I Guess I'm Dumb

It’s rare when Mrs. Jaybee can convince me to go out to an actual movie. I usually plead “we’ll see it when it comes out on DVD” and take a pass.  And when she succeeds, she’s usually sorry.  Today was no exception.

She’d gone to see “Inception” last week, but the theater’s sound and picture went on the fritz near the end, so she wasn’t even sure she got the whole thing.  We found it playing nearby in IMAX and she asked if I was interested.  Having nothing better to do, and having dragged her to MoMA the day before, I figured I owed her, and decided to go.

But it was a hot day filled with the Jaybees bickering.  By the time we got there and the previews started I was already talking back to the screen.  (“Julia Roberts finding fulfillment?  Not with my twelve bucks.”)  Then, during the opening scene, a couple who had just arrived (You’re familiar with them, I’m sure.) simply had to sit in our row.  But have a chat first.

So it’s possible that I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for fully appreciate the movie...

First, I must say that “Inception” is a good movie.  Not great.  But good.  However, Mrs. Jaybee is having none of this.  I must explain myself:

The trouble with “Inception” is that director Christopher Nolan confuses quantity with quality.  He keeps throwing things at you, and while it’s admirable to some extent, it’s mostly information and not ideas, so after a while, I can’t help but think enough already.  Oh, there are a few ideas here, but before you get a chance to really savor them, he’s off piling on more information.  I guess he’s just smarter than me. 

It’s one of those rare times when a book or a miniseries would have served the material better.  If the ideas are interesting enough, you can enjoy them as the information steadily comes at you.  I guess Christopher Nolan wanted to pack the movie with enough to make it hold up to multiple viewings.  Yet, this is where “Inception” fails its most important test.  While watching a movie, I sometimes ask myself if I’d ever want to see it again.  In other words, am I enjoying this movie or just enduring it?  I’m afraid that in this case, it was the latter.  So those multiple viewings may not ever happen.

I have to admit that I temporarily felt the same way about “The Dark Knight”.  But that was only because the material was so dark that it could be hard to take.  And once it came to TV and I could enjoy Heath Ledger’s performance again, I found that I could, and in fact had to, watch it all the way through.  Sadly, there are no comparable performances in “Inception”.

Which brings me to Leo.  I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of seeing him play the haunted husband/father.  It reminds me too much of the devoted dad Robin Williams loved to play (“Mrs. Doubtfire”, “The World According to Garp”, etc.).  For once I’d like to see him play an arrogant jerk who’s more or less got it together.  I’m tired of liking him.  I’d like to dislike him some time.

Ellen Page plays the brilliant young student who nonetheless ends up spending most of her time standing around with her mouth open wondering what’s going on.  (Just kidding.  That was me.)  Actually she’s really sharp and has a crucial role.  But she does end up being Juno without the sense of humor.

I also have to add (possible spoiler alert!) that the morality of the mission is hardly ever questioned, even though it’s point is to help one corporation gain a competitive advantage over another.  Curiously amoral.

In its attempt to overwhelm the viewer’s resistance with information overload it reminded me of nothing so much as an episode of “Murder She Wrote”.  You remember that show, don’t you?  They always made sure to have a dozen guest stars as possible suspects.   And enough weapons, rooms and motivations to put Clue to shame.  Did you EVER, EVEN ONCE, figure out who the murderer was?  Of course not.  And even if you somehow guessed the murderer, did you even understand Jessica Fletcher’s explanation at the end?  Weren’t you just too freaking bored and exhausted to care?

A great movie can give you a limited amount of information to work with.  But if it’s engaging enough, it will fully occupy you not only during the initial viewing, but many more times as well.   In the interest of full disclosure, I must add how much fun it was to watch “Memento” - an earlier Christopher Nolan film - backwards the second time around, just to make sure I knew what the hell happened.  Why?  Because I cared about the characters.

As for me and Mrs. Jaybee, we continued our bickering after the movie.  What really pissed her off was that, as we were leaving the theater and she asked what I thought the ending meant, my response was “I don’t care.”  I wasn’t trying to be nasty (I swear, honey).  I really meant it.  Amidst all the noise and information, I didn’t feel anything.

“Inception” has some good ideas that it proceeds to endlessly complicate.  That’s not inspiration.  That’s math.

My My, Hey Hey…We’re the Monkees!

 
My previous post might have seemed implausible to some. After all, Lawrence Welk was notorious for serving warm beer, but it is based on a true story, which goes (something) like this:

If memory serves, "Meet the Monkees" was only the second album of non-Irish music ever to play on our Victrola. Even my poor Dad, who only the year before declared that a Beatles album would "never enter this house", couldn't have imagined what a slippery slope we were now on.

My brother and I revered the album - record and cover both - as much as our months-old, but already battered copy of "Revolver". But it would only be a matter of days before Mickey, Davey, Peter and Mike would be sporting crude Dastardly Dan-like moustaches on the front cover. My sister eventually confessed to this desecration. I can only imagine what inter-sibling trifle was being avenged - her monstrous crime all out of proportion to the offense I'm sure.

Turning the cover over to the back, I see that it's now the record company's turn to show its contempt for us. (One would have to explore the Bobby Sherman and Partridge Family oeuvres to find more egregious examples of this.) I finally notice that the title is a direct rip-off of "Meet the Beatles". Then there are the credits:

Mike Nesmith    - Plays Guitar and Sings

Peter Tork    - Plays Guitar and Sings (like we kids didn't know a guitar from a bass!)

David Jones     - Plays Guitar (yeah, right) and Sings. (What no maracas or tambourine?)

Mickey Dolenz - Plays Drums and Sings. At least they didn't say it was a guitar.

And what about those instruments? It should come as no surprise by now that the Monkees themselves didn't actually play them. But lest you think that I mock them for this, I know that they were hardly the only ones. Even the Who and Kinks occasionally used Jimmy Page and Nicky Hopkins (see the great Kinks song "Session Man"). So, why, then, do I draw the line at the Partridge Family, Osmond Brothers, etc. you ask? Because they, uh, SUCKED*.

So who did the playing? Well, amongst the dozens of studio pros, there's Glen Campbell on guitar. Connoisseurs of album credits would also recognize Hal Blaine, Jim Gordon and Larry Knechtel on drums, and Larry Taylor on bass. These guys have played with everybody from Frank Sinatra to Jackson Browne. They are good.

Anyway, let's keep reading. The boys hailed from Manchester, England, Dallas, Texas, Washington, DC and LA. In a savvy marketing move, there was not a whiff of New York ethnicity to be found.


 
At this rate, it's a wonder that I ever actually heard the record, but by now I've finally put it on. And amid the snap crackle and pop, the magic words come back to me…

Here we come, walking down the street

Sounds a little ominous, but don't worry ladies and gentlemen! It's not the Stones.

We get the funniest looks from everyone we meet

It's probably Mike Nesmith's pioneering wool hat in hot weather look.

Hey hey we're the Monkees, people say we monkey around

Well at least they got the bad joke out of the way early.

But we're too busy singing, to put anybody down.

Very passive aggressive and apolitical.

We're just trying to be friendly!

Isn't this what a drunk says when he's getting a little too friendly?

Come and watch and sing and play

Well, sing, anyway

We're the young generation

One of the more overused phrases of the time, it's less informational than it is marketing.

And we've got something to say.

Well, not really but that's okay. Don Kirshner meant something to sell, anyway

And that's pretty much it. "Visions of Johanna", it ain't. I shouldn't be making fun, but, God, it was so easy!


 
But now it's finally time to confront what I love about "Meet the Monkees". First, there's "Last Train to Clarksville", with its transcendent instrumental bridge, written by the Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart, who did the bulk of the songs. Then there's the lovely "Take a Giant Step", by Carol King and Gerry Goffin, that builds to a great climax. And the almost hard rock "Saturday's Child", written by future Bread leader David Gates, which beat out "Lady Madonna" to the day naming idea by a year or so. And finally, "Tomorrow's Gonna Be Another Day" which actually has a bit of soul to it.

What I like about it: Davey Jones isn't awful yet. Even "I'll be True to You" has a nice bridge, and "I Want to Be Free" is purty any way you look at it. Mike Nesmith's two songs are raw and rootsy. (I even saw Yo La Tengo cover "Sweet Young Thing". God, you just can't stump those guys/gal.)

The rest is okay, or, let's face it, sucks, which on balance makes this record not bad at all. But Jaybee, anyone with enough money can put together the right people for a decent album, right? I agree. But we're not done yet.

The title of the second album, "More of the Monkees", practically screams unoriginality, but do you know what? It's still an excellent record. This time around, the songwriting is stronger. First, Neil Sedaka and Carole Bayer (later Sager) contribute "When Love Comes Knockin at Your Door", one of the few Davey Jones songs I can stomach, along with Neil Diamond's "Watch Out, Here Comes Tomorrow". (Maybe they should have kept looking for more Neils. They might have found Young. Can you imagine Davey singing "Down by the River"? Well, no, neither can I.) Mike Nesmith comes through with "Mary Mary", which ended up getting sampled by Run DMC(!) Peter gets snarky with "Auntie Grizelda" and Mickey's actually angry on "Steppin Stone". Carol King and Gerry Goffin hit it out of the park with "Sometime in the Morning." The guitar part anticipates the Who's Acid Queen/Cousin Kevin/Eyesight to the Blind by two years.

Oh yeah, and Neil Diamond provides "I'm a Believer". Of course, there's some crap, too. But the good stuff easily wins out.

By now the boys are feeling like they really do have something to say and the skill to say and play it. So their third album "Monkees Headquarters" has no studio hotshots there to make them sound good, and no Neil or Carol songs. So, by all measures, it should have been a disaster. But in some ways, it's the best one so far. Howzat? Well, Mike Nesmith is writing better than ever, and Peter and Mickey are getting into the act with "For Pete's Sake" and "Randy Scouse Git". And what it lacks in studio polish, it makes up for in enthusiasm. And for faux significance, "Zilch" precedes the Velvet Undergrounds' "Murder Mystery" by almost two years.

I will leave it to someone even less cool than I to tell us how the remaining records are. I tried watching "Head" recently, but just didn't get it, which makes it no worse than "Alice's Restaurant" or "Easy Rider", when you get down to it.

In the wildly distorted timeframe that is childhood, the Monkees "era" lasted barely a year. During that time, we played the records incessantly, watched the show religiously, and even imitated them, using curtain rods for guitars and pillows for drums. But by 1969, I'm twelve, and needing to be cool, so the Monkees were out. When friend Mike and I found an old 45 of "Daydream Believer", we decided to fling it around the street like a Frisbee until it broke into a million pieces. And yet that song is now on a very short list of records that, if I hear it on the radio, I absolutely will NOT change the station. I might not let you change it either.

When they finally broke up, Mike Nesmith went on to make tons of country records (and tons of money from his mom's white out). The other boys just kind of faded away.

Then time speeds up, and it's the mid-1980s. There's Davey Jones, looking a little worse for the wear as a guest on "The Uncle Floyd Show" (basically Joe Franklin for hipsters), in the middle of the night, clearly wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

Mrs. Jaybee reports seeing Mickey Dolenz in "Aida" (the Broadway musical, not the opera). And I caught him singing the national anthem at a baseball game. He always was their best singer.

Mrs. Jaybee also reports that Peter Tork is not and has never been dead. God, they even ripped off their rumors from the Beatles.

There have been reunions of all sorts and combinations, sometimes even Mr. Nesmith comes down from the mountaintop to help out.

So laugh if you will, but now there's a weight off of my shoulders (monkee off my back? Ouch!). Can anyone seriously say that songs like "Last Train to Clarksville", "I'm a Believer", "Pleasant Valley Sunday" (one of the most intense songs ever) and "Daydream Believer" don't belong in the pantheon? Please. And I left a few of my other favorites out. If I kept going, you'd think I wasn't cool or something.

I hope you, dear reader appreciate how difficult this was for me. After all, I'm a mature adult who only listens to totally unique and non prefabricated music, by serious artistic geniuses who aren't in it for the money. Their music is of such high quality and artistic purity that the actual enjoyment of it is discouraged.

That, or the Bay City Rollers.


 

 
* Jaybee's wife say's that the Partridge Family does NOT suck. Yes dear. (Dear Reader, we'll talk later.)

The Confessions of St. Jaybee - Part One

 
The following is an excerpt from the classic tragedy "Confessions of St. Jaybee"

 
The scene: A dungeon deep beneath the Lawrence Welk studio.

Background: The Grand Musical Inquistor, looking a lot like Mr. Welk, is holding our hero Jaybee captive (Actually, he's offered him a comfy chair and a cold beer, so it hasn't occurred to Jaybee to leave just yet.)


 
The Grand Music Inquisitor (reading from a scroll): Jaybee, for the crime of "serious and repeated acts of bullsh*t about music", you are hereby sentenced to be forced to speak at least one musical truth per year. (Now looking at Jaybee) And let's face it, you're way behind. So, out with it.

Jaybee (Innocently sipping his beer):
I have nothing to hide.

GMI (gently, but mocking, nonetheless):
Of course
you do. Let me help you. It's about a certain band…

JB (Another sip, this time cautiously):
What band?

GMI:
Oh, you know! That famous one, named after a mammal, but misspelled.

JB (relieved):
Oh, the Beatles. What about 'em?

GMI:
No, no. Not an insect. A mammal. Besides, who would be embarrassed to admit that they loved the Beatles, (turning to the audience) except me perhaps?

JB (finishing his beer):
That's actually one of the few things I'm not embarrassed about

GMI:
Let's not even go there. Shall I name the band?

JB:
No, that won't be necessary. (Looking at the empty beer can.) Now that you've practically beaten it out of me.

GMI:
Always the macho man, eh, Jaybee? Well, get on with it.

JB:
Okay, I admit it. A long time ago, I used to… love…the Monkees. There, I said it.

GMI:
Now that wasn't too hard, was it?

JB:
Are we done? I have some albums to alphabetize. I'm trying to decide if Jethro Tull belongs under J or T…

GMI:
J, of course. (looking momentarily pacified, but then suddenly shaking himself out of it) Nice try, but we haven't gotten to the best part yet. Admitting that you once loved the Monkees is no big deal. Let's face it, everybody loved them… at one time or another.

JB (checking the beer can again, remembering that it's empty, suddenly filled with fear):
No, you're not going to make me say it!

GMI:
You must. You've broken too many laws. Only the unvarnished truth will satisfy the gods of music now!

JB:
All right! I'm ready to admit it.

GMI:
Admit what?

JB:
That I still do.

GMI:
Still do what, Jaybee?

JB: (realizing that another beer is not forthcoming) I STILL LOVE THE MONKEES!!!!

GMI: Wow
Jaybee, I can't believe you actually admitted it. What a girl.

Jaybee collapses. He has died of embarrassment.

GMI: (He
takes out a baton, and begins waving it): Anna one, anna two…

Jaybee's body begins its ascent to musical heaven*, borne by champagne bubbles.

                THE END

            (and yet, to be continued…)


 

 
* Or maybe Purgatory. It's up to his wife, who he's made sit through a lot a bad records.