Cheer Up Sleepy Jean: The Deep Philosophyical Underpinnings of the Monkees

by Juliet

I know what you’re thinking. This blog post should have been in the religion section.

No? All right, maybe you're thinking that Juliet is FAR too young to have listened to The Monkees as a child. And you're right, of course -- they were before my time.

But I’ve always been out of step. When my older sisters went on to listen to Abba and the Bee Gees and the Eagles and Journey on the stereo, I inherited the Close-n-Play record player along with their discarded albums -- the Monkees among them.

(I still insist I am a better person for having skipped right over some of the hits of the late 70s. If I never have to hear Hotel California EVER again in my life I'll die happy.)

But The Monkees...these guys were a revelation. The spoke about Real Issues, like suburban angst. I give you Exhibit One: Pleasant Valley Sunday. Just listen to those lyrics for a moment. Rows of houses that are all the same, and no one seems to care.

This was heavy stuff for someone who happened to live in such a house.

Later one of my sisters, in a fit of pique and older-sibling piousness, pointed out that The Monkees were a soulless group put together by corporate forces to make money. It didn’t matter.

I closed and played the Close-n-Play and listened, glassy-eyed and mouth agog, to Zor and Zam. Remember that one? There are these two kings, see, the King of Zor and the King of Zam, and they called for a war...But nobody came.

I’ll give you a moment to really think that one through. What if everyone saw through all the war stuff and just didn't go? My best friend Diane and I pondered this for days. We couldn't believe no one had thought of it before. We could have saved the country from the debacle of Viet Nam, if only we'd been older and had our Monkees albums tucked under our arms.

Of course the Partridge family had David Cassidy, and he was cute, so I watched the show without fail. But their music somehow lacked the…gravitas of The Monkees. (Recently I was told the Mondrian-inspired Partridge family bus was bought by porn producers. Can't wait to see what they do with it.)

The Beatles were classic, of course, but even my sheltered twelve-year-old mind could tell they were often referencing drugs and/or sex, which made me uneasy. The Monkees kept it in the comfort zone. They spoke about middle class ennui and the stultifying air of the suburbs. They spoke about how we should all have fun and be nice to each other. They spoke to my soul.

Years later I confided the secret Monkees fetish to my then-husband, and he decided this accounted for my absolute lack of sense when it came to anything political. I insisted people should grow up and be polite to each other, and then at least we'd have something to build on. He pointed out that the world was motivated by money, pure and simple. The marriage didn't last all that long.

Ah well. Guess I'm just a Daydream Believer.