Earmageddon: FaMiLy-Geddon

Culture writers often point to the 1999 premiere of The Sopranos as the start of Peak TV. It makes sense, in that it singlehandedly boosted HBO’s subscriptions, thereby paving the way for the reason we all pay too much for channels we rarely watch. 

But it wasn’t the first great piece of original programming by the network. That honor belongs to The Larry Sanders Show (I’m not counting Kids in the Hall because that was a co-production with the CBC). Prior to that, HBO’s best series consisted of shows that were slightly too edgy for the networks, like Tales From the Crypt (horror) or Dream On (a sitcom, but with boobs!).

Larry Sanders, on the other hand, was true genius, particularly in the dynamic between Larry and Hank Kingsley. The traits that made them so much fun to watch during the titular fictional late-night show – Larry delivering the zingers while Hank played the affable foil, always a beat or two behind – became toxic when the cameras were off. But at the same time, they needed each other, even though neither would admit it.

Thirteen years ago, the following thought came to me: Mike Love is the Hank Kingsley of rock.

According to the Facebook thread when I posted it there, it was prompted by a tweet from Jason Isbell where he said, “I wonder if Mike Love actually thinks he matters as much as Brian Wilson. I bet he does." When I saw that, I flashed back to the episode from Larry Sanders’ first season where Dana Carvey is guest-hosting, and Hank tells him that if he gets stuck with a guest, all Carvey has to do is shoot Hank a glance and he’ll be ready to bail him out. 

“That’s how I carry half of the show,” Hank adds, in total seriousness.

The same year that The Larry Sanders Show premiered, Mike Love sued Brian Wilson for co-writing credit on 35 songs for which Love wrote the lyrics. A jury ruled in Love’s favor and awarded him $13 million. 

Anybody reading this blog should know enough about the Beach Boys’ history that I don’t need to rehash all of Mike Love’s offenses, from his overall assholishness to siding with Murry over Brian to his penchant for lawsuits to his retrograde political views. An entire blog, not just a post, could be devoted to those. 

But what Love has never realized (or at least publicly acknowledged) was simply how fucking lucky he was to have been related to the Wilson brothers. Although they’re not embarrassing, his lead vocals and lyrics are unquestionably the weakest parts of the Beach Boys songs, yet he’s profited handsomely and, through attrition and death, has become the owner of the band’s name and, therefore, its legacy. 

Sammy Hagar wishes he’d been blessed with that proximity to greatness. 

The other Kingsley/Love parallel I thought of was Love’s infamous drunken rant when the Beach Boys were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

That brought to mind the final scene of the last episode, where Hank, angry that Larry had prevented him from delivering a pandering, disingenuous speech on what his time on the show meant to him, unleashes years of pent-up anger at Larry and Artie. Scroll to 23:19.

Can’t you hear Mike Love reacting similarly after all those years of constantly hearing what a genius Brian is? Particularly during the “Kokomo” era?

Sidenote: Of all the actors whose actions towards women led to an early retirement, none bothered me as much as Jeffrey Tambor. His performance in that scene alone is a career that some actors would kill for. 

One of the recurring stories throughout Larry Sanders’ run was Hank’s numerous unsuccessful attempts to prove that he was more than the sidekick/butt-of-the-joke. Think of the Look Around Cafe (a rotating restaurant on the ground floor with no view) or slapping his name on any piece of shit if the price was right (the Hankerciser!). Or his attempt at a nightclub act.

Now imagine Mike Love bopping around onstage well into old age.  

That lack of self-awareness and willingness to surrender integrity in the face of a good paycheck is the sweet spot of the Mike Love/Hank Kingsley analogy, and leads us to the reason for this post. Jeff, as payback for being forced to finally listen to all 64 minutes of Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music, texted me a link to Mike Love, Bruce Johnston and David Marks of the Beach Boys Salute NASCAR. 

When it arrived, I was in the final stages of a quarterly project I’d been running for the past nine months, knowing that this would be its last iteration as we moved to something new and bigger. I’d spent way too many hours rewriting all of one intern’s obviously ChatGPT-generated content (only one sentence made it into the final version), and some clients were dragging their heels on the things they needed to send. I was exhausted and exasperated. 

On top of that, it was my birthday, so Jeff’s “gift” is technically the worst birthday present I’ve ever received. 

A day later, on our Discord for paying subscribers to this increasingly infrequently updated site, we were mocking Mike Love for his induction into the Songwriters Hall of Fame (a lifetime achievement award for those lyrics?) when the world received news that Brian Wilson had died. 

To paraphrase Jennifer Barkley on Parks and Recreation, "I'm not saying that Jeff Giles killed Brian Wilson, per se. I just think his actions raise some questions, like, 'Did he kill Brian Wilson?'"

I’d never heard of this before, but apparently it came out in 1998 and was sold exclusively at Union 76, which was NASCAR’s official fuel at the time. That year was also the 50th anniversary of NASCAR, which was experiencing one of its occasional periods where it went from a large niche sport to mainstream. This was largely due to the emergence of Jeff Gordon, whose impossibly youthful handsomeness and brightly colored car created a natural rivalry with “The Intimidator,” Dale Earnhardt, both on the track and among their fans. 

Gordon eventually won that battle with the help of a wall.

So it makes sense that NASCAR would look to celebrate/cash in on its milestone with a branded CD/cassette à la ESPN’s Jock Jams series or Jenny McCarthy’s Surfin’ Surfari. Make it an impulse buy at Union 76 stations and watch the investment quickly recoup. We cut to NASCAR’s C-Suite, already in progress:

50-Something Southern White Guy 1: It’s gotta be all car songs.

A Room Full of 50-Something Southern White Guys: Great idea, boss!

50-Something Southern White Guy 1: And who did the best car songs?

A Room Full of 50-Something Southern White Guys: The Beach Boys!

50-Something Southern White Guy 1: So that’s what we’ll do, put out a compilation of the Beach Boys’ best car songs. 

50-Something Southern White Guy 2: But…

50-Something Southern White Guy 1 (glaring): What is it this time, Steve?

Steve: We don’t want to blow our budget on this, J.R. We don’t want Union 76 to get too upset.

50-Something Southern White Guy 3: Those songs can’t cost too much to license. Have you seen the commercials they’re used in?

Steve: True, but we can spend even less.

J.R.: How? 

Steve: What if we get one of them to re-record those songs as close to the original as possible? That lead singer guy, he’s a shameless whore and can’t be too expensive.

J.R.: Brilliant! C’mere you!*

(Steve gets up and walks to J.R., who lovingly gives him a noogie)

And that’s how we wound up with Mike Love, Bruce Johnston and David Marks of the Beach Boys Salute NASCAR. Although you might not realize that from the cover, which features “BEACH BOYS” in big letters on a surfboard and the names of the unindicted co-conspirators in much smaller print above it. But a banner reads “Special Collector’s Edition,” an enticement to grab it along with jerky sticks if ever one existed, as if it was a rare Beach Boys album. The rest of the artwork is a not-at-all Photoshopped snapshot of the three in front of a Union 76 car with a beach sunset in the background. 

Closer inspection reveals that the water is in front of the landscape, which would mean that, if this had been taken in real life, Love, Johnston, Marks and the car would be in the ocean. 

God, I wish they were in the ocean.

“OK,” I thought. “It’s only 24 minutes and a bunch of perfectly good songs. How horrible can it be?” I got the answer within seconds of starting it. 

“Hi, this is Mike Love of the Beach Boys,” Love says over a backing track of “Good Vibrations.”As you’ve probably figured out by now, cool cars and hot fun at the beach have always been close to my heart.” 

I call bullshit. Mike Love doesn’t have a heart. But it gets worse. 

Johnston pops up, declaring himself to be a “beach lover, NASCAR lover, and the fuel that fuels me from high school all the way into my family life, 76.” Then Love returns with “This CD is brought to you by 76, the official fuel of NASCAR, and I’m hopin’ these songs will bring you as many good vibrations as a checkered flag at Daytona Beach.”

Everybody who could have prevented copy that awful from being released deserves to be in the Hague. 

Based on the drips of information available about this record, the intro is the extent of Johnston’s involvement. And if it wasn’t, who would know? Can anybody pick his voice out of a police lineup? It seems he only exists to be Mike’s flunky. Hell, Blondie Chaplin is more integral to the band’s history than Johnston. As for Marks, who was forced out of the band in 1963 by Murry, he reportedly only contributed guitar on a few songs.

They say that, on your first day in prison, you find the biggest guy and kick his ass. Well, this album begins with “I Get Around,” my favorite of the early Beach Boys singles. Love not only kicks its ass, he bludgeons it into submission by pinching up his already-thin voice to try to sound younger than his then-57 years. 

The harmonies are recreated faithfully by a couple of the Beach Boys’ touring singers at the time: Adrian Baker, who handles Brian’s falsetto and is also the producer of the project, and Paul Bergerot. Dean Torrence stops in for “Little Old Lady From Pasadena” and isn’t horrible, and Baker does a solid lead on “Don’t Worry, Baby,” although Mike omits the “Now don’t” that leads into the chorus so beautifully on the original. There are no instrumental credits, which makes sense because who would want to be associated with this? Although they’re equally reverent, they lack personality and are placed so far in the mix that they sound like they were recorded in another state. 

I hadn't seen anything tossed-off so casually since my last date with Jeff's mom.

That means that Love is the only embarrassing thing about NASCAR Salute. You could, as I did on second listen, play it in another room while sorting laundry or changing linen and not notice a difference from the real thing.  

Most fortunately, the whole thing is mercifully over in only 24 minutes. Love clearly gave the minimal effort that the contract required, letting the underlings do all the heavy lifting while he cashed the check. It’s the CD equivalent of seeing the Beach Boys, or any other one-original-member-left band, at a locals casino or state fair. 

I expected something far worse from Jeff after inflicting Metal Machine Music on him, and said as much after he sent it to me. “This should be a softball for you,” he wrote back. “It’ll wound your soul, but you can dunk on Mike Love in your sleep.”

So maybe I’m supposed to thank him for taking it easy, but I won’t. Instead, I recently found a .zip file that’s been sitting on a hard drive for a long time. I can only guess that I snagged it to send to Jeff at the appropriate moment, and that time has come. I look forward to him going through his reserves of refrigerator-magnet poetry to find new ways of insulting me when he eventually writes about it.  

Also, now and forever, fuck Mike Love. 

* Respect to Jason Hare.