Hey, hey, pinch me! I'm feeling like a sleepy Jeanne today, but I think I just read that The Monkees are going back on tour to celebrate their 45th anniversary. I wasn't sure whether to call my kid over to load up my iPod to prep the kid for the show or hang my head in shame that I even considered it.
Fortunately the mop-haired crew heard my "oh please God, don't make an aging dork choose" plea. They've decided to limit the love to screaming women of a certain age in England. The first show will be in Liverpool (home of the Beatles), the rest scattered throughout the U.K.
I was relieved for five seconds. Then I got mad. Hey you, Davy Jones, don't you care about the American fans who made you 45 years ago? Did The Monkees not get that they failed the first time they tried to mimic the Beatles?
I mean, sure, I'd hop on the "Last Train to Clarksville" with Davy Jones and co. any day of the week. They're one of the few to put my name to song in a way the playground crew couldn't warp too badly. But The Monkees share the portion of my heart also opened up for the likes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal, Gossip Girl, Sugar Babies candy and Twilight. They remain the dessert of the music biz: that which is savored with the full knowledge that it will cause unpleasant growth in certain areas, but it tastes so good going down that it's worth it.
Not so pleasant that they're worth tickets over the pond to catch their tour, however. And so I demand that The Monkees pull up stakes and come home. Yes, home.
I wasn't yet born when they were created 45 years ago, but I remember clearly that despite Jones' British background, the band owes its start to Los Angeles, where the quartet came together for a TV show spin off of A Hard Days Night. They topped the musical charts, kept the show going then later become a Nick at Nite favorite.
Critics will say that floppy hair and musical success notwithstanding, they remained the poor man's version of John Lennon's crew. But whine all you want, critics. That's why we love them! The Fab Four are tiramisu. The Monkees are Pixy Stix. And man, I get a sugar rush from Pixy Stix.
Davy, you've got a whole lot of red-faced believers over here in America, so do us a favor. Step out of the Fab Four's shadow and come on home. If I see your face, I'm sure I'll be a believer again.
Are you a (slightly embarrassed) Monkees fan?
Image via John Beagle/Flickr