Chapter Five
Thinkin’ it over, I decided not to bother . . .
If they’d been shocked by their whirlwind arrival, the Monkees were downright bewildered by the chaos the next morning. After being roused at 8 AM, all was shouts and yells and muddled attempts to get into clothing and figure out where to go. Luckily enough there were roadies around to lead them and other lackeys to gather up their belongings, leaving each of them responsible only for making sure their feet carried them along.
Once inside a limo (Micky of course asking where the Who were, to be told they’d already gone) they were able to catch their breath. “Well, this is it, huh?” Davy said. “Never thought a tour would quite be like this, but we’ve never played gigs any earlier than night.”
“This one starts at noon,” Mike said. “It’s an outdoor venue in New York state, I think. I haven’t memorized the schedule yet.”
“I have,” Peter said. “New York, Philadelpia for two dates, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Toledo . . . ” He continued to rattle off dates as Mike leaned back, letting his eyes slide closed and the rocking of the car send him into a comfortable doze.
They’d stayed up well past midnight chatting with Pete and Roger; at one point John came back down for another drink and ended up staying for an hour. Though still a little wary, the initial misgivings seemed to fade and the general consensus when they finally parted was that the Monkees were okay lads after all. On his way into their room Mike finally spotted Keith, but decided not to tell Micky. They’d all meet up eventually anyway.
Despite their excitement, both Davy and Micky joined Mike in a fitful doze that lasted until they reached the venue, an impressive fan-shaped outdoor arena with a wide, sloping lawn that would easily accommodate more than twenty thousand people. At the moment it was mostly deserted save a few scattered groups of die-hard fans, making it more than slightly hard for the four young men in the limo to imagine the loud music that would be roaring from the stage that afternoon. They drove around to the rear entrance, where amps were already being wheeled inside. A roadie wearing glasses and a tag around his neck gestured to them. “Right down this way—we have your things in the dressing room, there’s water and a fruit basket in there and we can get you other drinks if you want, just say what . . . your instruments are there, so when you get in, tune up and we’ll come get you for sound check.” As he spoke he led them into the bowels of the backstage area, down a long concrete corridor that obliged them at several points to stop and press themselves against the wall to allow someone else to pass. “Which one of you is the drummer?”
Micky raised his hand. “That would be me, old bean!”
The roadie gave him an unamused look. “Your drum kit’ll be set up for you, but you’ll have time to adjust for sound. As soon as you’re done playing, make sure to take anything you need with you because we’ll be pulling it out to make room for Keith’s kit. Do you have your set list?”
Peter pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over. “The middle two songs, the ones with stars next to them, can be cut if needs be.”
The roadie nodded. “Looks good. My name’s Jeff. Welcome aboard.” Shaking each of their hands, he left them to the sudden, odd silence of their dressing room. It was a fairly large room, forlornly spartan save for the suitcases and instrument cases that had been placed in the middle of the room. There were several chairs lined up against the mirrored wall, a small loveseat in the corner, and an old armchair sitting nearby.
“Well, we might as well make ourselves beautiful!” Micky said, clasping his hands under his chin. “If only I hadn’t left my slinky black dress at home!”
Mike swatted at him. “See if you can rustle up some coffee, huh?”
Micky leaped to the door. “I shall return, my liege, with the sacred coffee!” Making a trumpeting noise, he dashed out.
“The more things change—”
“The weirder he gets!” Davy finished.
The trio were in various stages of dress when the door to their room burst open and a black-haired whirlwind who was definitely not Micky blew in. “Hello, hello, hello!” he sang out, a dimpled grin threatening to burst his face wide open as his brown eyes twinkled in mirth. “So you’re our opening act tonight! Funny, you don’t look like primates . . . but then we all are, so what difference does it make! Hey, you gonna eat that? Thanks.” He lifted the apple from Peter’s hand and took a large bite as he plopped down into the chair Davy had just vacated. “So,” he said around the mouthful as he draped a leg over a chair arm. “Welcome to the insanity!”
Peter, blessed with a nearly unflappable demeanor, smiled. “Keith. Or shall we call you John?” he said, changing his voice and tone to match Keith’s accent.
Keith laughed and pointed at him. “Someone’s seen that show,” he sing-songed accusingly, though he was grinning. “Quite a joke, that, what? Made quite a bang with all that gunpowder . . . “ He looked over at Davy. “Close your mouth, son, your tongue’ll get burnt.”
Davy looked at Mike, completely confused. “Just be thankful Micky’s not here right now,” Mike said.
“I thought you were one ape short,” Keith snorted. “Been interested in meeting him—I’ve heard rumors he can almost match me on the drums.” The smile returned. “Although I doubt that.”
“Well, it’s certainly not our place to try and make comments about his skill, but let’s just say you have similar styles and leave it at that,” Peter said diplomatically. “By the way, I’m Peter, this is Davy, Mike, and—” At that moment the door burst in and Micky made his usual loud and colorful entrance, pot of coffee in hand. “Micky.”
Keith was instantly on his feet, pumping Micky’s hand in both of his and gushing about their shared passion for the drums, changing subjects lightning-fast every time Micky opened his mouth. His hand-pumping was so intense that Micky was literally bouncing with each pump.
“Great, now there’s two of ‘em,” Davy groaned, mock-gripping his head in agony. “‘Ow long is this tour again?”
“Fifteen dates,” Peter informed him mildly.
“Okay, I can manage that,” Davy said.
The door swung open again and Roger stuck his curly head inside. “Here you are! Will you come on already? We’ve got a sound check to run through!” He withdrew.
Keith sighed and released Micky at last. “Sorry about Goldilocks,” he groused. “He gets a tad grumpy if he’s not had his mornin’ shag.” He smirked and bounded out of the room with a farewell wave and “Ta-ta, chaps!”
Peter leaned on the table and laughed for several minutes. “I never thought I’d see the day when someone was able to render Micky Dolenz speechless!”
Indeed, Micky was just standing motionless, goggling at the door with his mouth hanging wide open. The look on his face conveyed the ‘What the hell was that?’ going through his mind.
“Wonder where the other two are,” Mike mused. “I don’t hear any guitars out there.” He went back to reweaving the leather straps that had come loose from his guitar strap.
The door opened quieter this time and a dark head entered. Ice-blue eyes surveyed the scene and the thin mouth quirked in a smirk as Pete asked, “About ready for your debut?”
“Just about,” Mike said. “Just make sure Wild Man don’t blow up the drums ‘fore we get out there.”
He laughed and stepped in, John following him. John looked them over—then his eyes locked on Mike and both eyebrows quirked upward.
Both wore leather jackets with white buttoned shirts open slightly at the top. Mike’s jeans were dark enough to blend with John’s black pants. They stood regarding each other, then Mike reached up to stroke his sideburns. As he did, John did the same. Mike reached up and patted the top of his head with his other arm, John mirroring the movement. John reached out the hand that was not on top of his head, and Mike did the same. Their palms touched and moved up and out.
“You know there’s just one problem here,” John said.
“What would that be?” Mike asked, amusement lacing his tone.
“Your eyes are the wrong color.”
Laughter broke out all around.
Pete rolled his eyes at the sound of Roger’s voice echoing down the corridor. “John, ‘ere he comes . . . let’s go before he starts yellin’ again. See you boys after the show—don’t be late or I’ll ‘ave to introduce you to me guitar.”
As they walked out, John leaned back in. “Trust me—you don’t want that. He leads with that guitar harder than he leads with that nose.”
“I heard ya!” Pete yelled back, making John smile as he closed the door.
Mike shared a look with Peter. “Remind you of anyone?”
“Actually . . . ”
“Actually?” Davy asked from where he was finishing buttoning his shirt.
“They remind me of us.”
Micky snorted. “You’re joking, right?”
“No. Think about it—a bouncy, mischeivous drummer, a tall, dark, quiet guitar player, another one who’s artistic and sensitive, and a lead singer with an overinflated ego.”
“HEY!” Davy mock-roared, and Mike pointed at him.
“HE gets it . . . ”
Micky stuck out his tongue. “Yeah, yeah . . . you just watch out for explosives in your guitar, ‘mate.’”
Peter looked at Mike with a huge grin. “Uh oh.”
Mike returned Micky’s gaze. “Remember. I know where you sleep, Micky.”
As Micky moved off to his suitcase, simultaneously perusing outfits and fending off Davy’s insults, Peter went over next to Mike. “There’s one thing, though,” Mike said.
“What’s that?”
“These guys are . . . well, some of the critics say they’re the best live band out there. How well are we going to do up against that?”
“We’re to warm up the audience, nothing more,” Peter said gently.
Mike nodded, but Peter could tell he wasn’t quite content with his role.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’. Just . . . hard for us to be here and STILL not be the main act.” Peter squeezed his shoulder.
“Mike, we get to play in front of THOUSANDS of people! I mean, if a tenth of them go to see our shows, then that’s . . . “ Micky counted on his fingers. “Lots of people!”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Davy chuckled.
“It was nothing, Junior Obvious,” Micky replied.
On to Chapter Six
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