Seeing the Beach Boys Do It Again Is Not Fun, Fun, Fun : ‘Kokomo’ and Brian’s Re-Emergence Are Offering Them a Rare Chance to Turn Off Memory Lane

In 1976, Jethro Tull released an album called “Too Old to Rock ‘n’ Roll, Too Young to Die!” and although Tull leader Ian Anderson named a certain Times rock critic as the inspiration for the title, its sentiment befits a generation of aging rock musicians too.

But how old is too old? Certainly there are a few greats who stand as proof that in the right hands, rock ‘n’ roll may well be ageless. Jerry Lee Lewis is 53, and, when he’s in the mood, he can still out-rock any pimple-faced kid who woulda been a contender. And at the Celebrity Theatre in Anaheim in 1987, Chuck Berry, who’s in his 60s, demonstrated that despite the severe case of indifference that has marred his shows for the last 15 or 20 years, on a good night can tear the roof off a joint. (And making the 2,500-seat Celebrity feel like “a joint” is a feat in itself.)

But in one specific case, I’d submit that the answer to “how old is too old?” is precisely 48 years, 2 months and 13 days.

That’s how old Mike Love was last Saturday, when once again he led that sideshow known as the Beach Boys through the hoops during the band’s annual summer concert at the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa. Every time I’ve seen this once-great Southern California group over the last decade, it’s been sadder than the time before.

It’s not just because Love, who handles an uncomfortably large portion of the lead vocals, has a thin, whiny voice that sounds like a senator rationalizing another tax hike. Love, (which, as Bob Dylan so accurately pointed out, is just a four-letter word), is even more smarmy as a front man as he paces the stage, constantly egging the audience to join in. To say that he’s pandering would seem like a compliment.

And Mike Love isn’t the only weak (or is it missing?) link. Rarely do the Beach Boys’ live performances even approach, let alone regain, the magical blend of scintillating harmony, rhythmic drive and propellant surf guitar that made their ‘60s hits so distinctive and so memorable.

Only the voices of Carl Wilson (who has generated chills in recent years with “God Only Knows,” although he failed to do so this time around) and Al Jardine show any vestige of the unprepossessing spirit of the group in its prime. All too often, the other surviving “Boys” rely on the backup singers and studio musicians who tour with them to prop up the sagging rafters of their sound.

So what’s new? That’s been the story for at least a decade, right?

What is so disappointing this year is that the group is squandering a rare opportunity to take that giant step out of the past and into the present day.

For one thing, the Boys recently charted their first No. 1 single in more than 20 years--the Jimmy Buffett-like novelty “Kokomo”--giving them the most commercial muscle they’ve had since Mike Love had hair. If they needed proof that fans would sit still for songs written after the Lyndon B. Johnson presidency, they’ve got it.

Even better, Brian Wilson, who turned out the band’s greatest hits, is creating again. He proved on his occasionally stunning solo album last year that the portion of his much-abused brain responsible for inventing melody and harmony is still gloriously intact.

So it was frustrating to note that his contributions to the current tour were relegated to a three-song solo segment, dispensed with at the outset. Had the Beach Boys any inclination to freshen their repertoire (which has been basically unchanged since, as I recall, the Bronze Age), they could have worked in several of Brian’s latest creations.

Wouldn’t it be spine-tinglingly nice to hear a live rendition of “One for the Boys”--the sublime vocal workout-without-words that Brian built from countless studio overdubs. In terms of sheer grace and beauty, “Melt Away” ranks with the finest ballads Brian wrote for the group in the ‘60s. And “Baby, Let Your Hair Grow Long,” a deceptively simple song about grabbing desperately toward the past in a vain attempt to recapture lost innocence, would be an exquisite musical--and philosophical--addition to a Beach Boys show.

Instead, there was no interplay between the man who is almost single-handedly responsible for the artistry that was the Beach Boys and the members of the group that provided his medium.

With Brian off in his room somewhere, Love, Jardine, Carl Wilson and Bruce Johnston et al zipped through the same old show in pretty much the same old fashion. We got the car medley (including car songs the Beach Boys never recorded). We got the surf medley (including surf songs the Beach Boys never recorded). The only noticeable difference was the addition of a half-dozen half-dressed dancing girls who gave off considerably less-than-good vibrations.

There is, of course, a certain level on which it’s still possible to enjoy the Boys, one that might explain how, despite their being artistic kamikazes, the group can attract tens of thousands of fans from age 5 to 50 (or even older).

Gene Dorney, 42, is a lawyer who lives and works in South Laguna and has been attending Beach Boys concerts for more than two decades. He buys tickets every time the band plays Southern California, and he usually brings his teen-age daughter along because he finds a sense of community and rejoicing that encompasses all age groups.

Dorney is no blind-eyed fanatic, nor is he stuck in the past. He recognizes Love’s irritating qualities and is the first to point out each concert’s flaws (“Carl sounded worse tonight than I’ve ever heard him”). And he agrees that “it would be great if they would learn some of Brian’s new tunes. And I wouldn’t mind at all if they dropped all the car songs and the surf songs, and maybe just did the entire ‘Pet Sounds’ album, or something like that.

“But,” he adds quickly, “you can’t take it too seriously. I just love to go to the shows and look around at the faces.”

Where we part ways is that Dorney will probably keep buying Beach Boys tickets no matter what direction the group takes. If last week’s show is a good indication, they’ll be perfectly content to keep cruising down Memory Lane.

Not me. I won’t go see these guys again unless they put the pedal to the metal and high-tail the old jalopy down Thunder Road.

The way I see it, I’m not that much younger than Mike Love and the rest of the Boys. But I’m not too old to rock ‘n’ roll.