A Different Drum

 

This isn't my story. It's Susan's. She'll tell it when she's ready and when she is ready? 

Grab tissues.

We all have heroes and there are people that we associate with one another. I think of Susan and Paul when it comes to Billy Joel, for instance.

For Chris Erway, it's probably Brian Wilson.

For Harold, it was Lemmy (if you say "Lemmy who?" you probably need to stop reading) and Bruins/Rangers great Rick Middleton.

There are others but you get the idea, and I know there are a few names associated with me.

But, back to Susan. Early in our friendship, we talked about music a lot. She said -- almost sheepishly -- that she was a fan of The Monkees. 

She specifically spoke glowingly of Mike Nesmith, the dude in the wool hat who just seemed cooler and angrier than the others and that was OK. He was more detached from what The Monkees were. He was more confounding than the other three members. He had a John Lennon/George Harrison way about him.

I think she then recoiled as she prepared for me to launch into a holier-than-thou-they're-not-The Beatles attack.

I didn't. I always liked them. I laughed at the show and loved the music. I knew a lot of it -- even a few lesser-known tracks -- and had a healthy appreciation for the hits.

How could anyone -- seriously -- ever dislike "Daydream Believer" or "I'm a Believer" or brilliant stuff like "Pleasant Valley Sunday?"

I knew the jabs -- didn't write their own music, was the "Prefab Four," didn't play their music -- but great pop craftsmanship doesn't have to come from the hand of the artist in question. Twas once a time, boys and girls, where there were songwriters who cranked out songs for others to play.

Yet The Monkees didn't necessarily want others to play write or perform their stuff. Especially Nesmith. No, "Papa Nez" was willing to punch a wall for his artistic integrity -- literally. He didn't want to be "The Monkees." He wanted to be The Monkees. That is, he wanted to be a musician. An artist.

I've sadly buried the lead here, but Papa Nez died today at 78, just a few weeks after his last performance with fellow primate Micky Dolenz.

But I'm giving you too much of a biography here and, for the real appreciation, I'm handing the keyboard to Susan, where it belongs. I speak as an outsider. She's the expert.

What I instead want to focus on is my initial point: we all have heroes.

The problem often is we have people in our lives who insist on telling you how these people -- larger than life and often intangible -- "put their pants on one leg at a time." God, I've heard that crap far too many times.

Except, when their pants are on, they make gold records (paraphrasing legendary producer Bruce Dickinson on Saturday Night Live).

But, seriously, despite the naysayers, some of these people -- people we'll never know -- become like friends. We know their catalog so deeply, regardless of what it is. Their work takes us to a happy place. It's a touchstone. A flash in time.

It's also a connection to our kids. Our parents. Our friends. Our loved ones.

When I hear the live version of "Trouble in Paradise" by Huey Lewis and the News, I'm 16 again and my father is still alive and I'm in high school and my worries are few. The Yankees and Steelers are both sort of middling teams but my band is arguably the biggest band in the world. I hear the song now and blink a few thoughts of life and times gone by in that moment.

I have no idea it will all crash down by the end of 1989.

So, for Susan, I got it. I knew what this all meant. I even considered surprising her last year with an online hello from Papa Nez. Yet something she said to me told me she was content to leave things as they were.

Those memories are happily frozen in time.

Again, it's her story.

Somehow, I fear this is becoming about me but it's really a story of protecting my friend while explaining that it's really OK to feel sad today. They're not always "some vapid celebrity." They're a part of our lives.

See, with Susan, she honored me with a deep dive of Monkes Mayhem. She made me a mix CD -- maybe the last one she's ever made -- of all kinds of groovy goodies. She turned me on to deeper recesses of Nesmith, Dolenz, Peter Tork, and Davy Jones (beyond his famous "Brady Bunch" appearance).

She made me realize the love of "Propinquity (I've Just Begun to Care)" while examining the lyrics of brilliant "Randy Scouse Git (Alternate Title)" more closely. 

We'll never hear the words "The four kings of EMI are sitting stately on the floor" without glancing at each other. 

The Monkees...and The Beatles.

Nesmith, right, with a couple of Lads named George and John

Oh, did you ever hear the fact that The Monkees sold more records than The Beatles and Rolling Stones combined?

Nesmith admitted to Gilbert Gottfried in 2015 that he made the whole thing up for an interview he did. How did I learn that? Susan told me to listen to the Gottfried/Nesmith interview.

Amazing stuff (hear it for yourself).

So when I glanced at my email today and saw that headline: "Monkees Co-Founder Michael Nesmith Dead at 78," I audibly gasped and texted Susan.

"Call me. Now."

I didn't want it to come from some random heartless D.W. Washburn or Auntie Grizelda. For Pete's Sake, it had to be delivered delicately!

It hurt.

Still does.

I got it. 

For her, it's a connection to her daughter and...again...

It's her story.

Let her tell it. Let her sadness and, hopefully, joy flow.

Let her take a Last Train to Clarksville.

And raise a glass to the brilliant Papa Nez, who's being feted with proper respect tonight in the pop culture world.

Listen to the Band.