Remembering Davy and Stuff

The wife and I spent a large part of the past weekend watching the Monkees marathon on Antenna TV.  Antenna TV is the second worst broadcast tv channel available, the first being THIS.  But since Antenna has been running the Monkees, we have been watching.

The schedule was every episode from both seasons then their movie (Head) late Sunday.  I couldn't wait, noting that I had never seen Head.  My wife remarked she had, about four times.  I suggested that I watch and she practice.  This was followed immediately by a large amount of tea coming from her nostrils.  For some reason I usually end up wearing a lot of what she drinks.

Like the Beatles, there will be no reunion.  Mike never really toured with them so even the touring Monkees are done as we know them.

I have vague recollections of watching the Monkees when I was little.  I remember enjoying the show but being bothered that they were lip-synching.  I might have even had a little Monkeemobile but that was quite a while ago.  As reruns came up, I watched.

In addition to Davy, we lost Ronnie Montrose over the weekend.  He was a talented guitarist for whom Sammy Hagar sang at one point.  All this loss has got me to considering the inevitable numerical end of this sequence.  In other words, they're dying off at the old end and we're not replacing them on the young end.  This will eventually leave us with no one.  Seriously, are we going to know, hear, or care when Coldplay dies?

Where is our next Led Zeppelin?  Jimi Hendrix?  Even the Monkees?  Yes, we have mountains of prefabricated product at our disposal and that's what they are: disposable.  This is the inevitable conclusion of record company greed - where everything is product, everything is the same, and the Great Unwashed doesn't know the difference.  Turn on your tv and watch.  Or better yet, turn it off.

Rolling Stone magazine once said Kurt Cobain was the next Hendrix.  This was the precise moment I gave up reading Rolling Stone forever.

We might want to consider bodyguards and live-in physicians for Jimmy Page, Jeff Beck and others, in our own self-interest.  Mister Page might not relish someone bursting into his mansion and demanding he undertake a serious health regimen but hey - we're buying his stuff and we need to watch over our investment.  It's purely out of love.

At least we still have the Rolling Stones.
Sort of.