Thursday, March 1, 2012

The Monkees' Davy Jones

So, I got the news yesterday that Davy Jones, singer/misc. percussion (come ON guys, you KNOW what I mean by this. :P) for The Monkees, has died. 

What, you may ask yourself, does this have to do with either photography OR burlesque?  Not much, outright.  But here's a little backstory for you.

I fell in love with The Monkees back in... '97?  Maybe?  I was about ten or eleven years old, so that sounds about right.  I didn't know it then, but all the resurgent hubbub for them was a result of their releasing their final- and only fully self-produced studio album Justus.  All I cared about was the TV show.  And the music.  My dad played a Monkees tape (Yes, this *is* how old we are) on the way home from a Tigers baseball game, and that was that.  I was hooked.  They were all over tv that summer, and we taped a bunch of episodes. 

Davy Jones might well have been my first childhood crush.  Granted, he was supplanted exactly fifteen seconds later when my capricious childhood mind decided that Mickey was much cuter.  (I still prefer Mickey, for the record, though I had a phase revolving around each of them.)  Still, for those fifteen seconds, he was the only tiny, British heartthrob in the world to me. 

Fast forward to this Tuesday.  I've been getting very frustrated with the state of my newest burlesque act.  Choreography-wise, it's coming together well.  Intentions-wise, I could be stronger, but that's more an issue of rehearse, rehearse, rehearse than anything else.  But costume-wise?  Eesh.  I haven't got a sparkle on that damn thing, and I've got no money to change that, at least not in the quantity that this particular act requires.  So I dusted off an old idea I've had hanging around. 

Since the inception of my burlesque career, as it were, I've been alternately trying to talk myself into and out of doing an act to The Monkees She Hangs Out.  It's a 2.5 minute long song, which makes it pretty damn short for burlesque, but it's peppy and catchy, and I tend to dance to it even though said dancing makes the record skip horribly.  I just can't help it.  And on Tuesday night, it finally hit me.  I'll throw together a quick shimmy act.  Fringe is dirt cheap compared to Swarovskis, and I'm pretty good at faking all those boppy '60's dance staples like the Pony, the Swim, and, oh, hey, the MONKEY. 

So I shimmied myself sick on Tuesday night.  And when I woke up Wednesday morning and dragged ass to work, I opened up my laptop only to see ten million people on Facebook posting Monkees clips and "RIP Davy" messages.

What the what? 

I have to admit, I'd never guessed that he would be the first to go.  Not least of which because he was the youngest Monkee.  It's still kind of a weird twingey feeling in my gut thinking about it, too.  Despite the fact that it was fifteen seconds of a ten-year-old me's life, Davy Jones was one of my first crushes, and this is the first time someone I've felt "that way" for (inasmuch as a ten year old can feel "that way") has died. 

So... cheers Davy.  I'm still gonna put that act together, and you might just have yourself a dedication.  And... I'll see you on the other side, with that bright orange GTO. 

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