When I was in the fourth grade, my parents got me a CD player for my birthday. That day, I went downstairs and picked out my favorite of the CDs my parents had in rotation, back in the 90s. It was two Beach Boys albums on one disc, both from that wondrous year in music history, 1965: The Beach Boys Today and Summer Days and Summer Nights. I listened to that CD every night before bed for about a year, I think. And I still listen to it, frequently, to this day. As I got older, this organic obsession with the Beach Boys grew deeper and wider. I discovered Pet Sounds, of course, and then SMiLE, the band’s unfinished masterpiece of fragments and tall tales. I lurked on message boards and downloaded bootlegs on Napster. I read biographies and essay collections and scans of old Rolling Stone articles, seeking clues to a mystery, a puzzle, the nature of which was itself a mystery, a puzzle. In High School, I played the role of designated driver, subjecting drunk and high friends to the Beach Boys’ disturbing synth-pop masterpieces of the 70s, The Beach Boys Love You and Adult Child. In college, I told my friends funny stories about the band, referring to Brian, Carl, Dennis, Al and Mike on a first name basis, as if they were my friends, as if I had been there.
Summer Fun is about a band called The Get Happies, their lost masterpiece Summer Fun, and an obsessive fan—a trans woman living in a trailer in the New Mexico desert, who uses witchcraft to write herself into the Get Happies’ story. Or something. The book doesn’t feel like reading an experimental, is-anything-even-real sort of novel, but it certainly is one. In the end, I had no idea what did or did not happen, what was or was not real. Being able to spot the Beach Boys references on every page contributed to this sense of realities layered on realities. I am sure you don’t have to know anything about the Beach Boys to relate to this novel, though. In fact, I suspect that if I knew less about the Beach Boys, the novel would have felt clearer, if also perhaps less layered.
At its heart, Summer Fun is about the way that art can invite a dangerous and thrilling kind of identification between artist and listener, viewer, reader. Each of us—each obsessive Beach Boys fan, each obsessive fan of anyone—has, in our minds (to use Jeanne Thornton’s words) an “unfair mythic projection” of the artist. An entirely imaginary human being, produced at the intersection of our mind and theirs, forged in the experience of listening, watching, reading.
Summer Fun is about using art to run away from reality. To escape. It is also about using art to find yourself, to connect, to become real and solid. It is about dreaming both of those things into existence at the same time, and then watching them battle it out for your soul. It is heartbreaking, many-layered, strange, troubling, magical, a little manic, and very, very sad.
[Previous remarks: A trans novel about the Beach Boys? I truly do not understand how it is possible that this exists and yet I haven't already read it.]