The Monkees got shafted. Considered a merchandising scheme by Don Kirchner ( later the Archies ) , marketed into the top 40, puzzles, boardgames, Teen Beat Magazine, and God knows what else, fed a diet of quality material ( by Neil Diamond, Carole King, Nilsson ) , they were designed to be the American Beatles circa "A Hard Day's Night."
When the TV show debuted ( 1966 ) the Beatles were on hiatus and the Monkees were positioned as a happy sitcom medium. Safe, catchy, bubblegum pop, every week. The snag in the concept was that it was a concept. After the idea of using a real live rock band was tossed ( originally the Lovin' Spoonful ) , Kirchner elected to fabricate one and held auditions. In walked Davy Jones ( short, handsome, energetic, talented, Englisha must have ) , Mickey Dolenz ( former child star, great voice, first- string clown ) , Peter Tork ( on the recommendation of Stephan Stills who didn't get the part because he had bad teeth; second-string clown ) , and Mike Neismith ( tall, Texan, actually had rock credentials-the straight man ) and the rest was history. But not history in the usual pop culture sense. For starters, the Monkees chemistry was concocted by scriptwriters, whereas the Beatles charm as natural. When it got out that they didn't play their own instruments they were labeled frauds, un-authentic ( this was 1967 ) , mere puppets. But the little girls ( and boys ) understood. Three years and 10 million records sold later it went to pieces. The sitcom got cancelled, the band brayed under so much control. Meanwhile the Beatles had The White Album, the Stones had Begger's Banquet, Dylan was holed up making The Basement Tapes, and there was suddenly Jimi, Janis, and Jim. The Monkees were merely quaintold hat to the teenies who adored them two years before.
The feature-length Head ( co-written by one Jack Nicholson ) , released when the major film studios couldn't relate to their audience ( Candy, Myra Breckinridge ) , died a quick and wretched death. By 1971 the Monkees were the BAD joke, the '60s biggest embarrassment. Even the writers behind their best material went on to nab Grammys and platinum discs. Fast forward to June 12, 2001 at the HOB. There have been reunion tours ( lucrative ) and Niesmith ( who wasn't on this tour ) has become the techno-Godfather of video music ( wish granted by way of being an heir to the Liquid Paper fortune ) , but as a group the Monkees have become touchstones not for their music but how we hear music today. Processed, arranged, packaged, hyped, calculated-you can blame them or the architects of their top-40 strategy for Milli Vanilli, N'Sync, the Osmonds, Hanson, even the Jackson 5.
It's tempting to fit them in as historical product-the stepping stone between the Payola Scandels of the '60s, Dick Clark and the MTV age, logging in one more night in Vegas as a curiosity. But this wasn't the case at HOB. For the near-capacity show that I caught these Monkees worked harder, clowned more, and rocked with such an unbridled abandon that they managed to re-arrange their own history. They're all more accomplished now, seasoned. Jones still smacks that tambourine with fury, Dolenz is still a cut-up ( and when he really gets going there's no one like himperiod ) , and Tork is less a second banana but indistinguishably Tork. The show was high on comedy ( jokes about condoms, Marsha Brady, Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles ) but higher on the music.
For the first half of the show each member one upped the other in startling fashion. Tork contributed a lacerating version of "Lucille" and a mini-Bach solo, Jones wallowed in the safe ballads he does best ( "I Want to be Free" ) , and Dolenz delivered a roof-rattling big band ballad in "Since I Fell for You"all of it credible, sincere, and authentic.
As a group they sent "Listen to the Band" straight into heaven. Jones ran with "Valleri" like his life depended on it ( the Watusi moves, the jerk-total commitment, you could see where Fred Schnieder learned to dance ) and when the band fell into "Head"'s forgotten "The Porpoise Song" they turned the HOB into the Fillmore.
But they saved the best for last. The down-and-dirty version of "I'm Not your Stepping Stone" ripped the 1967 original. Better now than then when business and social life weren't so blatantly cynical it's become a blueprint for how we treat each other now ( find it, listen to it, and I dare you to tell me that the backstabbing gold-digger girlfriend isn't a stand-in for any number of poisonous friends, careerists, public figures, or presidents ) . "Pleasant Valley Sunday" is even more disturbing. Dolenz' exasperated vocal isn't really about suburban malaise, stagnation, or monotony ( "Mr, Green/he's so serene he's got a TV in every room/Mrs. Gray/she's proud today because her roses are in bloom..." ) but about something strictly American and all the creepier for it. Released the same year as The Graduate, "Pleasant Valley" is a hotbed of consumerism and commercialism with a touch of xenophobia-the idea that cash is religion and how were hotwired to pursue it.
But Neil Diamond's "I'm A Believer" is the antidote, not only for Dolenz' frustration but also for our jaded times. If you listen to Dolenz as he starts ( "I thought love came only true in fairy tales/then for someone else but not for me..." ) you hear put-upon dejection, hurt ( "what's the use of trying/Alls ya get is pain/When I needed sunshine on my brain..." ) . But when he hits the chorus ( "...and then I saw her face!" ) he's found religion, a right to believe. Diamond couldn't pull it off in his version. But Dolenz throws his life into that chorus and makes that hope HAPPEN. It's so un-cynical, so open, it's scary. By the end of the song you never even find out if he gets the girl, but who cares?
In retrospect, the Monkees were obviously trying to tell us something.