Chapter Six
You’d better run run run . . .
Concert time came, the Monkees milling about nervously near the curtain, watching as people filed in.
And filed in.
And filed in.
And filed in, filling the seats near the stage and extending back to the lawn, creating a patchwork quilt of blankets and colorful clothes.
“How many people are gonna be at this thing?” Micky asked.
Peter scanned the crowd. “Ten thousand. Maybe more.”
Davy swallowed audibly, shivering slightly as he probably imagined himself boxed in by people.
“Easy,” Mike said, patting the younger man on the shoulder. “You won’t be out there unless you go divin’ off the stage.”
Davy took a deep, calming breath.
“About ready?” the stage manager called.
“Yeah,” Peter said. “Look, guys. Just pretend it’s a REALLY big beach party. Only partly indoors and without the sand and water.”
“Everyone ready?” Keith bounced up to them, slapping shoulders. “Remember, keep all arms and legs INSIDE the concert at all times and if people start throwing vegetables, make yourselves a nice salad, ey?”
“He makes you look like a pessimist,” Davy whispered to Peter.
“Come on, guys,” Mike said, shouldering his guitar. “Time to go.”
They walked out onto the stage, Micky doing a somersault as he slid behind the drums. The crowd clapped, cautiously at first, as the Monkees emerged. It was perfectly clear from the faces in the first few rows that they were there for The Who, but were willing to give the opening act some attention depending on their music. Mike fought back a momentary surge of panic as he took his place to the right of Micky’s drums, stepping up to the microphone. “H-Hello,” he said, cringing at how his voice echoed, making the stutter even more pathetic.
As he took in another breath to say more, the crowd started cheering and whistling. His eyes widening in confusion and surprise, Mike turned, realizing then who they were cheering for. John had walked out on stage, heading straight for Mike without looking at or acknowledging the crowd. Mike took a step back as John leaned over. “Folks, this here’s the opening band. They’re a little nervous to be here tonight, but they’re good lads, so please give ‘em a nice Who welcome.” He gave Mike a brief smile and turned, leaving the stage as quietly as he’d arrived.
Cheers followed him as Micky clicked his sticks, leading them into “Clarksville.”
Behind them, Pete stood leaning on the wall just behind the edge of the stage, watching them play. They were good—energetic and skilled, but a little too bubblegum for him. He was too used to John’s thunderous bass and Keith’s riotus drums—compared to The Who, The Monkees were downright tame. And yet . . .
There was something about them . . . a kind of gracefulness and purity of sound that appealed to him. Watching them was like watching the wind blow, the calm of flowing water even amidst the fast, bopping beat.
“So?”
Pete glanced at Roger. “So what?”
“They any good?”
Pete snorted. “You have ears—why don’t you listen for yourself?” He watched the banter between Davy and Micky, frowning. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were copying us.”
“Good thing you know better, eh mate?” Keith giggled.
“Jealous, Pete?” John asked. “Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”
The Monkees finished their set and bowed.
“Jolly well done, chaps!” Keith congratulated them as they came off stage. “No vomit, eh? Nicely done!”
Davy paled at the crack. “Give me time . . . ”
“Oh go on!” Keith gave him a friendly shove. “Go an’ ‘ave a few drinks and you’ll forget all about being sick!”
He looked Keith straight in the eye and said in a voice that was so calm it shook Keith for a moment. “I can’t drink.”
Those dark eyes fastened on his, looking him up and down. “What do you mean, can’t?”
“Well, I can, but it doesn’t do much for me,” Davy explained. “Not my thing.”
John froze, looking at Keith. That sounded too damn familiar. Keith, for his part, had covered any hint of shock. “Oh, well that’s all right, then—so long as you still like having fun, eh?” He nudged Davy in the ribs, grinning.
He smiled in return. “I do. Aren’t you on?”
John nodded. “We’re on. Let’s go.”
Mike stood back as they took the stage, the crowd stamping and cheering with a sound not unlike thunder. The Who didn’t spend much time tuning or even introducing themselves—they shouldered or sat down behind their instruments, glanced at each other, and started playing. When Mike looked over at Peter, he was slightly surprised to see the Monkey’s jaw hanging open. What was even more surprising was that the normally wise and witty Peter was completely silent.
The sound was unbelievably loud, Pete’s guitar screaming over the thunderous rhythm of John’s bass and darting in between Keith’s frenetic drumming. It was barely-controlled chaos, but there was a reckless, dangerous beauty to it that took their breaths away. “Boy, listening to the records doesn’t even hint at it!” Micky shouted in order to be heard. Davy nodded, in awe at their antics.
Peter suddenly sprang to attention like a hunting dog, his eyes scanning the crowd. Mike felt it too—the sudden sharp twitch to the tattoo. Ironically, the Who were wailing “Tattoo” onstage at that point.
“Knife in the crowd,” Peter said, carefully propping his bass up in safe place before turning and racing for the side exit that led to the edge of the stage. Micky swore softly and took off after Peter, looking for some way to get higher than the crowd and finding none in the tightly packed arena.
“This way!” Peter shouted, making it out to the crowd just at the man—otherwise nondescript in jeans and a jacket—reached up, a small knife poised to fly at either Pete or Roger, whichever one happened to be in its path. Peter slid to the ground, kicking up with his foot and hitting the man’s elbow.
The knife bobbled, but he caught it with his other hand and aimed again, twisting out of Peter’s reach. Micky came leaping over Peter, grabbing the man by the shoulders and physically hauling him over the waist-high barrier.
He groaned as he was manhandled. “Hey, who the hell are you?”
“Just your friendly neighborhood assassin-stoppers!” Micky said, cheerfully pulling the man up before shoving him away. “We’re multi-talented that way!” He knew he could barely be heard over the music that continued uninterrupted behind him, but that didn’t matter.
Peter turned back to the stage and shot a thumbs-up at the band. They were still playing, but something had changed; all four were staring at them, John and Keith more than the others. It was a mixture of different emotions, none of which Peter had time to dwell on as security finally arrived and pounced on the man, wrestling him once again to the ground. Two of the guards then turned on Micky.
“Whoa, whoa!” He said, putting his hands up. “I’m with the tour!” He pointed to the backstage pass still clinging to his neck.
“Turn it over,” one of the guards ordered. When he saw Micky’s picture, he nodded. “He’s with the tour, all right. Sorry for the mix-up, fella.”
Micky mimed patting down a wildly beating heart.
Peter caught up with him. “Better?”
Micky glanced up, catching Mike’s furious face beyond the edge of the stage. “Uh oh, Dad’s mad!”
Sighing, Peter jerked his head toward Mike. “Let’s go.”
They quickly scrambled backstage, ignoring the shouts of the startled crowd who’d seen what happened. Mike was waiting for them, glaring furiously. “What the HELL were you doing!?” he raged at them.
“Saving them from an assassination attempt,” Peter said calmly.
“We were supposed to be QUIET!” Mike hissed. “Not show off in front of thousands of people!”
“Mike, you know, only about thirty people saw us,” Micky said. “And let ‘em talk—we can deny everything!”
Mike reached out and smacked him on the back of the head. “We can’t deny it with The WHO, now can we!?”
“In other words, we’ve been royally busted?” Peter asked.
“Big time,” Mike said, not backing down an inch. He was mad and he wanted to make sure they all knew it.
Davy was scanning the crowd. “No more knives.”
“Yeah, for now.”
“Let’s go backstage?” Peter sighed. “I need to sit down.”
“Yeah, c’mon,” Mike grumbled.
They trudged back, uncomfortably aware of four pairs of eyes locked onto them. Once in their dressing room, with the door closed, Peter turned his attention to the sleeve that was spotted with blood. Rolling it up, he took time to admire the long scrape down his forearm.
Micky whistled. “Need a nap?” he couldn’t resist quipping.
“No, I’m fine,” Peter said.
“So now what do we do?” Davy asked as he plopped into a chair.
“Wait for them to come back, and go from there,” Peter said.
Micky crept to the door and listened. “The music’s stopped.”
“Might be the break between sets,” Mike said, sticking his hands in the back of his jeans.
“I hope so,” Davy sighed. “I’m not ready to face them yet.”
“We might not have a choice,” Mike said. He sighed. “Look, what’s done is done. We’ll just accept what happened and move on.”
On to Chapter Seven
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