When I heard that Davy Jones passed away this morning from a heart attack in Florida, my world stopped for a moment. He was a memory of my childhood. His voice and humor still resonate with me.
Jones was a hearthrob when I was a kid in the 70's. His face graced the covers of Teen and Tiger Beat magazine alongside The Jackson Five, The DeFranco Family and Leif Garrett. I remember seeing the repeats of The Monkees in our chilly furnished basement of my childhood home, sleepy and happy, propped up on the old futon sofa bed, laughing to the antics of four groovy guys on an old tube television my dad bought the same year their show premiered in 1966.
The Monkees were a special kind of wonderful. A virtual Hollywood version of The Beatles, offering the same madcap whimsey from A Hard Days' Night and Help with a major splash of sun drenched California love wrapped into a groovy sitcom. And their music was good, very good. It was hooky and dreamy, with jangly guitars and rollicking licks. Davy was the Paul McCartney of the group, the baby faced Brit who emulated the 60's ideal of swinging London. He was the symbol of this crazy band. His sweet, impish beauty even made Marcia Brady go wild.
Rest in peace, Davy. May it be a groovy ride.
Here's a note from fellow ex-Monkee, Michael Nesmith.
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