adult

Today it’s an Italianate apartment building wedged between an Indian restaurant and a Target. But what stood half a century ago at 1454 5th Street in downtown Santa Monica was the Beach Boys’ Brother Studio, a former porn theater turned recording complex where the preeminent American rock band of the 1960s sought to coax its resident genius, Brian Wilson, back into the fold after a long stretch in the wilderness.

Nobody would consider the albums the Beach Boys made at Brother in the mid-70s — among them “15 Big Ones,” “The Beach Boys Love You” and the long-shelved “Adult/Child” — the band’s most successful. (Well, nobody except for Wilson, who frequently cited the synthed-up “Love You” as his fave.) A decade after 1966’s “Pet Sounds,” which so blew the Beatles away that they had to answer with “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” the burly, bearded Beach Boys were far from the center of pop music; Wilson, in particular, had largely withdrawn from public life as he struggled with the effects of drugs and his fragile mental health.

Yet Brother offered the setting for a creative reflowering — arguably the band’s final moment of unity before the start of years of more serious infighting.

“It was like we all got back together and became Beach Boys again,” says Al Jardine, who founded the group in suburban Hawthorne in 1961 with Wilson, Wilson’s brothers Dennis and Carl and the Wilsons’ cousin Mike Love. Now, eight months after Brian Wilson’s death in June at age 82, a new box set looks back at the era as an expressive outpouring led by the band’s rejuvenated visionary.

“We Gotta Groove: The Brother Studio Years” collects 73 tracks from 1976 and ’77, including outtakes, demos, a remastered version of the “Love You” LP and the first official release of the widely bootlegged “Adult/Child,” which puts Wilson’s touchingly emotive singing amid orchestral arrangements in a glossy big-band style. Among the set’s highlights are a voice-and-piano rendition of “Still I Dream of It,” which, according to legend, Wilson wrote in the hopes that Frank Sinatra would perform it, and a majestic take on “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” that shows how brilliant a record-maker Wilson remained despite all the well-documented turmoil.

“Brian was healing from his personal life, and he was ready to go in the studio again,” says Jardine, 83, whose latest tour with the members of Wilson’s road band will stop Friday night at L.A.’s United Theater on Broadway for a complete performance of “The Beach Boys Love You.” With quirky but heartfelt tunes about Wilson’s daughter Carnie (“I Wanna Pick You Up”) and Johnny Carson (uh, “Johnny Carson”) — not to mention the propulsive “Honkin’ Down the Highway,” on which Jardine sang lead — “Love You” has become something of a cult classic among Wilsonologists.

Says Jardine of the LP: “Brian’s spirit — his songwriting soul — is really strong on that one.”

The Beach Boys opened Brother Studio around 1974 near the corner of 5th Street and Broadway, just a few blocks from the beach. They’d traveled to the Netherlands to record their most recent album, “Holland”; before that, they cut several records at Wilson’s home on Bellagio Road in Bel-Air, though the group’s erstwhile mastermind spent as much time upstairs in his bedroom as he did recording music with his bandmates.

Wilson’s retreat after the flameout of his notoriously ambitious “Smile” project made space for the other Beach Boys to shape the band’s music, as on 1970’s fondly remembered “Sunflower.” But the lack of hits eventually took its toll: With a laugh, Love, 84, says one reason they started up Brother was that Wilson’s wife, Marilyn, eventually “threw in the towel after years of having her house flooded with people” to less-than-spectacular returns. “It was sort of like a self-preservation thing,” he adds.

The Beach Boys backstage at New York’s Central Park in 1977.

(Richard E. Aaron / Redferns)

In “We Gotta Groove’s” liner notes, engineer Stephen Moffitt, who designed Brother after working earlier at L.A.’s Village Recorders, recalls clearing out “all the porn crap” from the building and installing a circular stained-glass window to establish the right vibe. A vintage magazine ad boasts of the studio’s high-end gear as well as its “large screen video lounge” and “a playroom with pong, pinball and bumper pool.”

“It was a respite,” Love says. “A place to go and be creative.”

Just as the band was getting Brother up and running, the Beach Boys scored an unexpected smash with 1974’s “Endless Summer,” a double-LP compilation of the group’s early material — “Surfin’ Safari,” “Don’t Worry Baby,” “California Girls” — that topped the Billboard album chart on its way to sales of more than 3 million copies. A similar hits collection issued in the U.K., “20 Golden Greats,” did just as well there. “An enormous success,” says Love. “One in every five families had it.”

Suddenly, having more or less ignored group-minded efforts like “Holland” and “Carl and the Passions — ‘So Tough,’ ” the world remembered what it loved about the Beach Boys, and that was songs written and produced by Brian Wilson.

The band got to work at Brother recording “15 Big Ones,” which featured a mix of Wilson originals and covers of oldies like “Chapel of Love” and “Blueberry Hill.” The first Beach Boys album since “Pet Sounds” to carry a solo production credit for Wilson, it came accompanied by an aggressive marketing campaign known as “Brian Is Back!”; Wilson appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone — “The Healing of Brother Brian,” the cover line read — and took part in a Beach Boys television special that showed his return to the concert stage at Anaheim Stadium.

Earle Mankey, an engineer at Brother in the mid-70s, says “15 Big Ones” was less Wilson’s attempt to relight the flame than it was “everyone else’s attempt to relight the flame.” He recalls Wilson looking like a “scared rabbit” when he walked into the studio to find some of the session musicians who’d worked with the Beach Boys back in the old days. (This was the time of Wilson’s first dalliance with the psychologist Eugene Landy, who would reenter Wilson’s life to much controversy in the early ’80s.)

Fans watch the Beach Boys perform at Anaheim Stadium on July 3, 1976.

(Tony Korody / Sygma via Getty Images)

Even Love admits that “Brian Is Back!” was a little overblown. “Brian was back to some degree,” Love says now. “One hundred percent? Perhaps not.”

Yet the campaign worked: “15 Big Ones” went to No. 8 on the Billboard 200 — the highest for a Beach Boys studio album in more than a decade — while the LP spun off the band’s first Top 5 single since “Good Vibrations” with a rendition of Chuck Berry’s “Roll and Roll Music.”

More important, the commercial success set up Wilson for a true artistic comeback with “The Beach Boys Love You,” which can still startle you with the purity of its emotion and the strange textures of Wilson’s production. Check out the beautifully lopsided groove of “Mona,” which Dennis sings with a bleary smoker’s rasp, or the lonely-sounding electric-guitar lick floating over the Wilson brothers’ harmonies in “The Night Was So Young”; listen to Brian and Marilyn trading marital assurances in their almost painfully guileless duet, “Let’s Put Our Hearts Together.”

“Of all Brian’s stuff, I’d say it’s his most personal album after ‘Pet Sounds,’ ” says Darian Sahanaja, who played with Wilson for the last couple of decades of his life. “Maybe even more than ‘Pet Sounds,’ because Tony Asher wrote most of the lyrics on ‘Pet Sounds’ and Brian wrote most of the lyrics on ‘Love You.’ The Brian that I knew is very much living and breathing in these songs.”

Unlike “15 Big Ones,” “Love You” was not a hit, peaking at No. 53 — even lower than “Holland.” As much as he adores the album, Sahanaja finds it amusing that anyone in the Beach Boys’ camp might have expected Wilson to try to give rock fans what they wanted.

“He wasn’t listening to the Top 40 at the time,” he says. “He just wrote whatever came out of him. There was no, ‘I wonder what Fleetwood Mac’s up to…’ ”

Indeed, Wilson went even further out with “Adult/Child,” for which he commissioned orchestral arrangements by Dick Reynolds, who’d worked in the ’50s with Wilson’s beloved Four Freshmen. Both Love and Jardine say they can’t quite remember why the album didn’t come out; Love says “it may not have suited the record company at the time” and points out that even “Pet Sounds” got the group’s A&R rep wondering “if maybe we could do something more like ‘I Get Around.’ ”

Whatever the case, “Adult/Child’s” mothballing led to another withdrawal by Wilson, who had far less to do with the band’s next few records and who eventually turned to a solo career. In 2012, Wilson produced a so-so Beach Boys reunion record — minus Dennis, who died in 1983, and Carl, who died in 1998 — but for much of the ’00s he and Jardine toured under Wilson’s name while Love toured as the Beach Boys. (Love’s band will play three shows at the Hollywood Bowl in July.)

Asked what it’s been like performing with Wilson’s band since his death, Jardine says, “I just feel like he’s still around.” Sahanaja says he’s seen Jardine tear up as they’ve been working up songs from “Love You” on the road ahead of Friday’s show. But he’s also been gratified to see the excitement among younger fans regarding what he views as the Beach Boys’ last great album.

“The reaction has been more insane than I’ve ever seen for any of the shows we ever did with Brian,” he says. “It’s like they feel they found this secret thing that they really identify with.” He laughs. “I’m telling you, these kids are freaking out — jumping up and down, singing along to all the words. They’re, like, pogo-ing.”

“Strip Law,” a new cartoon premiering Friday, finds Netflix in an Adult Swim state of mind, which is to say there was no thought of it being made for everybody. (Possibly including some of the people it was made for.) It’s rude, lewd, surreal in a banal sort of way, at times ridiculously violent — that is, the violence is ridiculous.

It was the cast that attracted me: Adam Scott, once more the schlemiel as leading man; Janelle James, sure of her own magnificence, not far from her character on “Abbott Elementary”; and Keith David, whose deep, sonorous voice is almost necessarily one of authority, turned to good or evil or in between as the script demands. James and David, especially, I could listen to for days.

Created by Cullen Crawford, (“The Late Show With Stephen Colbert,” “Star Trek: Lower Decks”), the series is centered on a failing Las Vegas law firm, headed by Scott’s Lincoln Gumb, with James as Sheila Flambé, “a magician and three-year all-county sex champion” he hires as his “co-counsel in charge of spectacle.” Niece Irene (Shannon Gisela), an iron-pumping 16-year-old, works as his investigator; she wears a blindfold labeled “Underage” whenever she’s required to be in a bar. Stephen Root plays his disbarred (later undisbarred — rebarred?) lawyer uncle, Glem Blorchman, the strangest of them all — “It’s 115 degrees out so I put marshmallows in gin,” is something he says as they gather to watch Christmas movies. And David plays Lincoln’s nemesis, Stevie Nichols, the very successful former partner of Lincoln’s late mother, upon whom the son remains perversely fixated.

Much of it is the sort of thing that will work or not work depending on your mood, but generally I prefer the small throwaway jokes to the big gross ones. There are self-reflexive meta gags about “hard-working cartoon writers” and “reappropriating out-of-date catchphrases.” There are many nods to “The Simpsons,” including “frosty chocolate milkshakes” and James L. Brooks’ Gracie Films logo. The final episode, of 10, takes place within the finale of a “Suits”-like legal dramedy. (“It’s against their nature to let something be sweet and fun and airy,” that firm’s bromantic lawyers say of Lincoln’s team. “They have to make it dark and strange and crass.”) And there are left-field references to Cocteau Twins and Bikini Kill, whose “original bass player” Glem claims to be. (“I don’t know what Bikini Kill is,” says Irene. “Neither did I, according to Kathleen Hanna,” says Glem.)

There are various oddball judges (nothing remotely legal happens in a courtroom); “local character” Lunch Meat, who turns up in many roles; a barman, Mr. O’Raviolo, who switches between exaggerated Irish and Italian accents in mid-sentence. Comedian George Wallace plays himself as the mayor of Las Vegas. A Halloween Christmas episode parodies “Miracle on 34th Street”; another takes off on Colton Burpo, the “boy who saw Heaven,” which includes a live-action trailer for a faith-based film featuring Tim Heidecker as a coke-snorting atheistic Lincoln. A virtual reality HR seminar is hosted by “a computerized amalgamation of all five personalities of the Rat Pack,” an immersive Autoverse, in which actors create situations that somehow amount to a driving test. There are the “Nevada-grown” Hot Dates, a sexualized version of the California Raisins; riots occur when the characters are redesigned to be more respectable (“They’re walking away from years of established canon,” laments Lincoln.)

The series felt a little off-putting at first, as if it were straining for effect, but gathered steam as it went on, either because the later episodes are weirder or better written, or because one just gets used to being in that world with those people. There is just enough character in the comedy to create stakes in the narrative; its misfit energy has fueled the screen’s bands of outsiders throughout the years. (“Even when you’re a disaster, you’re a disaster for the right people,” Irene tells Lincoln.) As to the famous fine line between stupid and clever, the stupidity and the cleverness are all but inextricable, and to the point.

The credits declare that the series is “proudly made by real, non-computer human beings,” which is pleasant to know, and in 100 years will still have been the best way to make cartoons, even if by then they are only made by and, for all we know, for machines. The thin-lined drawing style is standard for more or less realistic 21st-century adult TV animation, with perhaps a hint of comics artist Daniel Clowes laid on. But the characters are expressive, and the medium is used to unreal ends, which is, after all, what cartoons are good for.

A father driving his daughter and two other families from the Santa Clarita Flyers hockey club to a tournament in Colorado was killed last week in a horrific crash in treacherous weather.

Three days later the Flyers won the Western Girls Hockey League 12U title with a 1-0 victory in overtime Sunday, their fifth win of the tournament.

The players met for two hours the night of the accident and decided they would participate rather than pull out and head home.

“We knew that the families in the crash would want us to play and decided not just to do it for ourselves, but do it for them mostly,” Flyers captain Sophia Boyle told Denver 9News. “We are more than a team. It’s like we are a giant family.

“We knew what we wanted, we tried our hardest and we got it.”

The driver of a Colorado Department of Transportation plow truck traveling on snow-covered and wet roads Thursday morning lost control on Interstate 70, drove through the median and hit the Flyers’ Ford Transit van head-on, according to the Clear Creek County Sheriff’s Office.

The van was knocked down an icy embankment before coming to rest, and the driver, Manuel Lorenzana of Chatsworth, was pronounced dead at the scene. Four children were treated for minor injuries at a local hospital; a fifth was flown to a trauma center with critical injuries. Three adults were admitted to the hospital, one in serious condition.

Lorenzana, 38, a noted tattoo artist and lifelong San Fernando Valley resident, was remembered as “a hero and the epitome of what an amazing man, father, partner and friend should be,” his family wrote on a GoFundMe page.

“He was the most thoughtful, loving and supportive man to his soulmate April, and the most caring, involved, fun, kind and loving parent, and best friend, to his daughter Brody.”

Brody was released from the hospital and joined her teammates Saturday. After opening the double-elimination tournament with two victories Friday and a loss in their first game Saturday, the Flyers advanced with a 14-0 win.

Santa Clarita Valley residents gathered at the Flyers’ home rink, the Cube Ice and Entertainment Center, to watch a stream of the game that unfortunately malfunctioned. Still, the crowd stayed, with several people refreshing the league’s website to keep up with the game and shouting when the Flyers scored.

Two victories Sunday — both shutouts — gave the Flyers the title. Moments before the championship game, the Flyers raised their sticks in a silent nod to Manny Lorenzana. Khaleesi Bewer scored the winning goal in overtime, and afterward the Flyers sang Katy Perry’s “California Gurls. ”

“It’s unbelievable how much people have rallied behind these girls,” said Prescott Littlefield, president of the Flyers organization. “If there is a silver lining to this, the amount of support they’ve gotten is beyond my ability to comprehend. The families are so grateful.”