For years, decades, I’ve heard the Beach Boy’s Pet Sounds was transformative. A classic that must be listened to. I’ve read about it being compared to Sgt. Pepper’s and Phil Spector’s wall of sound. Like a piece of 1960s art that had to be experienced and savored at least once whole and in its entirety.

I’ve been using Amazon music for the past year. Yeah, I know Jeff Bezos, evil empire, you’re a purist and vinyl is better blah, blah, blah and on and on. I don’t care. I like the app because I can find and listen to literally any song or album ever recorded. Last week I was listening to some pretty obscure 1930s Leadbelly stuff.

But back to Pet Sounds. I finally decided I’d put it on while I did some writing work. Am I missing a gene? It’s been bugging me all week. I got through the first three tracks of teenage angst, and I had to turn on some Tom Waits. I know there are more pressing issues in everyone’s life, but what the fuck!

I always liked—not loved—the Beachboy’s sound. And I get the Phil Spector hook. It sounds good, but I guess I was expecting more depth. I do that unintentionally, and it bugs me. It’s like when I read Hemingway or Steinbeck, often for the third or fifth time or twentieth time. I’m always looking for deeper meaning. Maybe some books is just a good story, by a truly talented writer, maybe this is just a good album with some good songs and I’m overthinking. I overthink…

I’ve wondered if other generations did this: In the 70s we’d go to the record store to buy an album and spend hours deciding, studying the covers, then finally we’d take the record home and play it until the grooves wore thin, analyzing the words, the covers, the musicians.

Dylan and the Beatles were good for the whole “what does this mean” stuff. I guess it’s just a habit. Maybe it’s just a good song, after all.