is every bit as satisfying, maybe more so, when you’re seeing one of the 20th century’s great maestros, who’s survived great odds to get here, joining in as part of an large and inestimable ensemble or sometimes just being enveloped in their womb. Anyone who had a heart would have felt it melt Thursday night.
The other Carl ringer is no ringer at all: Blondie Chaplin doesn’t sound like the Wilson brothers’ tender Caruso any more than he looks like him, but trades that vocal purity for the perfect impurity of a mixture of R&B improv and pure rock ‘n’ roll swagger. If you’d have any inclination to complain that these concerts are too faithful, too slavish — which would be a weird complaint to have about music this— Chaplin provides a three-song respite from all such note-for-note recreation.
So the album that was being officially celebrated was 1968’s “Friends,” one of those modest, post-“Smile”-trauma LPs that deservedly enjoys its own cult. Seven short numbers from that short album were pulled out, including the neglected title track, the tiki-revival-friendly instrumental “Diamond Head” , and “Busy Doin’ Nothin’,” which, in truthful deadpan, Wilson introduced as “a song about the directions to my house.
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