Read More: Back to More Writing One of the most troubling aspects of a career as a rock critic is meeting musicians whose work you admire. You soon find that while their music may be sublime, they can be much less so. "You meet a lot of famous people in your job, don't you?" asked Randy Newman, one of the good guys. When I answered yes, he replied, "Inevitably disappointing, isn't it?" The guitarist Warren Haynes once told me he'd met most of his heroes and almost without exception found that they would've been better off with a 20-year day job than having achieved stardom before a long, hard fall. I can count the number of rock musicians I've interviewed that I'd like to spend some more time with - in addition to Newman and Haynes, Lou Reed, Joni Mitchell, Art Neville, David Byrne and Elvis Costello come to mind; so too does Linda Ronstadt, Ben Gibbard, Ben Harper, Mark Oliver Everett and Van Morrison. Conversation came easy, as they discarded any media training they'd received and spoke earnestly about their projects and careers. As they continued, I found myself doing more than gathering information for readers: Revealing their focus, intelligence and self-knowledge, these musicians were teaching me how successful artists approach their craft and what it takes to create one's own standard of excellence. By the way, you'll notice I've limited myself here to rock musicians. I've interviewed dozens of jazz musicians over the years, and without exception, I've profited from each meeting, whether it was when Miles Davis told me how he composed so that each member of his band would confront his limitations or when Keith Jarrett explained his interpretation of the expression "it's the right time." I recently spoke with Terence Blanchard and he revealed how younger musicians push him to play more creatively. Off the top of my head, I can't think of a jazz musician I've interviewed that I wouldn't want to meet again. One rock musician I long admired whom I deliberately avoided meeting over the years was Brian Wilson, leader of the Beach Boys, my favorite band when I was young. In the beginning of my journalism career, it was easy: Crippled by depression and schizophrenia that was likely exacerbated by drug use and the physical abuse he suffered as a child, betrayal by some colleagues and dubious treatment by a psychologist, Wilson remained in seclusion, surfacing occasionally to rejoin the band but showing none of the fragile brilliance that had attracted me decades earlier. When Wilson issued a spotty solo album in 1988, I recall he wasn't made available for interviews. Another solo outing released in 1998 fell short of his high standards. Though I reviewed it for The Wall Street Journal, an interview wasn't called for. I mean, what could he have said? The obvious answer - I'm not what I once was - would've broken my heart. But Wilson has fashioned a remarkable comeback, which was topped by last year's wonderful reworking of his 1965 long-form composition "Smile," with lyrics by Van Dyke Parks. Since I had just completed writing a highly personal, book-length appreciation of Wilson's masterwork, the Beach Boys album "Pet Sounds," I was invited to moderate a panel about Wilson and his career at the CMJ Music Marathon held last October in New York. Thus, it would be impossible to avoid a hero of my youth, as I had when I had stood backstage a week earlier in Toronto after a "Smile" performance. I began to warm to the opportunity to tell him how much his music brought happiness to my life and later - often through the same songs - allowed me to realize the loneliness and alienation I'd felt when I was younger weren't uncommon. I arrived in the green room at the Javits Center in New York, the panel's site, to find the 62-year-old Wilson sitting in a corner with his eyes closed, hands folded on his chest. Rather than disturb him, I conferred with one of his managers who assured me he was up for the event and could handle any question. The only caveat: I was to sit to his left so I could whisper in his good ear, if I had to. (Wilson is deaf in his right ear, the result, it's said, of a blow from his father he received when he was two years old.) Moments later, as the manager prepared him for the event, I noticed she kept referred to me as "the big guy." "Listen to the big guy, Brian," she said repeatedly, referencing my waistline, not my height. When I gently asked her to stop, she said, "OK, but he'll never remember your name." The vast hall at the Javits Center was packed to capacity. As planned, Wilson sauntered onstage to join the five-member panel about halfway through the discussion. When I introduced him, a wave of affection seemed to reach us, arriving as a burst of energy, something physical rather than merely a psychological lift. Wilson accepted the outpouring with aplomb - clearly, he knew it well - and proceeded to charm the crowd with his child-like affability and startling candor. Only once did I have to deflect a question, and Wilson - by now I was calling him Brian - deftly gave precisely the answers he wanted to. All of us on the panel, which included lyricist Parks, musician Darian Sahanaja, filmmaker David Leaf and the Library of America's Geoffrey O'Brien, knew well that Brian had struggled to resume a public life and that "Smile" was a crucial milestone for him. Our role that day was to help him enjoy the celebration of his work, and my assignment as a moderator was to keep things moving for the benefit of the audience. But throughout the session, during which he said the release of "Smile" signaled the end of his "40-year nervous breakdown," I was never unaware that Brian's was the mind that created the beautiful music that had changed my life. And now he was sitting six inches away - our thighs were all but touching - and I had to do all I could to stop myself from reaching over to give him a big, big hug of gratitude. Afterwards, we all returned to the green room, buoyant that the panel had gone well, happy that Brian had been greeted with such love and deep appreciation for his work. There may have been elements of performance to his appearance; it seemed to me he had rehearsed some his answers. Yet, at the same time, it was a touchingly sincere event, and not at all staged or false. When I mentioned this to Parks, he said, "That's Brian. He's a very modest and humble man." After a few minutes of general chit-chat, Brian was summoned by his manager to leave for a concert in Boston. As I said goodbye, Brian looked directly at me, shook my hand and in a chipper voice said, "Hey, you did a good job out there, Jim." What a thrill, I thought afterwards. Brian Wilson called me by my name. You'd think I'd be immune to that after more than 25 years as a rock critic. But no, not by a long shot. Add another name to the list of people I've met who weren't disappointing, whom I really enjoyed. But Brian Wilson's goes on it for entirely different reason. For a few moments, I got to be fan again and to remember what a pure, wonderful thing that can be.