Nothing-including an abusive father and being deaf in one ear-could stop Brian?Wilson from recording his magnum opus, Pet Sounds, in 1965 at the age of 23. His follow-up, SMiLE was abandoned in its original making, and by the time it was revisited, completed and given a full release in 2004, the legend of the Beach Boys' abandoned 'masterpiece' was so ingrained in popular music consciousness that the only thing more glowingly positive than its subject matter was its reception. It's a real shame no one stopped to recognize just how roundly mediocre the music was. Four years later, the erratic Mr. Wilson delivers That Lucky Old Sun, a fresh opus that shows him slipping away from the glisteningly rehashed mediocrity of SMiLE and into the dark realm of inadvertent self-parody.

Again, Wilson is joined by the devious Van Dyke Parks as arranger and lyricist, and again the music is primarily concerned with the joys of Southern California culture, waves, cars and that lucky old sun itself. With orchestrations as thick as ever and enough synthetic harmony to make the Manhattan Transfer cringe, the old tricks that so warmly endeared us to our surfer-boy genius in the '60s now come off like that fat old uncle who just keeps telling the same jokes every Thanksgiving. We get it, turkey makes you tired.

For a musician as undeniably important to the history of popmusic as Wilson, these fatigued forays out of stagnant old-mannery are at best disheartening. No doubt, the man's had a tough life, with chapters of abuse, drug-addiction, reclusion, insanity and even a Barenaked Ladies tribute song. All the more reason I felt so guilty as I laughed through most of this newest jumble of studio-ripened doo-wop beats, glockenspiel flourishes and three-parts-too-many vocal avalanches.

Even when his preternatural knack for infectious hooks shines through, the grey clouds of the ABC Family delivery cripple the songs where they stand. Structurally, the album is dotted with a series of spoken-word interludes read by Wilson, like that same uncle at Thanksgiving who has now had a few too many drinks and is trying to cheer up the little kids with recaps of Saturday morning cartoons he saw in his childhood.

The apparent narrative tie-in is a series of passages, each celebrating a different aspect of his beloved Los Angeles. The downright, if unintentionally, hilarious "Mexican Girl" is, of course, filled with flamenco guitar and mariachi horns. Later he cuts to the real center of So Cal life with a description of cars in traffic heading to LAX and even references his own work with a kitschy number called "Forever She'll be my Surfer Girl"

Mostly, this album sounds less like Brian Wilson and more like a mocking Brian Wilson impersonator given an unlimited recording budget with pre-murder Phil Spector at the sound board. As much I'd love to believe the story of recovery, rebirth and reawakening the SMiLE-devotees preach, That Lucky Old Sun is fairly resounding proof that the post-nervous breakdown Brian Wilson of today is not the same as the doe-eyed dreamer of 1965.

This is not to say that matured artists are without merit. Just last month, longtime collaborators David Byrne and Brian Eno released a new album that only harkens to the good ol' days in terms of ingenuity and sheer excellence. Eno and especially Byrne are men whose careers have never really hit a peak, but rather a plateau that has lasted for 30-plus years. As for Brian Wilson, I guess the old sun, lucky or not, has finally set.