In a cynical age, the Beach Boys delivered a joyful, Alberta-style refusal to conform

In an age of cancellation and cultural scolding, a Beach Boys concert in Alberta becomes a joyful act of rebellion

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In an era when hyperbolic progressives declare an “existential crisis” every other sunrise—usually blaming America, its politics and culture—it was oddly refreshing, even rebellious, to sit among thousands of Albertans celebrating that quintessential American musical legacy: the Beach Boys.

This was no mere concert. It was a counter-cultural moment—an act of cheerful defiance.

Calgary’s Canada Olympic Park, typically draped in maple leaves and frost, played host to the sun-soaked sound of California. There we were, in southern Alberta, bopping our heads to tales of bikini girls, surfboards and T-birds. The irony wasn’t lost. In an anxious age, a band singing of suntans and convertibles offered an unlikely balm.

The Beach Boys don’t just sing about America—they are America, at least the one that built highways and dreamed of space travel. Not the version dragged into apologizing for its existence by the Biden-Harris crowd. Their lyrics aren’t political, but today, their very essence feels like a political statement. Joy, dreams, female beauty and fun—these have become, for some, unforgivable sins.

Inside the venue, none of that angst could penetrate. Boomers and some of their kids turned out in droves—the same demographic that supposedly favours Canada’s ruling party, which leads the anti-American virtue parade. Yet when the screen lit up with a stylized Star-Spangled Banner, no one booed. Not a soul. They stood, swayed and sang along. Elderly couples clutched each other to “God Only Knows.” It was not a protest. It was a memory. A tribute. An embrace.

The contrast to today’s cultural philistinism was striking. Remember the moral panic of 2022? Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Dostoevsky and Gogol were banished from campuses and concert halls—a shallow gesture to oppose Russia. Cancelling centuries of culture with a hashtag. Because nothing screams “nuanced foreign policy” like banning Leo Tolstoy.

It wasn’t confined to the academy. Media outlets demanded cultural bans. Symphony directors scrambled to erase “problematic” composers. It was a performance of virtue by people who wouldn’t know War and Peace from The Art of the Deal. And now, the same intellectual lightweights want to repeat the act with American culture—because they hate Trump.

As if loving “Kokomo” is a betrayal of Canadian dairy farmers. As if dancing to “Fun, Fun, Fun” puts you on Tesla’s payroll.

The calls to boycott American products, shun vacations and “buy Canadian” are endless. Are we now pretending Florida oranges will be replaced by ones grown in Flin Flon? It’s unserious. Yet Trudeau, Carney, Singh, Ford, Eby and Nenshi feed this adolescent narrative—while America continues to dance, dream, and listen to Blue Rodeo, Paul Anka, The Band and Michael Bublé, blissfully unaware of silly Canadian scorn.

Most Americans don’t know who Carolyn Parrish is, and thank God for that. The former Liberal MP from Mississauga once declared, “I hate those bastards” about Americans—while today, she offers understanding nods toward Hamas.

Here lies the hypocrisy. The same crowd that preaches tolerance for all can’t muster any grace for the country that gave them jazz, baseball, blue jeans, the Mustang and the moon landing. Their idea of diplomacy? “Hate the Yankees—but tweet it from your iPhone.”

Alberta Premier Danielle Smith, meanwhile, is scolded for meeting with American governors and promoting trade. The Laurentian media class freaks out, issuing sovereignty lectures—hilarious, coming from those who think grocery stores should be publicly regulated. Their message? Talk to tyrants, but not to Texans.

Albertans don’t share that pathological revulsion toward America. We understand that America’s flaws don’t erase its virtues. We know the difference between cultural appreciation and ideological subservience. And we know Alberta has more in common with Montana than with Ottawa—and thank the Lord for that.

Meanwhile, back at the concert, reality reigned. It was all “Good Vibrations.” No hate. No self-flagellation. Just music and company. Mike Love is older, and the harmonies are a bit more digitally assisted, but the spirit’s unbroken. “Barbara Ann” brought the house down. “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” became a hymn. “Help Me, Rhonda” got hands in the air. And “Fun, Fun, Fun” reminded us why the Beach Boys still matter: Joy, unlike ideology, doesn’t age.

Much more unites Canadians and Americans than divides us. That truth may inconvenience the division-peddlers, but it remains true. No fearmongering can extinguish the affection people feel for the simple things that make life beautiful—surf, sun, song, love and friendship that transcend borders.

So here’s to the Wilson clan, to the harmonies that still echo after six decades, and to the memories made in Calgary on a chilly March night. Long after the scolds fade into irrelevance, the music—and the people it brought together—will remain.

That’s the quiet power of it all. The Beach Boys also gave us “In My Room”—a song about stepping back from the noise. That, too, was resistance. And in a time when cultural gatekeepers want to dictate what’s acceptable to enjoy, showing up to celebrate something joyful, American and uncynical felt like a very Alberta kind of refusal to conform.

Marco Navarro-Genie is the vice president of research at the Frontier Centre for Public Policy. With Barry Cooper, he is the coauthor of Canada’s COVID: The Story of a Pandemic Moral Panic (2023).