Davy Jones—gone today at 66. My condolences to his family.
And to myself. The news makes me feel decrepit indeed.
Back in 1968 when The Monkees were hits, no one, not even a pre-teen girl, fooled themselves that Davy Jones was a great artist. (I’m not sure that he could even play the guitar.) But he was cute! British! Short! Vaguely approachable!
The Beatles were putting out the White Album. Great yes, but you weren’t sure you really got it. (No pictures!)
In contrast–“I’m a Believer.” You could jump up and down to it! On top of the couch! In front of the Telly!
And there were the long but well-tamed locks. The doll-legged bellbottoms. Wide hip-hugging belts!
You could feel excited, and yet still plenty safe, with a ticket on that last train to Clarksville.
So sorry to hear the news.
(P.S. Sorry too for my not very good drawing. I made it psychedelic to hide the flaws, not in any effort to characterize Davy as particularly psychedelic.)