Midweeknotes: June 10–11, 2025
Tuesday, June 10
The wooded sections on either side of the tracks between the end of Railroad Street and the bridge near Forest are the nearest bits of wild, untended land. There is a small homeless encampment down the adjacent riverbank and on the other side a storage facility and neighboring weed shop. Where I grew up in Brighton, I had acres of recreational state forest directly behind my house where I could hike, explore, and forage interesting sticks or logs. Here in town, I have the overgrown railroad tangle with its choking vines and trees of heaven. I walk with my bow saw and backpack, passing an abandoned suitcase, its contents scattered mournfully among the ballast — a shoe, a couple shirts, a large hot pink bra. The usual faded beer cans and food packaging litter the margins. Further along I locate a couple downed branches that fit my needs and carry them the few blocks to my backyard.
Islay takes up her watch by the burgeoning rabbit warren while I gather my tools and put the Tigers game on my little radio. I trim the branches to an appropriate height then use a hatchet to spike the bottom ends. I do the same with a length of 1" x 2" and use it to bore a couple holes in my overgrown garden, about 8" deep. The foraged branches are placed down into the holes and twisted several times to continue drilling down into the earth. I place shims around their bases using smaller sticks and pieces of scrap wood from my shed until they stand sturdy and upright. Using wire from my workbench I string up the two large metal fish sculptures I bought at a yard sale over the weekend and hang them on the two mounted branches. They begin to swim in the breeze.
Just before bedtime I'm in my room folding laundry. A dispatch of emergency vehicles makes its way down Huron and I hear Islay out back howling along to the sirens. I allow her to sing for a reasonable amount of time before going out to gently shush her. We sit on the grass for a couple minutes listening to the fading sirens and watching the bats overheard. I see my first firefly of the year.
Wednesday, June 11
Brian Wilson has died. I've honestly been dreading this news for years. Given his mental health struggles, I always found it incredible that he was the Wilson who survived the longest. Dennis' drowning was a tragic accident and Carl succumbed to cancer way too young, but somehow the eldest, most damaged brother proved to be the resilient one, mounting an unlikely late-career comeback and persisting into his 80s.
I've had many favorite bands in my life, but the Beach Boys are the music of my heart. My parents made sure of that. Their bright sunshower harmonies lived in my consciousness from age zero and have colored everything I've ever made. They were my first concert — Memorial Day, 1984 at Pine Knob Music Theater. I was seven years old. Dennis was already gone and who knows if poor Brian was there, tinkling absently at a piano, a shadow of his former genius. His controversial therapy program with Eugene Landry was underway, but his creative revival was still to come. My memories of that show are vague, but my relationship with the Beach Boys has lasted my whole life.
Years later, I later saw Brian with his great solo band playing Pet Sounds in its entirety. I'll never forget that night. A few days prior, I had busked at the Ann Arbor Art Fair until I made enough money to buy a pair of tickets. I had a gig the same night as his Detroit show, but I didn't want to miss him, so I chose Cleveland, a three hour drive down Lake Erie. I took my mom and we sat out on the lawn of Evans Amphitheater listening to "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows," songs she loved when she was young and taught me to love. It was transcendent.
I had just started recording my first solo album and was very much under Brian's spell at the time. My song "Cleveland Heights" was partly inspired by that night. A year earlier I had driven to Cleveland Heights and had a magical night seeing the Belfast band Watercress at the Grog Shop with my then-girlfriend. We drove home the same night, crossing the Maumee River and back into Michigan around four in the morning. The Brian Wilson show in July 2000 was in that same neighborhood and my mom and I also chose to drive home in the middle of the night. Later that summer I wrote "Cleveland Heights" as a hybrid about both nights. The harmonies in the bridge and the pulsing organ part are direct references to the Beach Boys. I've turned to Brian's music for comfort and inspiration throughout my life. He was one of my all-time heroes. Thank you, Brian.