"Would it Be Nice" if "Everyone Got Stoned." May 16th 1966, Dylan's Blond on Blond and the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds released on the same day
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“Stop, that’s not the sound, that’s not it,” Dylan muttered after a few false starts, the whole account captured by historian Sean Wilentz in his book Bob Dylan in America. “I can’t… ‘ats not… bauoom…it’s, it’s more of a bauoom, bauoom… it’snota, it’snota, it’s not hard rock.” A few more duds later, the band seemed to be inching closer to the master’s vision. Bobby Gregg unleashed something that sounded like a slowed-down Motown drum fill, while Robbie Robertson played sharply, cutting Dylan’s harmonica intro with short icepick-like stabs of his electric guitar. Then, the first line: “Ain’t it just like the night/ To play tricks when you’re trying to be quiet?”
Like the photograph of Dylan that would eventually appear on the new album’s cover—Bob, blurry, wearing a scarf, squinting at the camera like he was trying to decide if anything he was seeing was really real—the song teetered on the brink of the absurd. It wasn’t just the usual Dylan imagery, rich and strange and unexpectedly funny, like those sneezy jelly-faced women who can’t find their knees. It was as if, as music critic Wilfrid Mellers observed, time and consciousness themselves were melting, ordinary people were growing mythological and vice versa, and every bit of certainty just went floating in space, bobbing up and down on that throbbing bass line laid down by the great Joe South.
It was a departure for Dylan, literally as well as figuratively: Sick of the confines of his West Village fiefdom and the hipster aura that illuminated his every step in New York, he decamped to Nashville, where he finished recording “Freeze Out.” It was now called “Visions of Johanna”; together with 13 other songs, it was released, on May 16, 1966, on a double album titled Blonde on Blonde.
As always with Dylan, the exegesis began right away. What was the Voice of His Generation trying to say? Too many things to parse right away, but one was clear above all: Dylan was saying goodbye. “I don’t consider myself outside of anything,” he told an interviewer when the album finally came out, “I just consider myself not around.” His loneliness, his heartbreak are there in every note and every wail. Dylan later praised the album, famously, for “that thin, that wild mercury sound,” but Al Kooper, as perceptive as any of Dylan’s interpreters, was closer to the mark. “Nobody,” he said, “has ever captured the sound of 3 a.m. better than that album. Nobody, not even Sinatra, gets it that good.”
A few days after Dylan first began working on the song, and a few thousand miles to the west, an ad man named Tony Asher answered the telephone. The man on the other end of the line said he was Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys, reminded Asher that they had met a few days earlier in a recording studio where Wilson was trying out some new songs and Asher was recording voice-overs for a commercial, and asked Asher if he’d like to come over and collaborate on some new stuff Wilson was kicking around in his head. Asher laughed it off and tried to guess which of his friends was goofing on him by pretending to be the one man in pop music he admired most, but the voice was unmistakable: It was Wilson, his invitation sincere.
Asher took an indefinite leave of absence from the ad game and went to meet his hero. At first, Wilson played tapes of songs he’d recorded but whose lyrics weren’t to his liking—“Sloop John B,” “You Still Believe in Me,” all almost there but not yet, like vessels waiting for that final gust of wind to push them to shore. Then came the feelings: Wilson would play Asher a record, note its emotional frequency, and say, “Oh, you know, here’s a feel I love.” Or, the lyricist later recalled, he’d talk of subjects that interested him, like the loss of innocence or the souring of childhood into maturity, speaking in the most amorphous terms imaginable. It was as if, as Wilson put it a while later, he was imagining a teenager’s symphony to God, and he needed Asher to pen his gospel.
The result was autobiographical, but it wasn’t Wilson’s autobiography or Asher’s but rather a collective autobiography of everything we all feel when we wake up in the morning and are moved by the mystery of how impossible it is, how inevitable, and how stupidly joyful just to try and reach out to another human being. The eventual album Asher and Wilson made together, as one criticwrote a few years after its release, was great “not only because of the lush, dramatic arrangements”—Wilson, obsessed with Phil Spector, had famously ushered a phalanx of musicians into the studio to build his own Wall of Sound—“but because the strangest of the brothers Wilson has his psyche on the pulse of universal subjectivity.”
Like Dylan, Wilson too was not around: Shortly after he was done recording, he checked himself into a psychiatric hospital and, in many ways, didn’t check out for decades, burdened by his tenuous command of his own mind, his appetite for hallucinogens, and his growing inability to turn the sounds he was hearing in his head into music others could hear and feel as well. But the album he made with Asher was a supernova whose light continues to shine decades later. It was called Pet Sounds, and, like Blonde on Blonde, it was released on May 16, 1966—50 years ago.
For all their differences, both albums are two strands in the same conversation, the one that turned American popular music, for one fleeting moment of one year in the middle 1960s, into a religious movement geared toward capturing all of the spiritual thirsts once slaked in churches and synagogues and other traditional settings and serving them a tall cup of transcendence through bass, guitar, and drums. Like never before or since, rock musicians attempted to hammer away the barriers that stood between them and the Eternal, pushing form as far as it would go and trying, as the Lothario messiah of the moment, Jim Morrison, so neatly put it, to break on through to the other side. Jimi Hendrix, for example, was condensing the entire blues scale into one wicked chord, while Joplin reduced all human expression to the rubble of one primal growl. Wilson needed an orchestra’s worth of instruments to capture his feelings, while John Lennon instructed his studio engineer to route his voice track from the recording console into the studio’s speaker so as to make the Beatle sound “like the Dalai Lama and thousands of Tibetan monks chanting on a mountain top.” Rocky Erickson, releasing his first album with the 13th Floor Elevators, sounded like a feral cat scratching at his neglectful owner, while Dylan, on Blonde on Blonde, sounded like he’d given up on humanity and was reserving his best chants for some higher authority. When Lennon, chatting with a reporter for the Evening Standard in March, predicted that Christianity would vanish and sink because he and his lads were more popular than Jesus, he was decried as a flippant rock star. He wasn’t: Rock ’n’ roll, in 1966, was the new religion, and it reached its peak ecstasy that day in May when its two most shattering testaments to music’s ability to move us were released. You can almost imagine St. Augustine—who famously wrote of hearing a hymn in a church and feeling transformed by the truth seeping into his heart—going to a record store, returning home with the day’s bounty, listening to Dylan and Wilson, and reinventing the notion of Grace.
Rock stars weren’t the only ones to notice that there was something happening here. Theologians did, too. “Because we live through time,” wrote American scholar Don E. Saliers, “music is perhaps our most natural medium for coming to terms with time, and attending to the transcendent elements in making sense of our temporality. Our lives, like music, have pitch, tempo, tone, release, dissonance, harmonic convergence, as we move through times of grief, delight, hope, anger, and joy. In short, music has this deep affinity to our spiritual temperament and desire.” How else to understand lines like Dylan’s “Inside the museums, infinity goes up on trial/ Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while?” How better to approach Wilson’s “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” a writhing and restless prayer for an adulthood of rest and bliss that is done with all the judgments of adolescent angst? These are serious questions, and in America, for one day at least, 50 years ago, they were addressed by the people best equipped to answer them, musicians, on the best format humanity has ever crafted to address matters of love and loss and yearning, the LP.
It was all downhill from there. Music soon suffered devastations that were every bit as theological as they were artistic when its prophets discovered that there is no other side for a human to break on through to, and that a mortal’s quest for transcendence may just as easily end with an overdose in a bathtub at the age of 27. Morrison, Joplin, Hendrix all went that way. Wilson locked himself up with heroin and vodka in the chauffeur’s quarters of his estate, recording mad counterpoints on tapes and shunning all human company. Dylan crashed his Triumph Tiger 100, recovered, convened his band in a basement to record some of the greatest music no one would hear for five decades, and then put on a white-face mask and went on tour, dressing up his solemn hymns as funhouse ditties to the chagrin of many of his fans. All those who had prayed earnestly with their music in 1966 were soon dead or hiding in plain sight.
Which, at least for those of us who weren’t yet alive or weren’t yet adults in 1966, shouldn’t necessarily sound as a dirge. Listening to Blonde on Blonde or Pet Sounds today is like strolling through the ruins of a formerly great civilization: never without a tinge of regret for seeing the great pursuits of our ancestors reduced to polite plaques commemorating dates and names half-forgotten, but also never without a spark of hope that great things can be built, done, and recorded once again. At this moment in our collective history, with America’s greatness but a memory fading into a grotesque slogan, we need all the reminders we can get that we are, at core, a nation of religious pulsations and that when allowed an open heart and a few breaths of inconvenient candor we can still make the most beautiful music in the world.Blond on Blond
Blonde on Blonde is the seventh studio album by American singer-songwriter Bob Dylan, released on May 16, 1966, on Columbia Records. Recording sessions began in New York in October 1965 with numerous backing musicians, including members of Dylan's live backing band, the Hawks. Though sessions continued until January 1966, they yielded only one track that made it onto the final album — "One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)". At producer Bob Johnston's suggestion, Dylan, keyboardist Al Kooper, and guitarist Robbie Robertson moved to the CBS studios in Nashville, Tennessee. These sessions, augmented by some of Nashville's top session musicians, were more fruitful, and in February and March all the remaining songs for the album were recorded.
Blonde on Blonde completed the trilogy of rock albums that Dylan recorded in 1965 and 1966, starting with Bringing It All Back Home and Highway 61 Revisited. Critics often rank Blonde on Blonde as one of the greatest albums of all time. Combining the expertise of Nashville session musicians with a modernist literary sensibility, the album's songs have been described as operating on a grand scale musically, while featuring lyrics one critic called "a unique mixture of the visionary and the colloquial". It was one of the first double albums in rock music.
The album peaked at number nine on the Billboard 200 chart in the US, where it eventually was certified double platinum, and it reached number three in the UK. Blonde on Blonde spawned two singles that were top-twenty hits in the US: "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" and "I Want You". Two additional songs, "Just Like a Woman" and "Visions of Johanna", have been named as among Dylan's greatest compositions and were featured in Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Songs of All Time list.
Pet Sounds
Pet Sounds is the 11th studio album by the American rock band the Beach Boys, released on May 16, 1966. It initially met with a lukewarm critical and commercial response in the United States, peaking at number 10 in the Billboard 200, a significantly lower placement than the band's preceding albums. In the United Kingdom, the album was hailed by its music press and was an immediate commercial success, peaking at number 2 in the UK Top 40 Albums Chart and remaining among the top ten positions for six months. Pet Sounds has subsequently garnered worldwide acclaim from critics and musicians alike, and is widely considered to be one of the most influential albums in music history.
The album was produced and arranged by Brian Wilson, who also wrote and composed almost all of its music. Most of the recording sessions were conducted between January and April 1966, a year after he had quit touring with the Beach Boys in order to focus more attention on writing and recording. Its musical direction ignited tensions within the group. Due to the album's personal, artistic nature, Pet Sounds is sometimes considered a Brian Wilson solo album, repeating the themes and ideas he had introduced with The Beach Boys Today! one year earlier. The album's lead single, "Caroline, No", was issued as Wilson's official solo debut. It was followed by two singles credited to the group: "Wouldn't It Be Nice" (backed with "God Only Knows") and "Sloop John B".
Collaborating with lyricist Tony Asher, Wilson's symphonic arrangements wove elaborate layers of vocal harmonies, coupled with sound effects and unusual instruments such as bicycle bells, buzzing organs,harpsichords, flutes, Electro-Theremin, trains, Hawaiian-sounding string instruments, Coca-Cola cans, and barking dogs, along with the more usual keyboards and guitars. Unified by Wall of Sound-style production techniques, the album comprised Wilson's "pet sounds", consisting mainly of introspective songs like "You Still Believe in Me", about faithfulness, "I Know There's an Answer", a critique of LSDusers, and "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times", an autobiographical statement on social alienation(as well as the first use of a theremin-like instrument on a rock record). Recording was completed on April 13, 1966 with an unprecedented total production cost that exceeded $70,000 ($510,000 today). A follow-up album, Smile, was immediately planned, but left unfinished. In 1997, a "making-of" version ofPet Sounds was supervised by Wilson and released as The Pet Sounds Sessions, containing the album's first true stereo mix.
Pet Sounds is regarded by musicologists as an early concept album that advanced the field of music production through its introduction of non-standard harmonies and timbres, incorporating elements ofpop, jazz, exotica, classical, and the avant-garde. A heralding work of psychedelic rock, the album signaled an aesthetic trend within rock by transforming it from dance music into music that was made for listening to, elevating itself to the level of art rock. Author Bill Martin said that within Pet Sounds, "[The Beach Boys] brought expansions in harmony, instrumentation (and therefore timbre), duration, rhythm, and the use of recording technology. Of these elements, the first and last were the most important in clearing a pathway toward the development of progressive rock."[5] In 2004, Pet Sounds was preserved in the National Recording Registry by theLibrary of Congress for being "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant." One year earlier, Rolling Stone ranked it second on its list of the "500 Greatest Albums of All Time".