When news of Davy Jones’s death hit the Internets, I was on Facebook and could also report: “Three generations just HOWLED.”

I was one of them, sharing instantly how I’d run home at 14 to watch The Monkees. If I was baby-sitting my baby brother,  I sang their songs to him, and he always laughed.




The Monkees  was already in reruns; I’d  realized late that their madcap comedy was, as John Lennon said, “not the Beatles, but the Marx Brothers.” Here they are on the Glen Campbell Hour of Fun, proving it:


This afternoon, what I heard most was “He was so cute!” For my generation (once we’d outgrown  the Partridge Family) and a few others, he was also a secret pleasure. Hard not to be; as the Village Voice pointed out today, Monkees songs came from pop-music’s giants from Harry Nillson to Carole King.  I DARE any late-boomer types like myself to say you don’t have some of the lyrics complete in your brain somewhere.  (Maybe our crooning president can sing a goodbye.)

Or that you didn’t also experience that involuntary catch in the throat—not just as a reminder to get a checkup, now that Heart Disease Awareness Month comes to an end, but as a piece of our younger selves taking that last train out.

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