Love and Mercy (Bill Pohlad)

I'm not a connoisseur of popular music (or culture, for that matter). Having owned fewer than a dozen rock albums, I haven't listened to side B over and over, studied liner notes, or deconstructed the cover design. Instead, I came to rock and soul and country music in the most plebeian way, the radio.  Though I know decades of top 40s music, often I cannot match music with musicians or place them within the right decade. There are enormous gaps in my knowledge, and I'm not bothered by that fact.

My ignorance is compensated by Mike's fascination and knowledge.  One room in our home is given over the cider-block-and-board shelves that have held his albums for forty years and several addresses.  It's his interest and curiosity that takes us to biopics like Love and Mercy, a sympathetic portrayal of the dangerous dance between Brian Wilson's creativity and his mental illness.  Sometimes it's so sympathetic that the lines harden: the bad guys--his father and his therapist--are really bad, and the good guys--the studio musicians and his future wife--are really good. 

The sound design was more than Beach Boys music playing in the background. For both Mike and me, the film's best parts were set in the studio while Pet Sounds was being recorded. 

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