I was once 14 years old, learning choreography to “Surfin’ U.S.A.” for the quinceañera of a girl I don’t even talk to anymore. The song blasted from a half-broken speaker in the empty venue, while a group of us spun and waved our arms in a formation that, miraculously, held together. None of us had ever surfed, the closest beach was an hour away, but she loved The Beach Boys. And so we moved our bodies like the song told us to, or rather, like the choreographer told us to, like California had somehow crept into our bones.

When I heard the news of Brian Wilson’s passing, I first thought of my middle school pre-algebra teacher, Mr. Hilbo. I can’t remember if he spelled it with one L or two, but I remember him being the most sarcastic and kind person I had met. He once told our class, almost offhandedly, that The Beach Boys were the greatest band of all time. He was from California, tall, blue-eyed, and for those reasons, I didn’t believe him. I remember him spending the rest of that class playing us his favorite songs, and the faces of some of my classmates clearly saying, This is old people music. Still, his comment lodged itself somewhere deep, maybe between formulas and daydreams.

Years later, I wish I could ask him how he’s taking the news, and I also find myself thinking he might’ve had a point.

I still believe that “Forever” is one of the greatest love songs ever written. Not because of its production or cultural status, but because of the way it sounds when sung without ego. Just simple and sweet, almost naive. It made its way into a character sketch I wrote once, a little description of my boyfriend. There was something about the line, “If every word I said / could make you laugh I’d talk forever…” that felt like it belonged to him.

There’s also that ‘90s song by Barenaked Ladies, “Brian Wilson,” which isn’t half-bad for a soft-rock track you might hear from a small-town cover band at a county fair. It’s a song about being lonely and strange and pacing around late at night, wrapped in the shadow of someone else’s fame. It’s a weird tribute, part sad, part sarcastic, but weirdly honest, too.

And then there’s that cheekily titled track, “Brian Wilson Is My Dad,” which reminds me of how indie bands name their songs like they’re stitching together hot takes, confessions, and lies passed around in a too-late living room. It’s the kind of thing you say not because it’s real, but because it feels like it could be. Like if you said it with enough conviction, the universe might back you up.

All of this is to say,
Brian Wilson keeps showing up.

Not in a front-and-center way, not like an idol.
More like a weird lighthouse in the background, blinking from some far-off place in the brain, showing up in quinceañeras, pre-algebra classrooms, love letters, and Spotify queues.

You never know the ways you might creep into the tiniest corners of someone’s life,
or how someone else might end up tucked inside yours.

---

Elizabeth Barrera is a writer and MFA candidate at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley, where she explores memory, music, and cultural residue through personal narrative.