Sadder than Whitney Houston

When the outpouring of sadness over Whitney Houston's death hit the internet waves, I was hardly moved at all. Never having called myself a huge fan, I regarded all those coming out of the woodwork declaring themselves "LIFELONG FANS" with a kind of skepticism and amusement. Not that any death is amusing in the slightest. I dunno, I just wasn't moved.

BUT.

This morning during my daily battle through the suburban traffic landscape, I heard on the radio that Davy Jones of the Monkees had passed away. I let out a little squeak and turned up the volume.

I don't really even remember how I got into the Monkees. But, given my slightly addictive/obsessive personality, I very quickly became absolutely entranced by them. The DVDs, all their albums, finding whatever I could on vinyl, posters, books. I couldn't get enough of them. I was in my early teens, so my school folders were plastered with pictures of them sitting proudly next to my Star Wars pencil case (I was very cool, obviously).

There was (is) just something about The Monkees that makes me happy. To my mind, the TV show captures this amazing kind of joy, as do those five or so records that they released. Their music is terribly, criminally underrated in my opinion. They were all accomplished musicians in their own right (apart from Davy Jones, funnily enough), I'll have you know. Personally, I think their best songs are the ones that were their own doing. Hell, Michael Nesmith's solo stuff is amazing. Seriously. It is. Country magic. And it's fascinating to hear his musical stylings forming in a group and environment as strange as The Monkees.

Anyway.

It was The Monkees that ended up getting me into the wider musical wonderland that was the 1960s. The Who (my next obsession), Woodstock, psychedelia, garage. I guess the Monkees aren't exactly the most likely of gateway bands, but there you go.

SO! That's why I've been listening to The Monkees all morning at my desk. Quite sad.

In other news! Mitts arrives today. Again, the past few weeks have been insanely busy. A ridiculous rollercoaster of visitors, trips and beer. With a week in Bali in between (hot, relaxing, pools are the words that pop to mind when revisiting those memories). I feel like I don't even have time to think, let alone accomplish anything creative or constructive ... or sleep ... or clean my room. I lift up my piles of clothing half expecting to see a friendly colony of mice hanging out there (I'm kidding, it's not that bad).