Sixty-six sounded so old to me when I was that little starry-eyed 'tween' back in the day. Davy and Mickey and the other guys were flapping around, pretending to dance and play instruments. Hell, Davy couldn't even snap his fingers! But. Davy was Davy, and we sure did love that little guy! And now I know that sixty-six is far from old.
I was twelvish, turning thirteen, and I too had a captain's hat just like his. My fascination didn't last very long though. I did have real musical taste. The Beatles, the Stones, the Doors, The Mamas and the Papas...and this, of course, was just the start.
I came home one day, stomped up the front stairs in my red Dr. Scholl's. I had a couple of records in a bag and I was dying to pull them out and hear them play. My brother, though, was stretched out on the couch in the living room. He was watching and reading the evening news at the same time. My brother was a full ten years older than me, and he was the man of the house. And to me, he didn't seem like a brother...he seemed so, I don't know...old!
When I got to the top of the stairs, I plunked that baby right down. I turned up the volume and kicked the Scholls off my feet. Innocent. Really. I mean I'd taken the bus downtown to buy those few minutes of scratchy entertainment. Pure Davy blared, but the 'noise' and my dancing was apparently destroying the karma downstairs. My brother was a total Elvis/Bobby Darren fan. In reality, we may have been kids from the same gene pool, but musically, and culturally, we were at least an ocean apart. He knocked on the door and made me turn it all down.
A few years later, though, he was wishing for those charming little tunes. By that time I was a true teen with a driver's license and a job. And when I came home, I just loved to blare it all. Zepelin, Mountain, the Dead, the Stones and so, so many more. I'd long before shed my allegiance to the Monkees, I'd become a real rock and roll (and Motown) fan!
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