I should start out by saying that I am a sane, rational person. Really, I swear I am. (You know, mostly. Just like you.)
As a young child, I’d watched re-runs of The Monkees in the mornings, at my babysitter’s house, where my sister and I were dropped off around 7 AM each day for a time in our lives… the show had no lasting effect on me then.
Fast forward to when I was a young teen, wading my way through social angst (like everyone else in the world) Monkee-mania made it’s way back into mainstream television, through re-runs aired on Much Music (I think) during the after-school TV time slots.
The face of Davy Jones stopped me dead in my tracks, and I fell in love with him. Deeply. It was serious, yo.
My sister and I had every episode recorded, and we watched them a zillion times each. We watched their movie Head just as many times… concert footage… we knew every song, every bit of trivia… it was nuts-crazy mania, indeed.
Of course, the news of his passing yesterday made me sad to hear it, and goodness! He was only sixty-six years old!! But, people die…
What I feel about this passing is stranger than some of the others I might have admired, but never knew… it’s because he was my very first all-consuming, innocent crush. A person I went to bed dreaming about every night. For years, it seems.
Young girls often crush hard on boys who are soft-looking. At that age, they are not drawn to swarthy-looking men with moustaches, or who have chest hair. They do not want burly, manly-men. They actually kind of like boys who look a bit like girls. (It’s not a homosexual thing – think Justin Bieber – they’re safe-looking, like babies.) They often just dream about hand-holding and kissing. It’s terribly uncomplicated and pure. I had very, very starry eyes for that man-child.
Never mind the fact that said man-child (in real time) was married, and had two children older than me… these are just details. And that he was one year younger than my mother and father? After that careful calculation, I blocked that piece of information out of my cloud-filled head for about a decade. Not important.
I was in love with 1967 Davy Jones… the dandy in excellent 60’s attire, with pouty pink lips that were always smiling. (Even the Prince Valiant haircut didn’t faze me – thems were the times.) I loved the maraca-shaking, puka-shell-necklace-donning, bright-paisley-caftan-posing, signet-ring-on-his-right-hand-wearing David Jones. Pocket sized and adorable. Not threatening. Almost imaginary. And with an English accent to boot… and what girl doesn’t dig that?!
He was a sharp contrast to the real-live boys in my life, who were tricky to navigate, hard to please, and with my affections going unrequited at every turn. Indeed, Davy Jones was a far, far easier person with whom to give my heart. Of course, it would be easier, since I could dictate every step of our ridiculous, imaginary love in my own crazy head.
And I had pictures of him covering about half the walls in my bedroom. He shared with others, like Johnny Depp (the other white meat) and there were a few others, like Rob Lowe and Matt Dillon, who were all burning up the big screens with their epic handsome-boy-ness. But they were far more dangerous to me. And they were real – just a few years older than me, living, just as they look in the magazines, in California or wherever. I could capture them and drag them home to be mine-all-mine if I wanted to. Not like my cute little Davy Jones at all – frozen in time. (Like I said – mostly sane.)
Sidenote: I’ve never been a stalker-type – that’s totally not my style. I don’t even collect autographs.
I saw the Monkees play at Ontario Place sometime in the 80’s, which was an odd experience. I knew they were old by then (of course) but it really is different to see someone your dad’s age prance around on a stage singing “new” renditions of their oldies – songs I don’t even like that much. I was kind of embarrassed, actually. My boyfriend was suddenly embarrassing to me. But that’s real life for you.
And as songs go? Last Train to Clarksville and Daydream Believer are my least favourites of their song book. One of my favourites has got to be Going Down, which isn’t even sung by my boyfriend at all, but rather by Micky Dolenz – I always did dig all the brass, and that crazy trumpet and the groovy bass line – makes me want to dance. (And yes, I know every word… s-s-sock it to me!!)
Godspeed, Mr. Jones. I suppose you really did make me believe my daydreams for a while… it’s been
Know what I’m talking about?