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| Davy Jones |
I can't be a fake and pretend I didn't grow up with this guy nor deny I used to rush home at lunchtime so that I could play the old Monkees 45s over and over ('Daydream Believer, Last Train to Clarksville,Pleasant Valley Sunday, etc.) . Over and over til I fairly skipped with it back to the school yard.
I didn't listen to Jazz (well, not til it was cool to say you did in university) and classical music and opera, aside from the little my immigrant parents had brought into the house, accompanied by the usual adult moroseness, weren't standard fare for happy blue collar kids like me who were too busy playing street hockey and pillaging neighours' gardens. The Monkees were pure 1967 and to that time period alone I will dare attribute the poet in me!
Transistor radios pressed to our ears, it was Davy Jones we listened to. Cute blond-haired girls named Nancy, admired from afar, always came with the music. The lyrics seemed, in fact, to be made of summer stardust. A perfect accompaniment to baseball and breezy summer verandahs, too. My favourite teacher, Mr. Allen, even had that same cool youthful Davy Jones twinkle in his eye. He was all of 25 years of age in 1967.
I'm not afraid to admit it: I know who I am and where I come from. I still skip to it and dream of unapproachable loves with it. My wife and I, on our usual Saturday nite drive, just sang "a little bit me a little bit you" to each other. Spontaneously. Because we'd lived it. The car fairly hummed with it.
Ah, Davy boy. Thanks for the summer gardens, verandahs and favourite teachers.
