Brook Busey (Hunt) meets Brian Wilson.

So anyway, this week I somehow got invited to an private, in-studio performance of "That Lucky Old Sun," Brian's upcoming album. The event was at Capitol Records, a building shaped like a stack of '45s where the Beach Boys recorded some of their greatest tracks. I had known the show would be intimate, but nothing could have prepared me for being seated on a stool maybe six feet from Brian. (I was starstruck by the band as well; I'm such a nerd that I know all of their names.)

So they played the show, it was... amazing, and it was all around me. Darian Sahanaja came over in between sets to chat. I started babbling about how they recycled part of an unfinished song from 1967 that I love. Then Darian asked me if I've ever met Brian. I hadn't. And then I did.

I've often wondered what I would say to him. I wound up shaking his hand, telling him that the new material was "stunning," and thanking him. Based on the handful of words I managed to utter, he probably assumed I was a casual fan at best. Fine by me. There's no way I could have said everything in those few allotted moments.

To be honest, I've been a little down on Hollywood lately. But nobody knows California like Brian Wilson. And "That Lucky Old Sun,"-- an improbably profound tribute to Errol Flynn, Mexican girls, surfers and stars-- reminded me that there is a heartbeat in L.A. You just have to listen. Listen. Listen.