The birth of the Monkees coincided with my very first days as a music listener. Oh, I had been exposed to contemporary tunes before that. But, usually as a second-hand recipient. You know. It's on because somebody else is listening to the radio or a record. Like so many of your earliest opinions in life, the genesis of those thoughts is usually somebody else.
The earliest influence was my mother. She was a rarity amongst parents. She listened to Top 40 radio. When I was up in the morning eating my breakfast Pop Tart before heading off to Grimes School, the radio was on in the kitchen and we were listening to the hits of the day. When I came home from school in the afternoon and she was preparing my dinner, the radio was on in the kitchen and we were listening to the hits of the day. And, if music wasn't coming out of the table radio on the china closet, it was wafting out of the record player.
My mom was, for lack of a better phrase, hip.
Once a week, she would cart me down to Fourth Avenue in Mount Vernon, New York for a round of after-school shopping. That excursion almost always included a stop at Brodbeck's Record Store. These places rarely exist today, but, back then, Brodbeck's looked just like any platter emporium you would see today in movies of the 50s and the 60s. Rows and rows and rows of record albums ideal for your high-fidelity stereo. And little consoles equipped with huge headphones where you could sample the latest hit from the Four Seasons.
I'd walk around Brodbeck's in a daze. None of it registered with me. But, my mom was always there with a purpose. There was some new hit song that had just come out on 45 rpm and she absolutely had to have it.
We'd come home with the new platter. Mom would pop the little cookie that slipped into the middle hole of any 45 rpm record and slide it down the metal pole of our player. And she would play it over and over and over. Singing along with every single rendition.
"Forget Him" by Bobby Rydell.
Over and over.
"He's So Fine" by the Chiffons.
Over and over.
"Be My Baby" by the Ronettes.
Over and over.
"Dominique" by the Singing Nun.
Over and over. And, Mom, I didn't know you could speak French.
"Go Away Little Girl" by Steve Lawrence.
Over and over.
"Blame It on the Bossa Nova" by Eydie Gorme.
Over and over.
"Steve and Eydie are married, you know."
Oh. I thought my mom was a wealth of musical knowledge.
"Sukiyaki" by Kyu Sakamoto.
Over and over. And, Mom, I didn't know you could speak Japanese, too.
These musical memories ping pong around my head today. Visions of Mom singing at the top of her lungs while vacuuming the hallway.
While my mother was a-moving and a-grooving to records or WABC Musicradio 77 or WMCA with the Good Guys, my dad's musical tastes seemed to be in a completely different league. He rarely played the radio in the house. Except on Saturday nights.
It was a rigid routine. Saturday dinners were often potluck. I usually was graced with some pizza. But, Dad had to have his boiled kielbasie from Klemm's Pork Store. He'd sit at the kitchen table munching away, dipping each piece into a huge pile of horseradish that sat alongside on his plate. Out of the radio was an appropriate accompaniment.
Bill Shibilski's Polka Party.
Dad wasn't a singer, but he hummed along. Some of these tunes were also in another language, either German or Polish. My father seemed to understand the words. I thought about my great fortune, having parents that were so well-versed in several international flavors.
Years later, the Shibilski Polka Party was broadcast on Fordham University's WFUV-FM radio station and Dad still listened. At the same time, I was working at that radio station myself. Even if I had met the President of the United States, my father was forever more impressed that I actually walked the halls and rubbed elbows with this polka king. It was as if I was communing with royalty.
On family trips in the car, a battle ensued between my parents for control of the radio. From the passenger side, Mom would tune into WMCA. Dad would flip the dial to the more sedate tones coming from WNEW, which frequently sported the sounds of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Rosemary Clooney. Nobody would win this battle. Songs were flipped off mid-verse. My earliest recollection of parental friction. These days, my friends will comment that I dial-flip with a frenzy. Now, folks, you know where I picked up this annoying habit.
Back as a kid, however, none of these sounds were registering with me. And there was yet another voice in the house with an opinion.
Grandma.
Now, other than a seemingly endless love for Kate Smith and anybody remotely associated with Lawrence Welk, my grandmother's musical preferences mostly fell under the same umbrella.
She hated them all.
I remember sitting with her and watching the hottest musical acts of the day show up on Sunday night television with Ed Sullivan. And Grandma would sneer at all of them.
"You stink on ice."
"If I couldn't do any better than that, I wouldn't try."
"OH, GO HOME ALREADY!"
There was no pleasing her. And that extended to the very first appearance in America of the Beatles.
I remember it as if it were yesterday. This was even before they showed up with Old Stone Face in February of 1964. We were visiting relatives and two of my older (teen-age) cousins were there. They had already gotten the word. These Beatles were something else. And they wanted everybody in the family to share in their wonder and amazement.
Grandma looked at the cover of their latest 45 rpm hit. "She Loves You."
"They look like girls."
Uh-huh.
"Is this why you're letting your hair grow?"
My cousin nodded.
"You look like a girl."
Natch.
I remember listening to the Beatles and watching my cousins go all euphoric over and over and over. I didn't hate it. But, still....
None of these were my own personal musical tastes. I was receiving lots of eclectic and disconnected sounds from all over my family. Yet, none of them were yet uniquely mine.
And along came the Monkees.
Truth be told, I might not have noticed them either. But, there was this Monday night show and all the girls in school were talking about this Davy Jones who apparently was melting their fifth-grade butter. As for me, I found the weekly song engaging, but I was more in tune to the comedy embedded in what was really nothing more than a musical sitcom.
Indeed, not counting the soundtrack to "Bye Bye Birdie," the Monkees' debut album above may have been the very first record I bought specifically for my very own amusement.
I was starting to form musically.
But, the actual and official confirmation literally did sneak up on me. I was completely unaware of what was happening.
As I had gotten older, my mother joined my dad in the workforce and I had two parents who both worked nights. My evening guardians were my grandparents and, before long, we drifted into our own routine. Dinner was ready at 5PM. Once the dishes cleared my grandmother's kitchen table, the adults migrated to the living room for their nightly date with Walter Cronkite. I usually had about an hour's worth of homework to sift through. I would remain parked in the kitchen with whatever annoying assignment I had.
One night, I somehow took the opportunity to turn on my grandmother's kitchen table radio. As was any of the radios in her house, it was tuned to the talk shows of WOR. Nah, that wouldn't do for me. I wiggled the dial to WABC.
"And our new number one hit of the week........Lightning Strikes by Lou Christie!"
The song started to play. It was about ten seconds in. I was engrossed in some fractions on my notebook paper. And, suddenly, I started to sing.
Listen to me, baby, you gotta understand
You're old enough to know the makings of a man
Listen to me, baby, it's hard to settle down
Am I asking too much for you to stick around
Every boy wants a girl
He can trust to the very end
Baby, that's you
Won't you wait but 'til then
When I see lips beggin' to be kissed (stop)
I can't stop (stop)
I can't stop myself
(Stop, stop)
Lightning is striking again.
Lightning is striking again.
Yeah, that's how it started for me.
And, of course, it began not without its detractors. Grandma's voice rang out from the living room.
"Stop foolin' around in there and do your homework!"
Dinner last night: BLT sandwich at Canter's Deli.
