He began as a shy California kid who heard symphonies in ordinary noise: the crash of waves, the buzz of power lines, the rhythm of traffic. With his brothers, he built the Beach Boys out of surfboards and heartbreak, then quietly dismantled the limits of pop, layering chords and emotions until simple songs felt like prayers. Behind the sunlit image was a man battling terror, depression, and the weight of expectation no human could carry alone.

His music became a lifeline for strangers—first dances, funerals, lonely midnights, and impossible mornings scored by a voice that understood both joy and despair. At 82, his death feels like a curtain falling on an era that believed harmony could fix anything. Yet every time “God Only Knows” or “Love & Mercy” drifts through a room, he returns: fragile, brilliant, and still somehow teaching us how to stay.