Over the hum of his car engine, through the static of an AM radio, Brian Wilson heard Ronnie Spector’s voice sing, “So won’t you, please, be my little baby.”

Wilson pulled to the side of the road and maxed the volume.

The lush, grand and sweeping production of “Be My Baby” captured Wilson.

“I went, ‘My, God, wait a minute, no way!’” he said. “It was like getting your mind revamped.”

In response, Wilson revamped rock ‘n’ roll.

When Wilson pulled over to drink in the magic of the Phil Spector-produced 1963 tune, the Beach Boys were already rock’s biggest band.

Wilson, who died Wednesday at the age of 82, and his brothers Dennis and Carl, cousin Mike Love and friend Al Jardine, had dominated the zeitgeist of the young decade with a brand new sound — the sunny, meticulous harmonies and hot rod rock of “Surfin’ Safari” and “Little Deuce Coupe.”

But Wilson was moved to take the lowly genre to places nobody imagined, inspiring everyone from the Beatles to the Who, Pink Floyd to Queen, Bruce Springsteen, the Go-Go’s, and Weezer.

Wilson invented the Beach Boys sound, and then reinvented it over and over.

What started as complex harmonies masquerading as basic rock, bloomed into what he would call “a pocket symphony.”

No better example is his career-defining song, “Good Vibrations.”

In three-and-half minutes of music, there are verses with a descending chord structure, choruses with an ascending one, two bridges in a row, and another bridge later. He filled in the elaborate architecture with sleigh bells, piccolos, theremin, and much more.

Despite the never-repeated, over-the-top arrangement and instrumentation, “Good Vibrations” was a sparkling pop gem and huge hit.

And its success against the odds opened the door for other bands to get brave and weird. It also opened the door for “Pet Sounds.”

Wilson’s magnum opus, 1966’s “Pet Sounds” began with a puppy love mini opera in “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and finished with “Caroline, No,” a tender, broken slice of exotica pop layered with a train’s rumble and dogs barking.

The album transcended rock (using a 12-piece string ensemble and four saxophones on a single track can lead to that).

“Pet Sounds, that blew me out of the water,” Paul McCartney said. “First of all, it was Brian’s writing. I love the album so much… I noticed that throughout that Brian would be using notes that weren’t the obvious notes to use.”

Often Wilson’s struggles with addiction and his mental health threatened to overshadow his genius — single-handedly keeping pace with all three songwriting masters in the Beatles for half a decade is a sure road to burnout.

But even when Wilson struggled, he came up with little pieces of wonderment — the retro kick of 1968’s “Do It Again,” the hippie doo wop of 1969’s “This Whole World,” and solo song and immaculate hymn of forgiveness in 1988’s “Love and Mercy.”

Very few of the world’s favorite artists actually shape the art they are part of. Most make great, even worthy, music in the mold of their idols.

In so many cases, Wilson was the idol they paid homage to, the idol that revamped their mind.