Monkees Memories
I was six years old when “The Monkees” debuted in 1966 so I was right in the target audience. I couldn’t have cared less about the origins of the project. What could authenticity mean to a six-year-old?
Today we would probably call the whole thing reality TV. You could even argue the Monkees were the original “American idols” (except for Davy who was British), but that’s selling them short. The Monkees were so much more. They pioneered music videos and bubblegum pop and then broke out of their plastic molds and became an organic do-it-yourself rock band.
The Monkees were very much of their time and very much ahead of it. They blew a lot of young impressionable minds with a non-stop sensory barrage of quick-cut visuals, non-linear storytelling and jangling pop music. I was one of them. It was like LSD for the Kool Aid set.
As a child watching it, I sometimes felt over-stimulated by the show. But beneath the zaniness the show had heart. I related to the four Monkees. Not in a movie star or untouchable teen idol way—they came off as real individuals.
A standout memory for me was the seventh birthday party for my pal Joey Applebaum. He received the Monkees’ latest record “Headquarters” as a gift. Micky was singing “why don’t you cut your hair?” as the sugar buzz from the birthday cake kicked in. It was a great birthday party.
I wanted “Headquarters,” but unless they changed their names to Simon and Garfunkel, it wasn’t going to happen. I had to make due watching the show to hear my favorite songs. When they were syndicated for the first time on Saturday mornings I would tune in loyally to catch favorites like “Pleasant Valley Sunday” and “Last Train to Clarksville.”
They disappeared from my life in the 1970s. Occasionally, an intriguing news item would pop up in Rolling Stone, but otherwise the Monkees stayed out of sight and mind until the early 1980s. That’s when a friend played me a recording of punk pioneers the Sex Pistols playing a bizarre cover of “Steppin’ Stone.”
The Monkees? Covered by the Sex Pistols? A few days later I found myself in a record store staring at a copy of “The Monkees Greatest Hits” on Arista Records. Four dollars later it was mine.
It didn’t leave my turntable for days. As an experiment I put “Steppin’ Stone” on a party mix tape between the B-52s and the Buzzcocks. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. The prevailing wisdom at the time (the peak of new wave) was pop music was a con job that was calculated to please and therefore, if you made the right moves, it was open to subversion.
In the “Me Decade” of manufactured media hype the conceptual underpinnings of the Monkees no longer seemed controversial. In fact, they seemed to possess remarkable foresight. Who were these people and how did they pull it off?
I felt I needed to find out so I decided to write an article for a magazine and convinced a friendly editor at a musical magazine to let me investigate. It was 1984 and I was living in San Francisco. It wasn’t difficult to find out Michael Nesmith was living a few hours drive down in Monterey, California. I called the office of Pacific Arts, his video company, but they turned me away. Papa Nez wasn’t talking.
Since Peter Tork was the other member living in the states at the time, I decided to track him down on a visit to New York City. Tork was open and candid—he had a story to tell. After recovering from years of personal problems he had seen the light on the Monkees phenomenon and recalled his experiences positively.
It was an encouraging meeting. I began to haunt the libraries in San Francisco, tracking down microfilm from 1966, gobbling up all the information I could find. I was working the night shift carrying bags at the Miyako Hotel, a popular stop for visiting musicians, and sometime in the morning I would slip off to a vacant room and watch reruns of “The Monkees” TV show.
An obsession with the Monkees was very difficult to explain to strangers. Even friends and family for the most part had no idea what I was going on about.
My efforts received an immense boost when the show’s original producer Bert Schneider agreed to meet with me for an interview. He was confident the group’s revival was imminent (little did I know he was plotting it). Co-producer Bob Rafelson was a quick drive away and he spoke to me as well. Both men were clearly proud of their accomplishments.
The pieces were coming together. I followed up with transatlantic calls to Micky and Davy who both gave helpful interviews. And finally I broke through Nesmith’s wall of silence. Papa Nez was ready to talk—not only talk, but reminisce fondly.
My book, The Monkees Tale, started to come together. I sold it to comix guru “Baba” Ron Turner who gave me three luxurious months to complete it. It came out in Fall 1985.
MTV made all the difference—to the Monkees and my book. And yet some people were not ready to concede the Monkees had anything to offer, then or now. I remember being grilled by a surly Tom Snyder in Los Angeles on his local TV show and a smug interviewer on National Public Radio.
I defended the boys to best of my ability. Defend what you may ask? To answer that you have to go back in time and remember the Monkees were one of the most hated and controversial groups of all-time, at least for a certain segment of the rock audience (the one that still votes for the Rock and Hall of Fame). Apparently it didn’t matter to them that the Beatles were fans of the Monkees.
I am still a fan, a defender, a zealot, call it whatever you will. For me the story will always be a fascinating one—a fizzy Warhol-like cocktail of instant celebrity, overnight success and, as time is proving, considerable lasting value. I still think Micky Dolenz’s delivery on “I’m a Believer” is one of the great pop vocal performances of all-time. I’m sure I’m hardly alone in that opinion.
Each member contributed something unique to the overall project. For example, the do-it-yourself spirit that hovers over “Headquarters” is, in my mind, attributable to Peter Tork’s ambition to capture a real document of the Monkees performing together (and doing it well).
Nesmith? Watch an old TV show and check out his comic timing. He’s nearly always pitch perfect, whether he’s being wry, cynical, wise, or silly and he does it with a homespun touch. For a guy who basically walked onto a TV show with no acting experience it’s an estimable feat.
Davy is showbiz—an exhibitionist who occupies that rarified strata on planet Earth, born to entertain. He’s a throwback to vaudeville—a song-and-dance man. They don’t make ’em like Davy anymore and they probably won’t in the future. I think of him as the Elvis of the group.
Yes I still like the Monkees, frozen in time, coming down the street with their arms locked, doing that goofy walk. Like every other fan I wish they could get together one last time and perform one of their songs. “Shades of Gray” would be a nice one to hear again and perhaps more appropriate than ever.
I hope they do it. How about a cartoon using their voices? Singing their songs? Come on guys, it’s been 40 years. Before the last train is gone forever.
And, by the way, those snobs at the Rock and Roll Hall of Shame—screw ’em. “We're not coming,” wrote the Sex Pistols who turned them down. “We're not your monkeys.” Sums it up perfectly don’t you think?
Finally, I want to say happy 40th anniversary to everyone associated with the project and thank them for all the fun.
Eric Lefcowitz is author of The Monkees Tale. His book Tomorrow Never Knows: The Beatles’ Last Concert can be purchased on his website, BeatlesLast.com.