Smile, Brian Wilson's onstage!

We walked into the Queen E. lobby last night a little late for the show (there was some opening band, and who without the help of serious tranquilizers can sit still for three hours straight?) Brian Wilson was singing Surfer Girl. I recognized the tune right away. It sounded good even out there. And, man, did it keep sounding better as we were ushered to our eighth row, middle section, seating.

Mr. Wilson sat front and center stage, his dominating keyboard stationed before him like some kind of traffic directing terminal. At either ends of the keyboard were teleprompter screens, not facing the audience so that we might sing along, karaoke style, but facing the pop guru himself. He sat demurely, his facial expressions limited to serious and a little more serious. He looked stiff and uncomfortable even in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. I couldn't help wondering if he was constipated (maybe due to some of his meds).

Wilson had an eighteen piece band backing him, and in contrast to him, they seemed, not only at ease, but delighted on stage, dancing and laughing themselves about. There was a horn section, as well as a string section, replete with French horn. Plus, it seemed that every one of the multitalented musicians (many juggled instruments) were also vocal virtuosos. The harmonies were lush and dreamy, evoking the Sixties love and California coastline they were inspired by.

The music was damn good. It didn't matter that Mr. Wilson, pop icon, to pop icons, wagged his arms stiffly in lieu of actual rhythmic movement. It didn't matter that for some reason he needed two tele-prompters to remind himself of music that he penned himself and that has the lyrical complexity of an Archie comic.

Besides, Wilson didn't need the distraction of pelvic thrusts and genital stroking. He was there, centre stage, because despite himself, he can produce great music.

And the audience was crazy for him. An audience that looked mostly like long time fans. People that might have lost their virginity with playing on their eight track. There was also a hipster contingent: asymmetrical hair and tight retro jeans over skinny twenty-five year old asses, people that don't look like they list pop music as one of their preferred genres. They were right there singing along to California Girls and Do You Wanna Dance.

The second part of the evening showcased the finally released Smile. Wilson seemed to relax as he played these tracks. Maybe he found a bathroom during the break. Or maybe he was simply relieved that he has had the chance to put to bed an era of suppressed musical genius and self-imposed misery.