The alien electronic warble had scarcely begun when there was a collective sigh of contentment from 23,000 of us spread around the grassy bowl of Crystal Palace, London, on a bleak day, June 3, 1972. The spooky vibrations of the metallic electro-theremin instrument introduced the world to Brian Wilson’s inspired opening to his Beach Boys composition ‘Good Vibrations’, and there was the man himself and his brothers in musical arms on the curved shell stage separated from us audience by a lake, where informal dips proved hippies did bathe. And at the end of the stage a young Elton John in a nifty yellow suit on piano. Those were the days, my friends. And now they have ended for Brian in 2025 aged 82, but his vibes live on.
At the time a musical magazine had run a competition: Who is the greatest band in the world, the Beatles or the Beach Boys? The Beach Boys won the vote. For a moment they displaced the Beatles from the Toppermost of the Poppermost. And it was warranted, for has there ever been a more beguiling and gorgeously embracing pop song than ‘Good Vibrations’? No less an authority than Paul McCartney rates ‘God Only Knows’ from Brian Wilson’s masterpiece album ‘Pet Sounds’ as the greatest ever pop song. For me Paul has got it wrong, the greater pop song is ‘Good Vibrations’.
God only knows what might have happened to good vibrations on the day of the concert, as the interminable setting up of the Beach Boys’ instruments was hampered by worsening weather, dark clouds massing and the cold causing many of us to wish we had brought our duffel coats. It turned worse when the heavens opened and we were deluged. Yet spirits were not dampened, maybe due to a curious incident, while we waited through support acts like Melanie riding her bicycle song. The incident can be seen as good in the scruffy shape of tie-dyed hippies repelling evil. The bristling, chain-wielding bikies had been roaming the perimeter and beginning to move en masse towards the stage. A counter movement of Jesus Freaks started to advance from the side towards the Hell’s Angels, strumming guitars and chanting ‘Jesus loves you’.
‘Crikey dick,’ I said to Bob and Kate. ‘Those kids are going to be smashed.’
‘Reckon,’ Bob agreed, changing to a telephoto lens on his camera.
‘I’m not sure,’ Kate said.
She was right to doubt, the hippies like a Roman legion sure of their mission marched forward as one, and the bikies started falling back, stumbling and cursing. One fell in the lake and the guffaws from his mates helped break the collective air of menace. Another jumped in and then more, horsing around, dunking each other. The rumble never eventuated. The evil spell was broken.
This was the third Crystal Palace Garden Party. The previous year I had seen Pink Floyd fail to inflate their octopus in the lake, in the process killing all the fish, and then the rain pelted down and killed their experimental quadraphonic sound as electricity short-circuited the speakers that surrounded us. We fled that life-threatening concert. It was an experimental time. The Who drummer Keith Moon arrived to compere another garden party by helicopter, reached the stage by hovercraft, rowed into the lake dressed as a pirate, serving the audience tea and cake. On another occasion the PA system interrupted the music with a test match commentary of an Australia versus England cricket clash across town. This was goonery as only the English can generate.
Amazingly, the Beach Boys performed their magic set conjuring surf and sand and sunshine and we left very happy. And ‘Good Vibrations’ still gives me great pleasure, especially that alien opening warble. Thanks, Brian, for the good vibes.