God Only Knows
The day the music finally dimmed, the world seemed quieter, but not in the comforting hush of a lullaby or the peaceful drift of ocean surf. It was a hollow kind of silence, the kind that wraps itself around your chest and makes you forget how to breathe. News of Brian Wilson’s passing hit like a wave, crashing in slow motion. I sat still for hours, the radio playing one song after another—his songs—each one feeling like it was being sung directly into the broken parts of my heart.
Brian had that thing. That mystery, the kind that can’t be learned or practiced or manufactured. It lived in his melodies, gliding through unexpected chord changes that somehow made more sense than anything else in the world. The music didn’t just fill the room—it filled your soul. And the words? They were tender. Honest. Even in their simplicity, they held truths most of us didn’t know how to say out loud.
I first met Brian in a studio that felt more like a cathedral. Not because it was grand or ornate, but because the air in there seemed sacred. Wires crisscrossed the floor, pianos sat with their lids open like they were waiting for rain, and a theremin—yes, a theremin—leaned in the corner like some forgotten relic. And then, there was Brian. Barefoot. Humming. Lost in some melody only he could hear.
“Hey,” he said without looking at me. “You think dogs can hear better harmonies than people?”
I laughed, unsure if it was a joke. He didn’t laugh. He just started layering voices into a microphone—his voice, my voice, the engineer’s voice. By the end of the afternoon, we had something that shimmered like sunlight on water. I didn’t understand how it happened. Brian just knew.
There was always this ache in his music. Like it was born from a place that knew beauty and sorrow equally well. “Don’t Worry Baby,” “In My Room,” “Surf’s Up”—they weren’t just songs. They were shelters. You could hide inside them. You could cry there, or laugh, or fall in love. Sometimes all at once.
And of course, there was that song. God Only Knows. I still remember the first time I heard it, how the French horn came in so gently, like it didn’t want to wake anyone. The harmonies arrived one by one, delicate as lace. The lyrics—God only knows what I’d be without you—felt like a prayer for anyone who’d ever loved and feared losing. It wasn’t just the music. It was the heart of it. The courage to be vulnerable. The bravery to sound like no one else.
That was Brian. He didn’t chase fame. Fame chased him. He didn’t want to be a star. He just wanted to hear what the music sounded like in his head—out loud, in real time. He lived in that space between silence and song, and it both saved and haunted him.
I remember once, late at night, after a long session at Western Studios, I found him sitting alone in the parking lot, knees drawn to his chest like a child.
“Brian,” I said, “you okay?”
He looked at me with those clear eyes—always a little lost, always a little too wide—and said, “Sometimes I hear things that are too beautiful to write down. And that hurts.”
I never forgot that. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was true. Most of us struggle to say what we feel. Brian felt in chords. He translated the unknowable into harmony. That takes a toll.
People called him a genius. He never liked the word. But I can’t think of a better one. He gave us Pet Sounds—a masterpiece so ahead of its time, it took decades for some to catch up. He gave us Smile, a symphony that existed more in myth than reality for years, but was always there in his eyes, waiting. And he gave us a reason to believe that pop music could be as profound as any sonata or symphony.
And now… he’s gone.
How do we go on without Brian Wilson?
We do what he taught us: we listen. We listen closer. To each other. To the spaces between the notes. To the waves crashing in the distance and the rustle of leaves overhead. To the faltering voice of someone saying “I love you” for the first time.
We remember that the simple can be profound. That honesty is art. That there’s strength in softness.
We sing.
I imagine Brian now, not in some marble heaven, but on a beach that never ends. Barefoot again. Piano in the sand. The surf rising and falling in 4/4 time. He’s composing something none of us will ever hear, but we’ll feel it—like a breeze through open windows or the warmth of a memory you didn’t know you needed.
“God only knows what I’d be without you,” the record hums in the background.
And it’s true. All of us—fans, friends, fellow dreamers—we’re better because he existed. We’re softer. More curious. More willing to believe that music can hold the whole world.
And tonight, when I turn off the lights and let the room go quiet, I’ll hear him.
Just a little.
In the hush.
In the harmony.
Brian.
Thank you.
Let me know if you’d like this adapted into a spoken-word tribute, screenplay format, or read in the tone of a magazine obituary.
