone, all we can do is listen to him one more time. Turn up God Only Knows. And let it hold us. The way only he could.

Thank you, Brian.