Vale Davy Jones

Okay – I’ll admit it. I was a die-hard Monkees fan. But I couldn’t help it. Demographics. I was just the right age to be in the target audience. I had no defences against the monster marketing machine that churned out ‘Last Train to Clarksville’ and ‘I’m a Believer’. Oh yes, I was a believer! And as for that wacky television show – I was a sitting duck. Sitting on the couch watching the box waiting for my mum to come home from work. What else was there to do?

I mean, I was putty. Fresh off the boat after braving adventure and the high seas with the Famous Five and Secret Seven, I was looking for adventure of the fourteen-year-old kind. Romance. So I fell immediately and madly in love with Peter Tork – on account of the way his golden locks swished across his face as he pummelled the keyboard or bass guitar.

Every Saturday I’d scan the racks at the local newsagent for Teen Scene magazine and its cousin publications for updates on my favourite four. Monkee business was all I was interested in. And when the centrefold was a pin-up of Peter Tork I’d leap for joy. Or cry. With gratitude. (The pin-up was always Davy Jones.) And I’d actually buy the magazine. Instead of risking eviction by sneakily reading all the goss while the proprietor’s back was turned. (Once, I was asked to buy the magazine or leave the shop. My mortification was tempered only by my Monkeemania.)

The goss included finding out that Peter Tork was into Zen and philosophy. In which I immediately took an interest. (And which is probably the best legacy of having been a Monkees fan.) Not only were my musical tastes being formed, my intellect was being expanded. I was a sponge for it. The Zen and the philosophy.

I don’t know how much Zen was involved in attending my first ever concert. Festival Hall. The Monkees – live on stage. My friend Jeanette and I had tickets. I spent about a month composing a letter to Peter Tork to include with the love beads I’d bought him. I can’t remember what I wrote, but I’m sure I would have included some deep discussion about insights from The Way of Zen a la Alan Watts. And offered up my hand in marriage. Before the concert I offered up my package to one of the roadies who promised to hand it on to Mr Tork.

After the concert, on the way home in the car, I was unable tell my father whether I had enjoyed myself or not. I was speechless. No sound would come out of my mouth. I had fallen victim to the high excitement and general hysteria all around me and screamed my vocal cords out of existence. It took me much longer to recover my sense of dignity than it did to recover the use of my voice.

The following week a picture of the Monkees appeared in a newspaper, reporting on their international tour. Peter Tork was wearing my beads.

When I woke this morning to the news that Davy Jones had died of a heart attack overnight, something inside me balked at the loss. I haven’t thought about the Monkees for years. Today I did – all day.

What on earth do the lyrics of ‘Daydream Believer’ mean, anyway?

Hey hey, we’re the Monkees …

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