The obituary for Davy Jones that ran in the New York Times will likely be the
paper's last words on the Monkees until one of the three surviving members --
Mike Nesmith, Peter Tork or Micky Dolenz -- dies. Such is the lot of a band
that became a cross-generational pinata for musical commerce over musical
artistry -- absorbing whacks and spilling forth sugary pop.
The obit was elegantly written, witty at times, mostly well-informed and
mean-spirited. In closing it read, "Perhaps Mr. Jones's most enduring legacy
takes the form of a name," before letting loose -- as if it were a
conspiratorial secret -- the well-circulated rock-nerd fact that another David
Jones from England changed his last name to Bowie before beginning a career in
popular music that attained all the credibility the Monkees never received.
Detested or dismissed by rock snobs for nearly a half century, the
Monkees have long been overdue for reassessment. As rock tiptoed away from
dance music and toward a more serious -- and in many cases self-important --
sound, the Monkees made pop that was joyous and unpretentious. As rock raced
toward guitar-centric bombast fitting arenas, the Monkees got odder and a
little experimental. Yet the band never shook its prefab origins as four
people assembled for a pop-music TV show designed to cash in on the success of
the Beatles, which the Times noted: "For all the Monkees' chart-topping
acclaim, the group never pretended to be anything other than what it was: a
smoke-and-mirrors incarnation of a pop group reminiscent of that mop-topped
one from Liverpool, created for a benignly psychedelic American TV sitcom."
True to a degree, certainly the "benignly psychedelic" bit. But what gets
ignored in such dismissals is pop made by committee was hardly a
smoke-and-mirrors practice unique to the Monkees. Some of the greatest pop
music of the 20th century was assembled by teams of musicians and lyricists
and house bands -- from Phil Spector's Wrecking Crew to the Isaac Hayes, Dave
Porter and the Stax house band to the Brill Building, whose cast of pros is
responsible for some of the Monkees' most enduring songs. The players on the
Monkees assembly line during the early years were among the best in the
business, from writers Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart, Neil Diamond and Carole
King, to a cast of players who included Glen Campbell, Hal Blaine and James
Burton.
Singers in this system were there to add some sort of personality. The
Monkees did so with a goofy and harmless charm.
"It was a cute thing, I thought," Campbell said two years ago. "But they
made really good songs. They got a bum rap because of the TV thing."
Actor and musician Billy Bob Thornton is another big Monkees booster.
"People don't understand how good the Monkees actually were, how good those
songs were," he said. "People love to talk about how they didn't play their
stuff. ... But you hear those songs today, and they still sound great. It's
because they were well made and well played."
By the books, the numbers are impressive: a dozen Top 40 singles
including three -- "Last Train to Clarksville," "I'm a Believer" and "Daydream
Believer" -- that hit No. 1. More heartening is the fact that the band,
despite its successes, fought for its autonomy and eventually prevailed,
releasing "Headquarters" in 1967 without the involvement of a domineering
music supervisor. It did little to break the reputation of the Monkees as a TV
creation.
The departure of Mike Nesmith from the group and the three remaining
Monkees' involvement in reunion tours for an oldies circuit doesn't exactly
bang the drum for the Monkees as Band of Substance. But their songs -- like
the best of oldies hits -- are ubiquitous for a reason. They're undeniably
tethered to our past, a reminder of where our culture has been and how it got
where it is. They're cultural shorthand, designed to be easily remembered and
sung by anyone.
The use of TV as a promotional medium, such an odoriferous concept then,
could be seen as prescient today as contemporary rock (or certainly credible
contemporary rock) moves further toward the fringes and pop, electronic music
and amateur singers discovered on the TV pull a far greater audience. There
likely will always be Rock As Important Music, the kind that David Bowie made
for some number of years. (Let's put it at 12.) Comparing art and
entertainment is pointless, being the slippery and subjective subjects that
they are.
But if Jones' legacy really is the preposterous claim that he shares a
name with a more lauded and daring performer, then say "fame" (or "faaaaame")
and ask 100 people on the street to rattle off two subsequent lines to the
chart-topping 1975 David Bowie hit. Then try "cheer up sleepy Jean."
Not all entertainment rises to art, and that doesn't devalue it as
entertainment.
