In the mid-1980s, the Monkees are hot stuff again after MTV has reintroduced them to a whole new generation of fans. The executives at their old recording label wants them to record some new tunes for a 20th anniversary album and go on a reunion to...
The guys decided to do a soft opening at the Concord Hotel at Kiamesha Lake, New York, about a week before the tour got properly started. This would be a somewhat informal performance that would give them a chance to iron out any glitches and gauge how concert-ready they really were. As Micky feared, they weren't nearly up to snuff. At least he certainly felt he wasn't.
For starters, Micky was unhappy about being lumbered with playing the drums again. This time, it was a standup set of electric drums, so at least the audience could see him, in contrast to the old days when he'd be stuck sitting hunched behind his old-fashioned drum kit. But the electric drums sounded dead and fake, and they just seemed like an unnecessary encumbrance intended to remind everyone that he used to be the Monkees drummer. He thought they surely didn't add anything to the acoustics of the music, particularly as they had a real drummer as part of their backing band. They were just plain annoying and another distraction for him. But on the other hand, they did solve the problem of what to do with his hands and body, which sometimes confounded him, it having been so long since he stood in front of an audience and sang.
Which led into Micky's other big problem – his physicality. He just didn't really have any. He felt gawky and awkward. He was wearing a fancy, trendy suit after years of wearing jeans, t-shirts, pullovers and wellies for his producer/director jobs, and he felt like a fool. He also didn't feel like he had any moves anymore. Where was the guy who had gotten down with James Brown in the Boston Garden in 1968? He couldn't locate that part of himself anymore. He even still had doubts about his singing chops as he struggled to project through the three-part harmonies and on lead through some of their big hits, trying to make himself heard over the screams of the audience. His breathing and timing were both off, and the harder he tried, the worse it got.
Just as he had during rehearsals, Micky huffed and puffed his way through Goin' Down, his arms and legs flailing as he struggled for breath to complete each line. But this was only one of the many problems the show had, even though it loomed largest in Micky's mind as the most challenging number. For starters, the guys were not used to performing with each other, not having done it for over a decade and a half. Even Davy and Micky, who had been on tour with Hart and Boyce in the Seventies, were no longer accustomed to sharing a stage and felt rusty, not to mention the lingering heebie jeebies they shared about each other after having been estranged for so many years. So as a unit, the guys just weren't really gelling like they needed to.
Individually, the dynamic was different. Davy was crisp as a brand new, uncirculated dollar bill. He was a real pro, and Micky both marveled at and envied his showmanship, energy and stamina. It was as if Davy were Sleeping Beauty and had just been waiting around for someone to awaken him for this exact opportunity to arise. He carped the fuck out of the diem and killed it right from the start of the first performance to the last number.
Peter was a study in contrasts. He sleepwalked through the entire show. After two decades of watching Looney Tunes cartoons with Gabby, Micky couldn't help mentally comparing him to Cecil the Turtle.
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