There's something in common in the spirit of George Harrison, David Crosby, Dennis Wilson, some underlying warmth -- some notion that there's something simpler, purer, lying just under the surface of their work in bigger bands, some _thing_ they can finally found now that they're on their own, something in the music that smells and breathes of that mining.
The richness, lushness, the slow push-pull of Wilson's sole solo album is understated and overwhelming, shades of the Beach Boys, sure, those mavericks listed, but also of those with a pulse of the dark side of the west, your Warren Zevons, your Harry Nilssons, of transcribing a pulse read through the shimmer of heat on distant streetlights, simmering, overflowing, draining.
It keeps the world at arms-length, wrapping it in perfect, nuanced, crisp production, layered like a flaky pastry, buttery and cracking. A deeply satisfying album, despite itself, letting you in through back doors, Wilson's croak, faultlines in the drywall 4/5
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