An old acquaintance - I'll call him Shake, though that was his name - thought "Don't Worry Baby" was the root of the cord; that being the umbilical cord. He thought it was life - somehow both in a universal sense and in a manner quite specific to him.
The opening drum beats sounded so much to him like his own experiences. And then the soothing, soaring harmonies.
Poor Shake was blessed and cursed to have what women want and to be attracted to danger as an insect is to light. And so it was that he was constantly careening from one challenge to another, somewhere deep in his restless soul wishing for a mate - that at the truest depth.
And there she was! "Don't worry, baby. Everything will turn out alright." That she was an invention of a Mr. Wilson and for a shining moment a Magic Christian bothered Shake not at all. For she was his - as real to him as any flesh and blood. And while he held many other women, she held him.
The song spoke to Shake much beyond this introduction of this wonderful, beautiful, understanding woman. It spoke to his soul and to the gunshots that had rung out, to the fists that had flown, and to the breathtaking curves of those wild mountain roads, in advance of which he pressed the accelerator for reasons which God only knows.
It spoke as well to those elements of Shake that loved Van Gogh so well and that treasured the sonnets. Beauty is truth, it said, and he believed it. No, no, no - it was given to him, and thus he knew it - given to him by Mr. Wilson.
Shake said a day never passed that at some point DWB didn't play, whether from a speaker or from inside his head. And it carried him, whenever and wherever. It belonged to him and it to him.
He recalled a night when life had become perilous and confrontation inevitable. He sat near the calm water of a moonlit lake, a blonde angel holding his hand and looking deeply into his soul. She said, "It will be alright," and he started to cry.
She thought he was frightened, overwhelmed. She couldn't hear Mr. Wilson's song soar through the summer night. "Don't worry, baby." Maybe she never understood that what scared most hardly touched him at all. It was what he did. What scared him was the fact he could do it.
Then he kissed her for what would be the last time, and went out to do what was necessary. And somehow, years later, he realized it was alright.
Though he's never met Mr. Wilsoon, Shake would give the man his right arm if it was needed. Don't worry, baby, indeed.
Many of us don't like to imagine a life without the music of Brian Wilson. Some of us might not have been fit to live one.
Ah the ramblings of an old man. Forgive me. Is anyone planning to eat that pear?
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