musical

In the world of child prodigies, novelists are the rarest breed. Barbara Newhall Follett, born in Hanover, N.H., in 1914, fit the bill. By the time she was 9 years-old she had completed her first novel, a subsequent draft of which was published by Knopf when she was 12. Two years after that, she released her second novel. Both were met with critical acclaim, and Newhall became a celebrity in the publishing world.

Nearly a decade later, after a fight with her adulterous husband, the 25-year-old Follett left her apartment in Brookline, Mass., with $30 in her pocket and a notebook. She was never seen or heard from again. The mystery of the vanished former child genius has pulled at the public imagination ever since, resulting in a number of books and articles about her life and disappearance, including a 2019 essay in the Los Angeles Review of Books speculating that Newhall had committed suicide by ingesting barbiturates.

Barbara Follett, a child literary prodigy, is the subject of a new musical titled “Perfect World.”

(Courtesy of Stefan Cooke / Farksolia.org)

A world-premiere musical can now be added to the growing list of Newhall-themed explorations. “Perfect World,” written by Alan Edmunds and composed by Richard Winzeler, with lyrics by both men, opens Saturday at the El Portal Theatre in North Hollywood, running through Nov. 9.

The project marks Edmunds’ debut as a librettist. The retired psychologist — who specialized in gifted children — hit upon the idea of creating a musical about Follett’s life after a deep dive into her archives at Columbia University almost 15 years ago.

“As I’m reading through this, I start to feel the tragedy of what really happened to her,” Edmunds said during an interview at the theater over the pounding of hammers and the buzzing of drills as the detailed set was put together. “I thought this is the hero’s journey. Unfortunately, it’s not a happy ending.”

Edmunds was so inspired by the 15 boxes of archival material, including hundreds of hand-typed letters that Follett wrote to dozens of relatives and acquaintances, and endless lyrical descriptions of the imaginary world of Farksolia at the heart of her debut novel, “The House Without Windows,” that he drafted his initial outline for the musical on his knee while taking the subway from Columbia to Broadway to see “La Cage aux Folles.”

The show’s team took creative license in the retelling of Follett’s story, but for the most part Edmunds adhered to the broad strokes of her short, vibrant life. The musical hops back and forth between two story lines: Follett’s experiences up until her disappearance, and the nationwide investigation that unfolded afterward, led by the dogged Capt. Stahl and forever pushed forward by her grieving mother, Helen Thomas Follett.

Follett’s childhood was marked by unhappiness, Edmunds said, noting that Helen, who wrote for a commercial shipping company, and Follett’s father, a Knopf literary editor named Wilson Follett, fought often.

“They were at each other hammer and tongs,” Edmunds said. “And even when they wrote about Barbara, subsequently, you could feel the animosity between them.”

This made sense because about a year after the publication of Barbara Follett’s first book, Wilson left Helen for a much younger woman, moving in with her in Greenwhich Village. Her father’s desertion dealt a crushing blow to Barbara, who adored him. She subsequently embarked on a sailing journey with Helen from New York to Barbados and then on through the Panama Canal. Barbara became seriously ill during the journey — the result of nerves and depression, Helen thought.

Barbara Follett, a child literary prodigy, is the subject of a new musical titled “Perfect World.”

(Courtesy of Stefan Cooke / Farksolia.org)

Around that time, Follett met and fell in love with a 25-year-old sailor named Edward Anderson. Helen did not approve, and Edmunds said she conspired to get Anderson fired from his position as second mate. The loss of Anderson was the second major blow in Follett’s life, Edmunds said, and it’s a thread that runs through the musical, leading to Follett’s meeting with a recent Dartmouth graduate named Nickerson Rogers — the man who would become her husband, and who would eventually leave her after having an affair with her best childhood friend.

The couple shared a love of nature, and before they were married, spent months hiking and camping together along the Appalachian Trail. Photos from the early 1930s show a slender, bare-legged Follett with short-cropped hair, sitting beside an open fire with a cooking pan and an old tin coffee pot.

Follett’s life was filled with crushing disappointment and near-constant stress, but nature provided a release. This is likely why she conjured up the perfect world of Farksolia at such a young age. It was an escape, and Follett packed it with as much detail as possible, including its own system of mathematics, its own language — Farksoo — and its own alphabet.

The heroine of “The House Without Windows” is a young girl named Eepersip who runs away from home to live contentedly with her animal friends in the woods. If it sounds simple, it was. But that was also its genius.

Critics loved it and it sold more than 20,000 copies upon its initial printing.

“I can safely promise joy to any reader of ‘The House Without Windows.’ Perfection,” wrote the English author of children’s books, Eleanor Farjeon, in a review.

Barbara Follett, a child literary prodigy, is the subject of a new musical titled “Perfect World.”

(Courtesy of Stefan Cooke / Farksolia.org)

There are many theories about what happened to the adventurous and headstrong young woman after she vanished, including that she was killed by her husband, who had demanded she stop writing and failed to report her missing until two weeks after she left. Others think she simply moved far away, changed her name and continued to write under a pseudonym. Then there is the recently surfaced idea that she went to a family-owned cottage in the woods and swallowed enough barbiturates to end her life. That theory holds that a body discovered in the late 1940s was misidentified as another woman, when it was actually Follett.

Edmunds has given the matter extensive thought and believes that Follett loved life too much to kill herself. The idea that appeals to him the most comes from a crumb of a clue in Follett’s archives — a letter from the sailor Anderson that Follett received a short time before her disappearance. It could be surmised from her letters that she never stopped loving Anderson. Could it be that she went to find him when her husband’s affair became known to her?

Edmunds ultimately decided not to go down the rabbit hole of speculation about Follett’s demise, opting instead to focus the musical on Follett’s life, “What she did, how she rescued herself, how she was so engaged and connected to nature, and how she wanted people to take care of each other and be good to each other,” Edmunds said. “How we could have a better world.”

“Is L.A. a theater town?”

The question, typically posed with New York condescension, fails to recognize the obvious reality that L.A. is a city of actors. True, most of them are here to make their names on-screen, but the talent pool rivals those of more established theater capitals. Don’t bother, however, trying to convince those denizens of New York and London who cling to old stereotypes of L.A., perhaps to compensate for their own inferior weather.

Southern California, of course, boasts some of the most prestigious playhouses in the country. The Mark Taper Forum, Pasadena Playhouse, South Coast Repertory, La Jolla Playhouse and the Old Globe are all recipients of the Regional Theatre Tony Award. The Geffen Playhouse, once considered the entertainment industry’s local theater, has entered a new era of bold vision and integrity under the leadership of playwright Tarell Alvin McCraney. It would surprise no one if the Geffen Playhouse is similarly honored in the next few years.

East West Players, the Latino Theater Company, Ebony Repertory Theatre and Native Voices at the Autry reflect the cultural, ethnic and racial diversity of a majority-minority city. The avant-garde is admittedly not L.A.’s strong suit, but REDCAT and CAP UCLA have filled the breach hosting interdisciplinary performance work from all over the world.

The Getty Villa’s annual outdoor classical theater production treats the canonical treasures of ancient Greece and Rome not with kid gloves but with an exploratory 21st century spirit. And A Noise Within has cultivated in its loyal audience an understanding that the classical repertory exists in the present tense and can speak directly to us today.

The stage is still the basis for acting training, and there comes a time when even the most successful film and TV actors want to return to their roots. Those with civic consciences are happy to tread the boards close to home. When Tom Hanks chose to play Falstaff in Shakespeare Center of Los Angeles’ production “Henry IV,” he did so at an outdoor venue, the Japanese Garden on the West Los Angeles VA campus, that was only a short commute from his own backyard. Annette Bening, a stalwart champion of L.A. theater, has notably performed at the Mark Taper Forum, the Geffen Playhouse and UCLA’s Freud Playhouse.

Beyond the A-listers, there’s a vast population of working actors hungry for opportunities to hone their craft. It’s to satisfy this need that L.A. has built up an extensive array of small, shoestring companies. This scene is decentralized, dispersed within an uncoordinated sprawl of regional fiefdoms, but the independent spirit has endowed many of these companies with astonishing capacities for survival.

Indeed, it’s this network of 99-seat theaters — those houses with 99 seats or fewer — that are the lifeblood of the local theater scene. The cultural landscape would be unimaginable without Rogue Machine Theatre, the Fountain Theatre, Echo Theater Company and Boston Court Pasadena. The resilience, imagination and integrity of these small companies have demonstrated that heart matters more than size.

L.A. is indisputably a theater town, but a theater town that operates by its own rules and urban logic, neither of which is easy for an outsider to crack. What follows is a curated list of some of the most essential venues in the city and surrounding region. Not meant to be comprehensive, this compilation tilts toward companies that have been active in recent seasons and have a dedicated home. Nomadic ensembles and those that have been dormant or less prominent in the post-pandemic recovery phase have been excluded from this selection. But the ecology of L.A. theater is ever-changing and ever-adapting, calling for updates and new classifications. Stay tuned for future lists and supplemental guides.

— Charles McNulty

On the night of September 24, 2025, Hollis Frazier-Herndon performed an acoustic rendition of his song “Eldest Child” for a sold-out crowd at USC’s Shrine Auditorium. During his croon of the lyrics, “Eldest child, eldest child, I know your momma and your daddy so goddamn proud. They don’t know me, no. They don’t know me now,” the artist known as 2hollis went from a fractured growl to a sweet silky falsetto to a full collapse into tears.

It was a moment of raw catharsis as well as a culmination. During a pre-show interview backstage, Hollis revealed the hidden meaning behind the lyrics. He said the figurative “momma and daddy” are actually his fans, whose expectations he’s glad he’s fulfilled, even though they “don’t actually know each other” in real life. Thus, a sold-out crowd enthusiastically singing back at him evoked an emotional release. In tandem with that though, is the fact that this was 2hollis’ first show in his hometown since his Altadena childhood house burned down in the January 2025 fires. The embrace from his extended community after he persevered through that tragedy and continued to ascend to musical stardom was palpable.

“I’m at a place now where I feel like, in a way, it’s sort of a phoenix situation,” Hollis said about his post-fire rise from the ashes. “The whole town burned down. It was terrible and insane. But it weirdly felt like that needed to happen [to make the new album what it is]. I don’t know, it’s hard seeing somewhere you grew up just be a deserted place.”

On the day before the release of his fourth album, “star,” in April, 2hollis posted a picture of a burnt-edged tarot card with the same title. He added a message explaining that the star card was the only thing he and his mother found intact when they returned to Altadena to assess the damage. It was also later reported by 032c Magazine that atop a tall hill behind Hollis’ family property existed a wooden and metal star statue filled with lightbulbs that would glow at night. That star, which Hollis and his childhood friends would hike up to, also burned. The album “star,” 2hollis’ best version of his signature crystalline hardstyle EDM, meets grimy rage trap, meets velvet emo pop punk, emerged directly and impactfully from the remains of the roaring flames.

At the end of the full throttle album opener “flash,” Hollis said he added recorded sounds of the wind chimes from his Altadena home porch, triggered by the Santa Ana winds in the lead up to the fire. You can also hear faint gusts and flame sounds emerge sparsely throughout the project. He let the weather itself dictate the type of immersive experience the album could be, even as it also chronicles his layered chase for notoriety and glory.

“There are a lot of self-reflective moments, and it is very personal and emotional, but it’s also like one big party,” he explained. “I feel like, in a f—ed up kind of way, that’s what a fire is, too. It’s so big and full of visceral anger and emotion and almost a sad kind of wave. But then, also, it’s lit.”

2hollis is a visual thinker, thus he envisions scenes and uses optical inspiration to craft his imaginative rave-like soundscapes. Grammy-winning producer Finneas, during a recent interview with Spotify, recalled a time in the studio with 2hollis when he described a sound he was trying to capture as “a crystal with a pretty face on it.” This is a regular practice. Backstage, he described the process of juxtaposing an RL Grime-esque intense trap drop with a synth piano inspired by the movement and presence of a porcelain Chinese lucky cat he kept in his bedroom studio at the Altadena house. This was for his song “burn” from “star,” a scorcher which also happened to be the last song recorded in his home before the flames hit.

For 2hollis’ most openly psyche’d song on the album, “tell me,” where he professes lyrics like, “Everybody I don’t know tryna know me these days I don’t even know who I am,” his mental visual for the ending electro drop is illuminating. “I always imagined heavy rain there and lightning shining on someone’s face,” Hollis said about a perhaps heroic moment linked to the fire. “And it’s also like a face-off. Maybe me versus my ego on a rainy war field at the end of ‘Squid Game.’”

2hollis often creates outlandish alternate worlds he hopes to thrust his listening audience into. “I think there’s become this thing with a lot of artists where they feel the need to be relatable,” he proclaimed questioningly. “That’s cool, but I want [to present] the fantasy of, ‘Let me listen and pretend I’m not me for a few minutes.” In a time of constantly looming shaky ground, Hollis presents escapism as mindful.

2hollis

(Sandra Jamaleddine)

2hollis, at times, appears in tandem with a white tiger. The animal bears the name of his first album and appears on stage at his shows as a large figurine that roars vehemently behind him during song transitions. As much as it feels a part of his fantastical sonic world, it is also deeply tied to his personal story.

On a follow-up call from backstage at a later show in Detroit, Hollis recalled a period of debilitating psychosis he experienced at 18 years old. He mediated and prayed to Archangels as an attempt to pull himself back together. When he invoked the spirit of the Angel Metatron, he would picture a white tiger destroying all the darkness and “demonic shit” around him. “It was wild and sounds insane, but it really helped me come out of it,” he said.

The more one speaks to Hollis, the more one realizes he embodies the Shakespearean line “All the world’s a stage.” Even in the most wholesome times in his life, as a little league baseball player and school theater kid, he would get a similar “butterfly in the stomach feeling” from the performance of it all. But by that same token, he is also someone who values solitude and garnered his appreciation for it from Altadena itself.

Hollis describes it as a place of “untouched, unscathed innocence.” A place where he could walk his dog up to the star behind his home, meditate, and look at the city of LA in the distance. “I go back there all the time even though there’s nothing there anymore,” Hollis said from Detroit about his home’s unending pull. “It’s just comforting to be there by myself. The energy that was there before didn’t die.”

That far-gone youthful time alone is where Hollis dreamed of the world he’s in now. He said, if he could, he’d say to that wide-eyed yet apprehensive kid, “Dude, you’re doing it, you were right, you knew. Now it’s beautifully harmoniously coming together.” On “tell me” 2hollis raps that he’s equal parts scared of “press,” “death,” and “judgment.” But now, with overwhelming chaos in his rearview, he proclaims, “I’m running headfirst into everything. I’m not dying. I’m not scared of sh—.”

2hollis performs at Shrine Auditorium on Monday.

With Oasis fever sweeping the UK, there are plenty of other musical brands Brits dream of seeing make a comeback

Queen has been voted the top dream musical comeback by Brits, following the storming success of Oasis’ reformation.

As Oasis mania sweeps the nation, a survey asked music fans to name the artists and bands they’d most love to see return to the stage, with Queen securing the top spot with 29% of the vote.

Music legends from various eras including The Beatles (28%), Fleetwood Mac (19%), Spice Girls (13%), Girls Aloud (10%) and Aretha Franklin (9%) also feature on the list of stars we’re itching to see live again.

Elvis (23%), Whitney Houston (20%) and R. E.M (13%) also made the cut, reports the Daily Star.

A whopping 70% of respondents are thrilled about Oasis’ return to the live music scene, with nearly half (47%) confessing they’d go to great lengths to see their favourite bands if they were to make a comeback.

It’s hardly surprising that a massive nine out of ten (90%) agree that experiencing live music is one of life’s greatest joys, with three quarters (73%) loving the atmosphere and two thirds (66%) savouring the experience.

Over half (59%) say there’s nothing quite like enjoying live music with their partner, while 53% love letting loose with their mates.

The 90s (45%) was crowned the best decade for music, followed by the 80s (40%), 2000s (30%) and 70s (20%), according to the 2,000 Brits polled by Marella Cruises, TUI’s UK ocean cruise line.

A whopping 92% of Brits use music to get them in the holiday mood, with 90s tunes (49%), classic holiday anthems (36%), 00s hits (23%) and lounge music (21%) all contributing to that holiday feeling.

Yet, despite our love for music, nearly half (48%) of us believe that listening to it on speakers or phones doesn’t compare to experiencing it live, which is why Brits are planning to attend an average of three live gigs and festivals this year.

A significant 64% are keen to attend more gigs this year than last, to make the most of who’s performing live (44%) and who’s making a comeback (43%).

Other factors that make live music unforgettable include creating lasting memories (52%), dancing the night away (40%), spending time with mates (37%), belting out the lyrics (37%) and feeling the rhythm in your bones (37%).

To cater to the nation’s craving for 90s music and their dream gig, Marella Cruises has launched its ‘Electric Sunsets 90s vs 00s’ themed cruise – a three-day adult-only event, which is reviving the 90s and 00s with headline acts like Kimberly Wyatt from the Pussycat Dolls and B*Witched.

Chris Hackney, Managing Director at Marella Cruises, commented: “The latest research highlights a growing trend among Brits embracing musical comebacks-especially from the 90s, which remains the nation’s most beloved music decade. That’s why we’re over the moon to announce the return of our Electric Sunsets themed cruise for its fifth year. This unique voyage offers a chance to sail the Mediterranean while enjoying unforgettable entertainment with a nostalgic twist, featuring acts like Kimberly Wyatt from the Pussycat Dolls, B*Witched, and Booty Luv. Passengers, whether new to cruising or seasoned cruisers, can relive iconic hits while enjoying a one-of-a-kind cruise holiday experience.”

Snoopy is the superstar of the “Peanuts” world, but Ben Folds is loyal to Charlie Brown. “I’m going to have to go with Chuck because he’s so emotionally compressed,” the singer-songwriter said when asked for a favorite.

Folds didn’t grow up poring over the Charles M. Schulz comics or memorizing the TV specials — “I can’t think of anything I really was a fan of outside of music” — but he loved Vince Guaraldi’s music for the animated specials.

He started studying Charlie Brown and the gang when he was hired to write the title song for “It’s the Small Things, Charlie Brown,” sung by Charlie’s sister Sally in the 2022 Apple TV special. And he recently dove back into the world of these iconic characters when he returned to write the final three songs for “Snoopy Presents: A Summer Musical.”

“I think it’s good that I came to fully appreciate the world of ‘Peanuts’ as an adult,” says Folds, although he adds that he was still starstruck about writing for Charlie Brown. “It’s a lot of responsibility,” he says. “I was asking the Schulz family, ‘Can I say this?’ and they’d say, ‘Yes, it’s yours.’”

Ben Folds performs in concert during the “Paper Airplane Request Tour” at ACL Live at The Moody Theatre on December 11, 2024 in Austin, Tx.

(Rick Kern / Getty Images)

Folds’ best-known songs, such as “Brick,” “Song for the Dumped,” “Army,” “Rockin’ the Suburbs” and “Zak and Sara,” may seem too sardonic or dark for the sweet world of Snoopy and company. But he sees it differently.

“There’s a lot of deep stuff there. ‘Peanuts,’ like ‘Mister Rogers,’ presents an empathetic and nuanced, not dumbed-down view of the world, and that is rare for kids programming,” he says. “I was able to say stuff in my songs that kids will understand but that will go over the heads of many adults.”

He also knows how to approach the storytelling aspect of musical writing pragmatically.

Within the show’s parameters, Folds is grateful to the creators for giving him his artistic freedom. “They give me carte blanche and don’t push back” Folds says, adding that when he puts in poetic imagery — ”I’m not calling myself f—ing Keats or anything,” he adds as an aside — director Erik Wiese would weave those ideas into the animation. “That’s really cool to see.”

“My ambition is to have them tell me that my lyrics meant they could delete pages of script,” he adds. “That’s what these songs are for.”

Wiese says Folds was the ideal person to “take the mantle” from Guaraldi: “He brings a modern thing and his lyrics are so poetic; on his albums he always touches your heart.”

Writer and executive producer Craig Schulz, who is Charles’ son, was impressed by both Folds’ songwriting and the responsibility the musician felt to the “Peanuts” brand. “He has a unique ability to really get into what each of the gang is thinking and drive the audience in the direction we want to,” says Schulz, adding that there was one day where the writers got on the phone with Folds to explain the emotions they needed a scene to convey “and suddenly he says, ‘I got it, I’m super-excited’ and then he hangs up and runs to the piano and cranks it out.”

The first song Folds wrote for “A Summer Musical” was when Charlie Brown realizes that the camp he holds dear “is going to get mown over in the name of progress. I wanted him to have the wisdom of his 60-year-old self to go back to ‘when we were light as the clouds’ to let him understand the future,” he says. So it’s a poignant song even as he’s writing about Charlie Brown looking through “old pictures of people he met five days ago. That’s the way kids are — they’re taking in a whole world and learning a lot in five days.”

(He did not write the show’s first two songs, though you’ll hear plenty of Folds-esque piano and melody in them because, Wiese says, “We wanted it to sound cohesive.”)

In the final song, Folds’ lyrics celebrate the saving of the camp (yeah, spoiler alert, but it’s “Peanuts,” so you know the ending will be happy), but he laces in the idea that these children are inheriting a lot of bad things from older generations, including climate change. But it’s not cynical, instead adding an understanding that their parents did the best they could (with a “Hello Mother, Hello Father” reference thrown in for the old-timers) and that this new generation will do the best they can and make their own mistakes.

Franklin, Marcie, Peppermint Patty, Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Woodstock and Sally in “Snoopy Presents: A Summer Musical.”

(Apple TV+)

Folds says it’s important for people in the arts and on the left to bring a realistic view but not to become doomsayers.

“I see how bad it could get, but there are two stories you can always tell that might be true — one way to talk about climate change will leave people saying, ‘We’re screwed anyway so I’ll just drink out of plastic bottles and toss them in the garbage,’ but the other way is to motivate people, to tell a story that shows an aspiration towards the future.”

That does not mean, of course, that Folds is blind to the perils of the moment. He stepped down as the National Symphony Orchestra’s artistic advisor at the Kennedy Center to protest Donald Trump’s power play there.

“I couldn’t be a pawn in that,” he says. “Was I supposed to call my homies like Sara Bareilles and say, ‘Hey, do you want to come play here?’” But he’s focusing on the positive, noting that he’s now working with other symphony orchestras with that free time.

Folds has recently also tried countering the turmoil of our current era: Last year he released his first Christmas album, “Sleigher,” and his 2023 album “What Matters Most” opens with “But Wait, There’s More,” which offers political commentary but then talks about believing in the good of humankind, and closes with the uplifting “Moments.”

And obviously, Folds knows that a show that stars a beagle and a small yellow bird that defies classification is not the right place to get bogged down in the issues of the day. Even when the lyrics dip into melancholy waters, they find a positive place to land.

“In this era I don’t want the art that passes through my world to not have some semblance of hope,” he says.

The hit Broadway musical “Hamilton” is making its way to the big screen on Sept. 5.

Lin-Manuel Miranda announced the theatrical release date for the Tony Award-winning musical Tuesday night during an interview on “The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon.”

“We always wanted to release it theatrically, but then the pandemic hit and so we decided to release it on streaming, so that everyone could see it at home whenever they wanted,” Miranda said on the show. “[Soon] you will be able to see ‘Hamilton’ in movie theaters nationwide and in Puerto Rico.”

The show’s cinematic release marks a major milestone: It’s been nearly 10 years since the off-Broadway premiere of “Hamilton,” which was based on the life of Alexander Hamilton, a founding father of the United States. Created by Miranda, who also composed the music, lyrics and book, the hip-hop- and R&B-inflected musical used source material from “Alexander Hamilton,” a 2004 biography written by Ron Chernow. The musical went on to win 11 Tony Awards, including best musical, and the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 2016.

The film was shot in June 2016, during a live performance at the Richard Rodgers Theatre on Broadway, and features much of the original cast. This includes Miranda as Alexander Hamilton; Leslie Odom Jr. as Aaron Burr; Renée Elise Goldsberry as Angelica Schuyler and Phillipa Soo as Eliza Hamilton.

The film was originally slated for release in movie theaters in October 2021. Disney paid $75 million for worldwide movie rights in 2020 and released it later that year exclusively on its streaming platform; the film went on to win two Emmy Awards in 2021.

The “Hamilton” anniversary is being celebrated in more ways than one. Prior to Miranda’s “Tonight Show” interview, Madame Tussauds New York unveiled a wax figure of Miranda dressed as Alexander Hamilton at the Richard Rodgers Theatre.

Two special performances of the hit musical will also take place at the same theater today. Every actor who has performed on the Broadway musical since its opening has been invited, according to the Associated Press.

Attendees for the matinee were already selected via a lottery process and the evening performance is an invite-only fundraiser for the Immigrants: We Get the Job Done Coalition — a host of 14 immigrant service organizations that uplift immigrant communities across the country.

Tickets for the film are now available for purchase.

Tom Lehrer, an acerbic songwriter and Harvard-trained mathematician who rose to fame in the 1950s and ’60s by pillorying the sensibilities of the day, has died at age 97.

Lehrer died at his home in Cambridge, Mass., on Saturday. His death was confirmed by friends on Facebook. No cause of death was given.

The bespectacled Lehrer began performing on college campuses and clubs across the country in the 1950s, playing the piano and singing darkly comedic numbers that he penned on topics such as racial conflict, the Catholic Church and militarism, earning him the sobriquet of “musical nerd god.” In “National Brotherhood Week,” which lampooned the brief interlude of imposed tolerance celebrated annually from the 1930s through the early 2000s he wrote:

Oh, the white folks hate the black folks
and the black folks hate the white folks,
to hate all but the right folks is an old established rule …
But during National Brotherhood Week (National Brotherhood Week),
Lena Horne and Sheriff Clark are dancing cheek to cheek.
It’s fun to eulogize
The people you despise,
As long as you don’t let ‘em into your school.

Lehrer’s songs also took aim at then-taboo subjects such as sexuality, pornography and addiction.

In 1953, his self-released album “Songs of Tom Lehrer” became an underground hit. Produced for $40 and promoted by word of mouth, the cover image was of Lehrer in hell playing piano as the devil. It eventually sold an estimated 500,000 copies and sparked demand for concert performances around the world.

During the mid-1960s, Lehrer contributed several songs to the satirical NBC news show “That Was the Week That Was,” hosted by David Frost. The show inspired Lehrer’s third album, “That Was the Year That Was.” Released in 1965, it reached the 18th spot on American music charts.

On the occasion of his 90th birthday in 2018, Los Angeles Times columnist Michael Hiltzik wrote that Lehrer’s lyrics were written “with the facility of William S. Gilbert and tunes that evoked the felicity of Sir Arthur Sullivan. Lehrer’s work bounced the absurdities and paranoias of that period back at us, in rhymed couplets and a bouncy piano beat.”

Tom Lehrer circa 1970.

(Michael Ochs Archives)

Thomas Andrew Lehrer was born in New York City on April 9, 1928, to a middle-class family. His father James Lehrer was a successful necktie manufacturer.

As a child he took piano lessons but preferred Broadway show tunes — with a particular affection for the works of Gilbert and Sullivan — to the classics. After entering Harvard University at age 15, his penchant for sardonic humor surfaced in his parody song “Fight Fiercely Harvard,” which challenged the football team’s reputation for toughness and earned him a measure of renown on campus.

For a time he followed a dual track, music and academia, though he never completed the PhD thesis he began while pursuing doctoral studies at Harvard and Columbia University. After a two-year break between 1955 and 1957 when he served in the Army, Lehrer once again performed concerts across the U.S., Canada and Europe.

In a 1959 Time article, the magazine described Lehrer and fellow comedians Lenny Bruce and Mort Sahl as the symbols of a new “sick” comedy. “What the sickniks dispense is partly social criticism liberally laced with cyanide, partly a Charles Addams kind of jolly ghoulishness, and partly a personal and highly disturbing hostility toward all the world.”

Lehrer’s work opened the door for generations of musical satirists including Randy Newman and “Weird Al” Yankovic and exerted an influence on everything from the musical skits of “Saturday Night Live” to the mockumentary “This Is Spinal Tap.”

“He set the bar for me — and provided an example of how a nerdy kid with a weird sense of humor could find his way in the world,” Yankovic once said of Lehrer.

“Done right, social criticism set to a catchy tune always makes politics easier to digest,” Lizz Winstead, co-creator of “The Daily Show,” told Buzzfeed in an article examining Lehrer’s influence on modern satirical comedy.

But Lehrer was first and foremost an academic, over the course of his career teaching math and musical theater at Harvard, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and UC Santa Cruz and working for a time at the Atomic Energy Commission. He viewed entertainment largely as a sideline, and by the late 1960s had grown weary of life in the public eye.

After several pauses to focus on his academic pursuits, he stepped off the stage in 1967 following a concert in Copenhagen. In 1971, he wrote songs for the PBS children’s series “The Electric Company.” His last turn in the spotlight was a year later. After performing at a presidential campaign rally for the Democratic nominee, South Dakota Sen. George S. McGovern, he gave up performing for good.

Lehrer explained his retreat from the stage by saying that “political satire became obsolete when Henry Kissinger was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.” In an interview with the New York Times, he elaborated: “The Vietnam War is what changed it. Everybody got earnest. My purpose was to make people laugh and not applaud. If the audience applauds, they’re just showing they agree with me.”

But audiences were not through with Lehrer.

After nearly a decade in self-imposed exile, Lehrer became a hit once again in the early 1980s when Cameron Mackintosh, the British theatrical producer, created “Tomfoolery,” a revue of Lehrer’s songs that opened in London‘s West End before going to to play New York, Washington, Dublin and other cities.

Despite the public acclaim, Lehrer maintained a fiercely private life. He never married nor did he have children.

In 2020, Lehrer announced through his website that he was making all of the lyrics he wrote available to download for free without further permission, whether or not they were published or retained a copyright.

Two years later he went further in relinquishing his rights, saying: “In short, I no longer retain any rights to any of my songs. So help yourselves, and don’t send me any money.”

Leo Frank, the superintendent of a pencil factory in Georgia, was accused of murdering a young employee, 13-year-old Mary Phagan. His 1913 trial led to his conviction despite shoddy evidence and the manipulations of an ambitious prosecuting attorney, who shamelessly preyed on the prejudices of the jury.

After a series of failed appeals, Frank’s sentence was commuted by the governor, but he was kidnapped and lynched by a mob enraged that his death sentence wasn’t being imposed. The story garnered national attention and threw a spotlight on the fault lines of our criminal justice system.

This dark chapter in American history might not seem suitable for musical treatment. Docudrama would be the safer way to go, given the gravity of the material. But playwright Alfred Uhry and composer and lyricist Jason Robert Brown had a vision of what they could uniquely bring to the retelling of Frank’s story.

Olivia Goosman, from left, Jack Roden and the national touring company of “Parade.”

(Joan Marcus)

Their 1998 musical was a critical hit but a difficult sell. More admired than beloved, the show has extended an open challenge to theater artists drawn to the sophisticated majesty of Brown’s Tony-winning score but daunted by the expansive scope of Uhry’s Tony-winning book.

Director Michael Arden has answered the call in his Tony-winning revival, which has arrived at the Ahmanson Theatre in sharp form. The production, which launched at New York City Center before transferring to Broadway, proved that a succès d’estime could also be an emotionally stirring hit.

“Parade” covers a lot of cultural, historical, and political ground. The trial, prefaced by a Civil War snapshot that sets the action in the proper context, takes up much of the first act. But the musical also tells the story of a marriage that grows in depth as external reality becomes more treacherous.

It’s a lot to sort through, but Arden, working hand in hand with scenic designer Dane Laffrey, has conceptualized the staging in a neo-Brechtian fashion that allows the historical background to be seamlessly transmitted. Sven Ortel‘s projections smoothly integrate the necessary information, allowing the focus to be on the human figures caught in the snares of American bigotry and barbarism.

Danielle Lee Greaves, left, and Talia Suskauer in the national tour of “Parade.” Suskauer plays Lucille, Leo’s wife.

(Joan Marcus)

The 2007 Donmar Warehouse revival, directed by Rob Ashford, came to the Mark Taper Forum in 2009 with the promise that it had finally figured out the musical. The production was scaled down, but the full potency of “Parade” wasn’t released. An earnest layer of “importance” clouded the audience’s emotional connection to the characters, even if the Taper was a more hospitable space for this dramatic musical than the Ahmanson.

Arden’s production, at once intimate and epic, comes through beautifully nonetheless on the larger stage. “Parade,” which delves into antisemitism, systemic bias in our judicial system and the power of a wily demagogue to stoke atavistic hatred for self-gain, has a disconcerting timeliness. But the production — momentous in its subject matter, human in its theatrical style — lets the contemporary parallels speak for themselves.

Ben Platt, who played Leo, and Micaela Diamond, who played Leo’s wife, Lucille, made this Broadway revival sing in the most personally textured terms. For the tour, these roles are taken over by Max Chernin and Talia Suskauer. Both are excellent, if less radiantly idiosyncratic. The modesty of their portrayals, however, subtly draws us in.

Chris Shyer, left, and Alison Ewing play Governor Slaton and his wife, two of the more noble figures in the show.

(Joan Marcus)

Chernin’s Leo is a cerebral, Ivy League-educated New Yorker lost in the minutiae of his factory responsibilities. A numbers man more than a people person, he’s a fish out of water in Atlanta, as he spells out in the song “How Can I Call This Home?” Platt played up the comedy of the quintessential Jewish outsider in a land of Confederate memorials and drawling manners. Chernin, more reserved in his manner, seethes with futile terror.

The withholding nature of Chernin’s Leo poses some theatrical risks but goes a long way toward explaining how the character’s otherness could be turned against him in such a malignant way. His Leo makes little effort to fit in, and he’s resented all the more for his lofty detachment.

It takes some time for Suskauer’s Lucille to come into her own, both as a wife and a theatrical character. It isn’t until the second half that, confronting the imminent death of her husband, she asserts herself and rises in stature in both Leo’s eyes and audience’s. But a glimmer of this potential comes out in the first act when Lucille sings with plaintive conviction “You Don’t Know This Man,” one of the standout numbers in a score distinguished less by individual tunes than by the ingenious deployment of an array of musical styles (from military beats to folk ballads and from hymns to jazz) to tell the story from different points of view.

Max Chernin’s Leo is a cerebral, Ivy League-educated New Yorker lost in the minutiae of his factory responsibilities.

(Joan Marcus)

“This Is Not Over Yet” raises hope that Leo and Lucille will find a way to overcome the injustice that has engulfed them. History can’t be revised, but where there’s a song there’s always a chance in the theater. Reality, however, painfully darkens in the poignant duet “All the Wasted Time,” which Lucille and Leo sing from his prison cell — a seized moment of marital bliss from a husband and wife who, as the last hour approaches, have finally become equal partners.

Ramone Nelson, who plays Jim Conley, a Black worker at the factory who is suborned to testify against Leo, delivers the rousing “Blues: Feel The Rain Fall,” a chain gang number that electrifies the house despite the defiance of a man who, having known little justice, has no interest in defending it. Conley has been sought out by Governor Slaton (a gently authoritative Chris Shyer), who has reopened the investigation at Lucille’s urging only to uncover contradictions and inconsistencies in the case. He’s one of the more noble figures, however reluctant, married to a woman (a vivid Alison Ewing) who won’t let him betray his integrity, even if it’s too little, too late.

Hugh Dorsey (Andrew Samonsky), the prosecuting attorney preoccupied with his future, has no regrets after railroading Leo in a politicized trial that will cost him his life. Dorsey is one of the chief villains of the musical, but Samonsky resists melodrama to find a credible psychological throughline for a man who has staked his career on the ends justifying the means.

Lucille (Talia Suskauer, left) and Leo (Max Chernin) sing a poignant duet from his prison cell.

(Joan Marcus)

Britt Craig (Michael Tacconi), a down-on-his-luck reporter who takes delight in demonizing Leo in the press, dances on his desk when he’s landed another slanderous scoop. But even he’s more pathetic than hateful. One sign of the production’s Brechtian nature is the way the structural forces at work in society are revealed to be more culpable than any individual character. The press, like the government and the judiciary, is part of a system that’s poisoned from within.

The harking back to the Civil War isn’t in vain. “Parade” understands that America’s original sin — slavery and the economic apparatus that sanctioned the dehumanization of groups deemed as “other” — can’t be divorced from Leo’s story.

The musical never loses sight of poor Mary Phagan (Olivia Goosman), a flighty underage girl who didn’t deserve to be savagely killed at work. It’s exceedingly unlikely that Leo had anything to do with her murder, but the show doesn’t efface her tragedy, even as it reckons with the gravity of Leo’s.

When Chernin’s Leo raises his voice in Jewish prayer before he is hanged, the memory of a man whose life was wantonly destroyed is momentarily restored. His lynching can’t be undone, but the dignity of his name can be redeemed and our collective sins can be called to account in a gripping musical that hasn’t so much been revived as reborn.

Brian Wilson, the musical savant who scripted a defining Southern California soundtrack with the Beach Boys before being pulled down by despair and depression in full public view, has died. He was 82.

Wilson’s family announced his death Wednesday morning on Facebook. “We are at a loss for words right now,” the post said.

“Please respect our privacy at this time as our family is grieving. We realize we are sharing our grief with the world,” said the statement, which was also shared on Instagram and the musician’s website.

The statement didn’t reveal a cause of death. Wilson died more than a year after it was revealed he was diagnosed with dementia and placed under a conservatorship in May 2024. For decades, Wilson battled mental health issues and drug addiction.

“The world mourns a genius today, and we grieve for the loss of our cousin, our friend, and our partner in a great musical adventure,” the Beach Boys said in a statement on Wednesday. “Brian Wilson wasn’t just the heart of The Beach Boys — he was the soul of our sound. The melodies he dreamed up and the emotions he poured into every note changed the course of music forever. “

The group added: “Together, we gave the world the American dream of optimism, joy, and a sense of freedom — music that made people feel good, made them believe in summer and endless possibilities. We are heartbroken by his passing.”

Elton John, the Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood, Mick Fleetwood and Nancy Sinatra were among the artists who remembered Wilson on social media. Universal Music Group chairman and CEO Lucian Grainge and California Gov. Gavin Newsom also paid tribute to Wilson and his contributions to music.

“Wilson fundamentally changed modern music, helping make the Beach Boys not only the defining American band of their era, but also the California band to this day,” Newsom said in a statement. “He captured the mystique and magic of California, carrying it around the world and across generations.”

Roundly regarded as a genius in the music studio, Wilson wrote more than three dozen Top 40 hits, bright summertime singalongs that were radio candy in the early 1960s, anthems to the surf, sun and souped-up cars.

In an era when rock groups were typically force-fed material written by established musicians and seasoned songwriters, Wilson broke the mold by writing, arranging and producing a stream of hits that seemed to flow effortlessly from the studio.

Riding the crest of peppy, radio-friendly songs like “Surfer Girl,” “California Girls” and “Don’t Worry Baby,” Capital Records gave Wilson almost unchecked control over the group’s output. The label came to hold Wilson in such high regard that it even allowed him to record where he wished rather than use the cavernous Capitol studios in Hollywood that the Beach Boy leader felt were suitable only for orchestras.

“There are points where he did 37 takes of the same song,” said William McKeen, who taught a rock ‘n’ roll history course at the University of Florida. “One track will be someone singing ‘doo, doo, doo’ and the next will be ‘da, da, da.’ Then you hear them all together and, my God, it’s a complex piece of music.

“And he heard it all along.”

In many ways, the studio became Wilson’s primary instrument, just as it had been Phil Spector’s. As his confidence grew, Wilson’s compositions became more majestic and complex as he pieced together a far-reaching catalog of music while his bandmates toured the world without him — just as he preferred.

When the group returned from a tour in Asia in 1966, they discovered that Wilson had created an entire album during their absence. He had written the songs — many with guest lyricist Tony Asher, used the highly regarded Wrecking Crew session musicians to record with him and regarded the product as essentially a solo album. All his bandmates needed to do, he explained, was add their voices.

Brian Wilson, second to right, performs with the Beach Boys in California circa 1964.

(Michael Ochs Archives / Getty Images)

The songs on “Pet Sounds” were achingly beautiful and introspective. Some were melancholy, wistful, and brimming with nostalgia. Gone were the waves, the sunshine and the blond-haired girls that populated his earlier work. They were replaced with interlocking songs that seemed to form a single piece of music.

His bandmates were dumbstruck. Mike Love, his cousin and lead singer of the group, told him the album would have been better had he had a bigger hand in its creation. “Stop f— with the formula,” he reportedly snapped. Other band members agreed that the songs seemed foreign compared with surefire crowd pleasers like “Surfin’ U.S.A” and “Dance, Dance, Dance.” But they relented, and the album was released.

Love, in a lengthy 2012 L.A. Times op-ed about his brittle relationship with Wilson, told the story far differently, however. He said he was an early champion of the album, wrote some of the songs, came up with the title and helped convince Capitol to get behind the record when the label dragged its feet.

Though “Pet Sounds” was the first Beach Boys recording not to go gold — at least not immediately — it was a virtual narcotic to critics and admirers. Paul McCartney said it was “the classic of the century” and, as the story goes, rallied the rest of the Beatles to record “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” in response. Classical composer Leonard Bernstein declared Wilson a genius and one of America’s “most important musicians.”

As the years passed, the album became a treasured gem, saluted as one of the finest of the rock era and preserved in the National Recording Registry by the Library of Congress. Fifty years after it was released, it was still ranked as the second-best album of all time by both Rolling Stone and Pitchfork, topped only by “Sgt. Pepper’s.”

“Part of Brian Wilson’s genius was his ability to express great complexity within the frame of great simplicity,” wrote Anthony DeCurtis, an author and former Rolling Stone editor.

Then things fell apart.

For months, Wilson tinkered in the studio on an album with the working title “Smile” as anticipation built for what it might be and in what direction it might take rock, already shifting quickly in the dawn of the psychedelic era — music, drugs, lifestyle and all. Wilson said the album would be a “teenage symphony to God,” a piece of music so audacious it would unlock the straitjacket he felt was keeping pop music bland and predictable.

The first window into the album was “Good Vibrations,” a 3-minute, 35-second song that featured dramatic shifts in tone and mood with Wilson’s distinctive falsetto soaring above it all. It was an immediate commercial and critical success.

But it was also a disturbing sign of the madcap world Wilson now inhabited. Recordings for “Good Vibrations” stretched over seven months, the sonic blips and beeps he was trying to stitch together consumed 90 hours of tape and costs soared to nearly $75,000 — roughly $740,000 in 2025 valuation. All the while, musicians — some bandmates, others hired guns — filed in and out of four different studios as he searched for perfection.

Not everyone thought it was worth the effort for a single song.

“You had to play it about 90 bloody times to even hear what they were singing about,” complained Pete Townshend, the guitarist and songwriter for the Who. Spector — Wilson’s idol — said it felt “overproduced.” McCartney said it lacked the magic of “Pet Sounds.”

Wilson felt otherwise. When he finished the final mix on “Good Vibrations,” he said it left him with a feeling he’d never experienced.

“It was a feeling of exaltation. Artistic beauty. It was everything.”

The band toured again as Wilson continued work on “Smile,” an increasingly troubled project. He ordered members of a studio orchestra to wear fire gear and reportedly built a fire in the studio during a recording of “Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow,” which was to be the album’s opening number. He turned to veteran recording artist Van Dyke Parks for help with the lyrics rather than wait for his bandmates to return.

When Love listened to the still-under-construction album, he dismissed it as “a whole album of Brian’s madness,” according to the Guardian. Parks, an admired lyricist with his own career to worry about, eventually walked away from the project, spooked by Wilson’s erratic behavior and what he saw as Love’s uncomfortable tendency to bully his cousin.

David Marks, from left, Al Jardine, Brian Wilson, Blondie Chaplin, Mike Love and Bruce Johnston at the 2024 world premiere of the Disney+ documentary “The Beach Boys” in Hollywood.

(Alberto E. Rodriguez / Getty Images)

Whether it was the hostile reaction from his bandmates or the hopelessness of navigating the maze of half-finished songs and sonic fragments he’d created, Wilson put the whole thing aside. It would be decades before he revisited it.

“When we didn’t finish the album, a part of me was unfinished also, you know?” Wilson wrote in his 2016 memoir “I am Brian Wilson.” “Can you imagine leaving your masterpiece locked up in a drawer for almost 40 years?”

Love, who sued Wilson repeatedly through the years to get songwriting credit for dozens of songs he claimed he helped write, bristled at the suggestion that he had upended his cousin’s masterwork.

“What did I do? Why am I the villain?” Love wondered aloud in a lengthy 2016 profile in Rolling Stone. “How did it get to this?

Wilson’s psyche had been fragile for years. He was reclusive at times, spending days alone in a bedroom at his Malibu mansion, where he had a baby grand piano installed in a sandbox and a teepee erected in the living room. He admitted that he suffered from auditory hallucinations, which caused him to hear voices.

And he took drugs by the bucketful.

He was public about his demons. He was mentally ill, he said, consumed with such depression that he couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time. He smoked pot, experimented with LSD and got through the day with a steady lineup of amphetamines, cocaine and sometimes heroin. A tall man, Wilson’s weight ballooned to more than 300 pounds, and when he did surface in public, he seemed withdrawn and distracted.

“I lost interest in writing songs,” he told The Times in a 1988 interview. “I lost the inspiration. I was too concerned with getting drugs to write songs.”

It all started in Hawthorne, where Wilson was born on June 20, 1942. The eldest of three boys, he grew up in suburban comfort not far from the beaches that would inspire so many of his early songs.

His father, Murry, was a musician and a machinist; his mother, Audree, a homemaker. Wilson went to Hawthorne High, where he played football and baseball. He earned an F for a composition he submitted in his music class, though decades later the school changed his grade to an A when administrators discovered the composition had become the Beach Boys’ first hit song, “Surfing.” School officials invited him to campus to accept their apology.

At home, he played the piano obsessively. He recalled hearing George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” when he was 4, lying on the floor of his grandmother’s house, mesmerized that the composer had captured both a city and an entire era in a single piece of music. He took accordion lessons but set the instrument aside after six weeks. His father, though, noticed his son had the ability to quickly repeat melodies on the piano.

“He was very clever and quick. I just fell in love with him,” Murry Wilson says in Peter Carlin’s “Catch a Wave: The Rise, Fall and Redemption of the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson.”

In 1961, with his parents on vacation, Wilson, his brothers, Love and their friend Al Jardine rented guitars, a bass, drums and an amplifier with the food money their parents had left behind and staged a concert for their friends. When Murry Wilson returned home, he was more pleased than angered and encouraged the fledgling musicians to continue. Armed with a handful of songs, the Pendletones — named for the then-popular flannel shirts — began to play at school dances and parties. When they went into the studio to record, a producer changed the group’s name to the Beach Boys and never bothered to tell them.

If it all sounded sunny and carefree, Wilson didn’t remember it that way. He said his father was abusive and seemed to delight in humiliating him, typically in public. It was possible, he said, that his hearing problems stemmed from one of the times his father smacked him in the head.

“I was constantly afraid,” he told The Times in 2002. “That’s what I remember most: being nervous and afraid.”

When the Beach Boys became successful, Murry took over as their manager and increasingly took charge of their business affairs. When money was needed, he overrode his sons’ objections and sold off the band’s publishing company, believing the group had peaked. When the group went on the road, he went with them and fined his sons if they broke his rules — no booze, no profanity, no fraternizing with women. Finally, in 1964, Wilson and his brothers essentially fired their father. Never fully reconciled with his sons, Murry died of a heart attack in 1973.

To some observers, the riddle of Brian Wilson could not be fully explained by the drugs he took, the voices he heard or the depression that smothered him like a blanket. It was more than that.

“My own theory is that he was never able, never quite allowed, to become an adult — and that this, more than anything else, has been the story of his life, and of his band,” wrote Andrew Romano in a lengthy 2012 Newsweek article.

An abusive father, a cousin he regarded as a bully and ultimately a psychologist who sought to control his every move, his every thought — all appeared to have a hand in making Wilson who he was.

And then there was Eugene Landy, a colorful character by any measurement. He wore orange sunglasses, drove a Maserati with a license plate reading “HEADDOC,” sported a Rod Stewart-style haircut and practiced a brand of pop psychology that was regarded by some as revolutionary. Others, though, saw Landy as a Svengali-like figure, a man who could make Wilson appear to be on the road to recovery while bleeding him of every resource he had.

Hired by Wilson’s first wife, Marilyn, in 1976, Landy had his first meeting with his new client in Wilson’s bedroom closet, the only place where the musician said he felt safe. Landy gradually won Wilson’s trust and, believing in 24-hour therapy, moved in with the musician.

The results were immediate. Wilson shed weight, quit taking street drugs and rejoined the Beach Boys on stage for the group’s 15th anniversary. For a man who was so paranoid that he reportedly refused to brush his teeth or shower for fear that blood would gush from the faucet, it was a night-and-day change.

But it was short-lived, and Landy was fired when the Beach Boys’ management balked at his fees, which hovered around $35,000 a month — around $345,000 in 2025 valuation.

Without Landy, Wilson quickly regressed — back on drugs, overeating, retreating to his bedroom. He separated from his wife and grew apart from his daughters, Carnie and Wendy. Then with a flourish, Landy returned and — armed with a full team of nutritionists, assistants and caregivers — doubled down on his around-the-clock therapy.

Landy concluded Wilson suffered from a schizoid personality with manic depressive features — introverted, painfully shy, unable to show emotion. Left untreated, Landy said, Wilson would inevitably swing freely between delusional highs and nearly suicidal lows. He loaded Wilson up on medications — lithium, Xanax, Halcion, among others.

So involved was Landy in Wilson’s every move that in 1988 when the musician released “Brian Wilson” — his first solo album and his best effort in years — Landy was listed as the executive producer and given co-writing credit on five of the 11 songs. Landy’s girlfriend was given co-writing credit on three other songs. Landy became Wilson’s manager, formed a business interest with the musician to share in any profits from recordings, films and books and tried to become executor of Wilson’s estate.

Landy was ousted for good when the state attorney general’s office opened an investigation into his relationship with Wilson, probing accusations that he had prescribed drugs without a medical license and had financially exploited his famous client.

Gary Usher, a songwriter who worked with Landy, told state investigators that Wilson was a virtual captive, manipulated by a man who frightened and intimidated him.

In 1989, Landy pleaded guilty to a single charge of unlawfully prescribing drugs, surrendered his license and moved to Hawaii, where he died of lung cancer in 2006.

Wilson, who rarely said anything negative about anyone, could find little kind to say about Landy in a 2015 interview with Rolling Stone. “I thought he was my friend, but he was a very f— up man.”

Despite the tumult, Wilson kept recording and performing, sometimes showing glimpses of his former self, yet always doomed to comparisons with his earlier work.

In 2017, Times rock critic Randy Lewis observed that Wilson seemed chipper and content during a leg of the “Pet Sounds Live” tour at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. His voice, once shriveled by years of smoking and other abuses, was “assertive and confident,” Lewis wrote.

Two years later, though, Wilson postponed a leg of his “Greatest Hits” tour to focus on his mental health.

“It is no secret that I have been living with mental illness for many decades,” he wrote in a tender apology to ticketholders. “I’ve been struggling with stuff in my head and saying things I don’t mean, and I don’t know why.”

Through it all, the unfinished concept album he had put aside hung like a cloud.

A few snippets of the album had been used on “Smiley Smile,” a hurry-up recording in 1967 that the Beach Boys recorded to meet contractual demands, and “Surf’s Up,” a 1971 album built around a song of the same name that Wilson wrote for “Smile.”

Nearly 30 years later, an L.A. musician named Darian Sahanaja asked Wilson whether he’d be interested in revisiting “Smile.” The two had come to know each other on the road when Wilson sat in with Sahanaja’s group, the Wondermints.

The master tapes were unlocked, and Sahanaja said he downloaded the tracks and unconnected song fragments, aware that he was handling the very material that had nearly driven its author mad.

As the two worked on a laptop, the harmonies and unwritten connective tissue seemed to return to Wilson, Sahanaja said. They smoothed out transitions, changed tempos to help connect songs and phoned Parks when they were unable to make out lyrics. If he couldn’t remember a passage, Parks came up with substitute language.

In February 2004, Wilson’s version of “Smile” finally premiered at London’s Royal Festival Hall. With Wilson on stage, seated at a piano, and Parks in the audience, the crowd roared thunderously as a song cycle that had become nearly mythical in its absence was finally unveiled.

“I’m at peace with it,” Wilson said later, smiling.

Wilson is survived by six children, including daughters Carnie and Wendy, who made up two-thirds of the Grammy-nominated pop vocal group Wilson Philips. He is preceded in death by his wife, Melinda, who died in January 2024. His brother Dennis drowned in 1983 while diving in Marina Del Rey, and Carl, his other brother, died of lung cancer in 1998.

Times staff writer Alexandra Del Rosario contributed to this report.

OJAI — You can’t escape nature in Ojai. That meant that flutist Claire Chase, this year’s Ojai Music Festival music director who is often called a force of nature, fit right in.

Chase is the proudest flutist I’ve ever observed. And the most expressive. She holds her head high whether playing piccolo or the 6-foot contrabass flute, as if her instrument were a magic wand used to activate her voice in the highest registers and the deepest.

The activism is more than an analogy. Chase is also a joyous and entrepreneurial music activist, MacArthur “genius,” educator, founder of New York’s impressive International Contemporary Ensemble and commissioner of a vastly imaginative new flute repertory in her ongoing Density 2036 project. The current surge of interest in Pauline Oliveros is largely her doing.

For Ojai, Chase collected concerned composers on a quest for a kind of eco-sonics capable of conjuring up the pleasure of nature and, in the process, saving our sanity. Over four days of concerts mostly in the rustic Libbey Bowl, the names of many of the works gave away the game.

“The Holy Liftoff,” “Horse Sings From Cloud,” “How Forests Think,” “Spirit Catchers,” “A Grain of Sand Walked Across a Face, on the Skin of a Washed Picture,” are a few.

The festival’s proudest moment (30 minutes to be precise) was the West Coast premiere of Susie Ibarra’s “Sky Islands.” It was the last work in a resplendent Sunday morning program that Chase described as “multi-spiritual” and “multi-species.” The sun found its way through the trees as the composer and percussionist Levy Lorenzo stood in front of the stage and began with a ceremonial pounding of bamboo poles.

“Sky Islands” evokes the magical Philippines upper rainforests, where sounds scintillate in a thinned atmosphere that gives gongs new glories, where animals capable of great ascension exclusively live, where the mind is ready for enlightenment. Ibarra wrote the score for her Talking Gong Trio (which includes Chase and pianist Alex Peh) along with added percussion and a string quartet, here the Jack Quartet.

To the head-scratching surprise of the music establishment that has thus far paid little attention to Ibarra, “Sky Islands” won the 2025 Pulitzer Prize for music. A Filipino American from Anaheim who is now based in New York, Ibarra is best known as a percussionist in experimental jazz and new music with a strong interest in environmental sound installations and Indigenous music.

The head scratching stopped in Ojai. In the three works by Ibarra on the program, she proved a capacious sonic visionary. She is a superb mimic of nature’s aural realm — the sounds of animals, of a river, of trees in the wind, of rocks falling down a hillside. She stirs spirits with the barely heard whooshes of drum brushes waved in the air. She connects with the underground as a resonant gong master. She stops to smell whatever there is to smell. She’s often funny.

Mainly, though, she simply entrances, whether she spread her percussive wares in “Kolubri” or writing for other musicians in “Sunbird” on a misty early morning at Ojai Meadows Preserve. Her lovingly sly Haydn-esque wit came out in the premiere of “Nest Box,” a duo for her and Wu Wei on sheng, the Chinese mouth organ.

Steven Schick (percussion), from left, Wu Wei (sheng) and Susie Ibarra (percussion) perform Annea Lockwood’s “bayou-borne” in Libbey Bowl at the 2025 Ojai Music Festival.

(Timothy Teague / Ojai Festival)

Gauging by the audience response, “Sky Islands” was the clear favorite of more than three dozen new or newish works. It is a complex piece that appears to set off on a well-apportioned journey led by Chase into the unknown. But at every turn, the music surprises with a melody that feels familiar until it suddenly doesn’t.

Ibarra leaves room for improvisation as a way for the performers to react to what they are encountering. Chase and Ibarra may, for instance, begin a dialogue as nervous chit-chat with staccato flute interjections with drummed responses that soon turn to broad expressions of wonder. At the end the musicians pick up percussion instruments and leave the stage in a slow, winding procession of dance steps, as if marching into the unknown.

Chase brought together other composers from all over. And she brought together superb musicians from L.A. (particularly members of Wild Up) and New York. The music was all of our time with the exception of three small pieces of early music, but even that was modernized. There was long-winded indulgence and lovely itty-bitty works, over in a flash but suggestive of a full and lovely life, like that of an insect.

The spirit of the Ojai festival need not be conveyed by a laundry list of composers and works or by value judgments. At its best, the event is a musical wilderness, like no other festival of its caliber. The audience goes on a walk in the woods, with nature calling for discovery.

Around every corner you encounter a different musical voice. Hawaiian composer and violist Leilehua Lanzilotti rocked. Cuban composer Tania León added dollops of exciting modernism. Icelandic composer Anna Thorvaldsdottir commanded long stretches of empty landscape. Brazilian composer Marcos Balter conjured up the mythological Pan in a sometimes outrageous nine-part theatrical extravaganza for Chase.

New Zealander Annea Lockwood offered a 90-minute journey down the Housatonic River captured by loudspeakers in surround sound. In contrast, Australian Liza Lim, in raw instrumental outbursts, revealed the less agreeable possibilities of what forests may think (of us?).

And then there was, at long last for Ojai, the elephant in the minimalism room, the iconic California composer Terry Riley. His “In C” is the one piece Ojai has previously programmed. As Riley now approaches his 90th birthday (June 24), Chase unveiled three parts of an epic cycle of uncategorized pieces Riley has been working on since moving to the mountains of Japan five years ago.

“Pulsing Lifters,” in an arrangement for two pianos and harpsichord, is like a delicate dew. “The Holy Liftoff” realized by Samuel Clay Birmaher for flute and string quartet, opens with Chase on all five of her flutes, one played live, the others prerecorded. The effect is that of being submerged in a lush wash of beauteous flute chords. Riley then softens the spectacularly rigorous Jack Quartet with Ravel-like melody.

In “Pulsefield” pieces numbered 1, 2 and 3, Riley returns to the modular roots of “In C” a half century later. Here repeated rhythms are overlayed by a large ensemble featuring all the festival performers in ecstatic elaborations.

If this, one of the best and truest Ojai festivals in recent years, is meant not for explication but discovery, please do so. The festival has been slowly evolving a system of outdoor amplification, and it captures excellent audio on streams of the Libbey Bowl concerts. They remain archived on the OJai festival YouTube page.

Next year Esa-Pekka Salonen will return for the first time in a quarter century.

“Brian Wilson wasn’t just the heart of The Beach Boys — he was the soul of our sound. The melodies he dreamed up and the emotions he poured into every note changed the course of music forever.” — The Beach Boys

In an era when rock groups were typically force-fed material written by established musicians and seasoned songwriters, Wilson broke the mold by writing more than three dozen Top 40 hits, bright summertime singalongs, while also arranging and producing a stream of music that seemed to flow effortlessly from the studio.

Here are a few of the stories the L.A. Times has written about Wilson, who died at 82, over the years.

Brace yourself for a shock!

The average teenage girl in the U.S. spends between $8 and $10 a month for rock ‘n’ roll records. Kids buy 80% of single records, 40% of albums sold each year. They accounted for an astounding $250 million of the $580 million spent for platters in 1964.

The highly publicized Beatles are, of course, top sellers in this market. Second place goes to a West Coast (Hawthorne, Calif.) group called the Beach Boys, who don’t even have a press agent. Nevertheless these lads have sold in excess of 10 million singles and albums.

Both organizations record for and are considered the ‘backbone’ of Capitol.

Don’t Ask

Just who are the Beach Boys? Don’t ask the teenagers around your domicile or you’ll rate a contemptuous look. It would be like inquiring of the average adult, “Who’s Bing Crosby, Perry Como or Frank Sinatra?”

The Beach Boys consist of three Wilson brothers—Brian, 23; Dennis, 21; Carl, 19—a cousin, Mike Love, 24; and a neighbor, Alan Jardine, 22. These lads got together about four years ago and with brother Brian elected boss-man decided to create a new concept in rock ‘n’ roll music based on the “social life” of teeners.

Musically awkward at the start, the five soon coordinated their strumming, thumping and wailing into harmonies with a hot rock beat.

First Hit

Then one day Dennis, Hawthorne’s camp “surf fiend” came home from the beach with an idea—a tune themed on the new surfing craze. He mulled it over with Brian, and the latter wrote “Surfin’.” The rookie artists waxed it at an obscure recording studio at their own expense. And sold it.

They were on their way to fame and fortune.

Leader Brian, rugged looking, intellectually inquisitive and mildly eccentric, admitted their rise to popular stardom was simple and uncomplicated. “There is little to tell about our long, bitter struggle for success, which never happened that way,” he declared.

“Expanded rock ‘n’ roll music is generally divided into ‘sound’ classifications,” he explained during an interview at Capitol Records. “There’s the English sound, which is still pretty much early r ‘n’r—they got it late; the Detroit sounds, which is rhythm and blues; and the Spector sound, which results from extensive use of background instruments not usually associated with rock ‘n’ roll, such as oboe, harp, violins, horns etc.

Works Fine

“Then there’s our West Coast sound, which we pioneered and which has put us at the top in record sales. Our songs (he writes most of them) tell stories about teeners; what they do and what their feelings are. We base them on activities of healthy California kids, who like to surf, hot rod and engage in other outdoor fun. It seems to be working out fine.”

Brian foresees a long continuance of this type of music. “We catch the kids young,” he said. “About 12, I’d say. Their social life is associated with their music, and as they grow older it has become part and parcel of their frame of mind.

“Naturally older teeners and those in their early 20s turn to a more discreet type of rock ‘n’ roil. They lose some of the rebelliousness of youth. But the beat has become so ingrained in their lives that they’ll never forsake it altogether. At least, that’s what we believe.”

Rock Show

The Beach Boys, who will star in a big rock ‘n’ roll show Saturday at the Hollywood Bowl, own quite a collection of gold records, awarded for platter sales of a million or more. Their latest single, “Help Me Rhonda,” which was taken from a new album, has ridden the top of the charts for weeks. Sales have exceeded 750,000. The album, called “Beach Boys Today,” is over 340,000 in eight weeks.

Personal appearances keep the Beach Boys occupied between recording sessions, and have proved lucrative. They receive as much as $20,000 guaranteed for one-night stands, plus a percentage of profits.

“Eventually we’ll cut these road trips down to a bare minimum,” Brian said. “But they’re certainly paying off right now. We’re looking for a good movie.”