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When the Beach Boys played Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium Sunday night, no major announcements were made from the stage, but the sense of import for fans on hand was palpable, with many believing they might be witnessing
Mike Love’s last show leading the touring edition of the group.
That wasn’t just outside conjecture, but something that came from as close to the inside of the Beach Boys organization as it gets — from John Stamos, who has appeared with the group on and off for 41 years, and who in the hours before the show strongly hinted that the Nashville concert could mark the end of the road for his friend.
Stamos wrote as part of a nearly 1,200-word message on Facebook Sunday: “(W)hile I always knew there would eventually come a day when things would change, I never really allowed myself to imagine what that day would feel like. I’m not saying tonight is the end. God, I hope it isn’t. But there’s a part of me that wonders if this could be the last time I get to stand behind Mike, play those songs, watch him work an audience, and feel that indescribable magic that happens when those harmonies fill a room.”
While Stamos’ statement strongly set up the notion that this could be Love’s final night as a performing Beach Boy, his “I hope it isn’t” addendum to that also established that there would be no formal declaration forthcoming along those lines on the Ryman stage — even though there were rumors circulating in Nashville that it had already been decided that this would be the swan song.
When Sunday’s show began about a half-hour past the ticketed time, Stamos and Love’s son, Christian Love, who also performs with the band, appeared in front of the Ryman’s curtain to offer short speeches, setting the stage for what fans were about to see.
“One thing about him is he’s stubborn and he’s steadfast, and he did not want to miss the Ryman,” said Christian Love. “I mean, for good reason. Look at this place. So we are happy. We’re gonna be positive. We’re gonna sing along. But I remember something he told me when I was a child, and it stuck with me. I said, ‘Dad, why do you do so many shows?’ I mean, we’re talking about a guy who’s done over 100 concerts a year well up into his 80s. That’s just incredible, right? So he told me, ‘Well, if you don’t do as many concerts, you don’t see as many towns, and then that means less people get to hear the amazing Beach Boys personally.’ So he’s always cared for the small towns, the fairs… This is obviously a much more well-known, beautiful venue. But he cares about the listener, and I think it’s such an honor to be part of that. And we’ve gotta live in the moment.”
Stamos added, “All we have is tonight, really, and I think it’s gonna be very, very special. Mike, he insisted on being here… He’s done over 7,000 live shows. And tonight’ll be 7,422, I think exactly. I think that’s where we’re at. He’s counting… We love you, and have the greatest night ever, and God bless you all.”
The traditional historical video that usually opens modern-day Beach Boys followed, and then the curtains opened to reveal Love already in place in his seat, with the band ready to embark upon the long-time show opener, “Do It Again”… albeit not with Love on lead vocals. For the rest of the show, Love sat in place, singing along but ceding his usual lead vocals and master of ceremonies roles to others. He spoke briefly to the crowd, saying he had “been going through health challenges, but I had to make it to the Ryman.”
At the close of the show, Queen’s “We Are the Champions” came over the loudspeakers. Stamos and Christian Love helped Mike to his feet, and then, on either side of him, held his arms aloft in the air in a triumphant pose, until the curtains closed in front of them.
What transpired in-between the curtain raiser and final pose was much like what had gone down the previous night in Cincinnati, at the first public gig the Beach Boys had done since canceling a slew of dates beginning in July.
The big difference was, after the Cincinnati show, viral video of Love’s frail state led music fans to spread comments across social media about whether Love and his organization were aware that the time was coming for him to retire. But after Stamos’ public comments on his social accounts Sunday, which made it clear that no one considered this a sustainable way to keep touring, the mood among fans changed, from one of chagrin and alarm to a greater sense of poignance and appreciation.
The Beach Boys’ touring machine has been going nearly nonstop for the last 65 or so years, as Stamos and Christian Love noted in the intro, driven by Mike as one of pop music’s most inveterate and even seemingly compulsive tourers. Now, there are only three dates listed on the group’s official website, the next being Nov. 11 at Walt Disney World. Whether those dates will be fulfilled is anyone’s guess, but Stamos’ statement that this could be the last time certainly left the impression that, barring a sudden rebound in Love’s health, no one should bet he will be back on the road.
Could the Beach Boys go on as a touring entity without him as the ringleader? Fans have already theorized different ways the music could continue to be toured without Love’s active participation. A “Beach Boys friends and family” setup with Stamos, Christian Love and the current band carrying on is one hypothetical scenario, although touring without any original members could cut down on the group’s draw. It also certainly doesn’t escape fans’ notice that Al Jardine is still in robust shape and out actively touring with Brian Wilson’s former road band… and indeed, he was performing Sunday night in SoCal with former members Bruce Johnston and David Marks sitting in. Whether Jardine and potentially one or both of the others would want to come back under the Beach Boys’ official aegis is unknown (and Johnston, who was in Love’s band till earlier this year, had announced that he was firmly quitting the road).
What afflictions are currently affecting Love have not been made public, although he did speak about his health issues back in June, writing: “Losing my sister, Maureen, on the first anniversary of cousin Brian’s death, combined with my ongoing recovery from what started out as bronchitis, followed by COVID, has taken both an emotional and physical toll on me. I feel stronger every day physically, but I am heartbroken emotionally. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else than with our audience. For me, our audience is the medicine, and the music is the cure. Thank you all for your outpouring of love, well wishes, and healing prayers. I am deeply humbled and grateful.”
Still, he had been able to stand, or sit on a stool, when the Beach Boys did a three-night stand at the Hollywood Bowl in early July, even if his voice was shaky enough to set off some alarm bells among fans. In personal appearances in the spring and summer months, he was able to speak at length, lucidly and sometimes poignantly, whether it was at a Grammy Museum appearance promoting the “Love You” boxed set (covered by Variety here) or a Capitol Records party celebrating the 60th anniversary of “Pet Sounds” (about which Variety interviewed him, here). There is not much to know about his condition publicly other than that the last three months may have been physically tougher on the once-unstoppable singer than what came before.
While conjecture about form a future road show version of the Beach Boys could take is inevitable, it’s also possible that the touring operation could officially come to an end after six and a half decades with Love’s retirement — if, indeed, that is what this is. The audience in Nashville — with some crowd members saying they had been coming to see the band since 1963 — clearly felt the sense of occasion, and maybe the paradox that it is possible to have an endless summer and an autumn, too.
Stamos had posted a 400-word statement on Instagram Sunday, which Variety reprinted in a previous story. He went into much more depth in the 1,200-word expansion of his statement on Facebook. That longer version follows here:
I’m boarding a plane to Nashville to play with the Beach Boys at the legendary Ryman Auditorium, and I’m struggling to put my feelings into words.
My beloved friend, father figure, musical hero and mentor, Mike Love, is facing serious health challenges. We hope he’ll be doing what he loves for years to come, but we don’t know what the future holds. With that said, we have tonight.
Mike is a fighter. Despite his doctors, family and friends telling him to focus on his health he insists that he must be on stage. Mike tells us that he needs his band, his audience that loves him, his friends and drummer surrounding him to lift him up.
And something about that is hitting me harder than I expected.
I’ve been playing with Mike and the Beach Boys for 41 years. Forty-one years. That’s longer than I’ve done almost anything in my life. And while I always knew there would eventually come a day when things would change, I never really allowed myself to imagine what that day would feel like.
I’m not saying tonight is the end. God, I hope it isn’t. But there’s a part of me that wonders if this could be the last time I get to stand behind Mike, play those songs, watch him work an audience, and feel that indescribable magic that happens when those harmonies fill a room.
The Mike Love we see tonight may not be exactly the Mike Love we’ve known for all these years. But he is still every bit the Mike Love we love. The man is still there. The spirit is still there. The heart is still there. And the music, thank God, is still there.
When you look objectively at Mike’s contributions to popular music, they’re staggering. His lyrics, his hooks, his unmistakable voice, his optimism, his belief in the power of a simple song to make people feel good. He helped create music that has become part of the fabric of people’s lives. Music that has outlived trends, generations, and just about everything else the world has thrown at it.
He’s performed more than 7,000 live concerts. Think about that. Seven thousand nights of walking onto a stage and giving people a reason to smile, dance, remember, fall in love, or maybe just forget their troubles for a couple of hours.
That’s not just a career. That’s a lifetime of showing up for people.
And yet, as enormous as his musical contributions are, what he’s given me personally is somehow even greater.
I can’t be objective about what he’s meant to me. How do you measure a friendship like this? How do you put a value on 41 years of shared stages, hotel rooms, airplanes, dressing rooms, laughter, triumphs, disappointments, and all those little moments nobody else ever sees?
How do you explain what it means to have someone believe in you, invite you into his world, and then keep inviting you back for more than four decades?
Mike is the reason I’ve had experiences I never could have dreamed of in my life. I’ve traveled the world, played extraordinary venues, met incredible people, and stood in the middle of some of the greatest music ever written. I’ve been able to share that world with my family, and now with my son. And that might be the greatest gift of all.
Mike didn’t just give me a place in his band. He gave me a place in his life.
And somewhere along the way, his music became part of my identity, too.
I’ve spent much of my adult life trying to introduce this music to people who might not otherwise have discovered it. Through television shows, interviews, recordings, concerts, or just talking about the Beach Boys every chance I get. I’ve never thought of myself as simply a drummer who gets to sit in with a legendary band. I’ve always felt like I was entrusted with something important.
Maybe the word I’ve been looking for is “stewardship.”
A steward: someone lucky enough to help carry this extraordinary music forward, to be a small part of the bridge between the people who grew up with these songs and the generations who haven’t even heard them yet.
Every time I’ve stepped onstage with Mike, I’ve become a better musician. More importantly, I believe I’ve become a better man.
I’ve learned from Mike about dedication, loyalty, endurance, the power of optimism and the importance of showing up even when it’s difficult. I’ve also learned that music isn’t just something you perform, it’s something you give away.
Which brings me to tonight.
The Ryman Auditorium.
The Mother Church of Country Music.
There’s something almost poetic about playing this particular show in that particular room. A place that began as a house of worship and became one of the most sacred stages in American music. A room where generations of musicians have stood, bringing their hopes, their heartbreak, their faith and their songs to an audience.
You’re becoming a small part of a much bigger story.
Maybe that’s exactly where we need to be tonight.
I don’t know what the future holds. My mother always said tomorrow’s never promised. And I don’t want to spend these precious 90 minutes worrying about something I can’t control.
I want to look over at him and really see him. I want to hear every note, every harmony, every familiar joke, every cheer from the audience. I want to remember what it feels like when the first chord hits and suddenly we’re not thinking about age or illness or time. I want to appreciate that we’re just a bunch of guys making music together, like we’ve always done.
I want to be grateful for every single second, without making those seconds feel like they’re slipping away.
Maybe the hardest part of loving someone and sharing so much of your life with them is that you become so accustomed to the miracle of having them there that you forget, occasionally, that it’s a miracle at all.
Tonight, I won’t forget.
And maybe the most important thing I can do for Mike tonight is provide him with what he wants and needs: to be his drummer, to be his friend, to be with his band and to be with an audience that loves him.
That’s what we are going to give him tonight.
For 90 minutes this evening, I’m not going to worry about yesterday or tomorrow. I’m going to be exactly where I’ve been so blessed to be for 41 years. Behind the drums, looking out at a sea of smiling faces, helping my friend send a little more joy into the world
And when the last note rings out at the Ryman tonight, I’m going to think about how lucky I am that after all these years, we’re still making music together.
We don’t know what tomorrow brings. But we have tonight.
And tonight, we get to make some more good vibrations
