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The power of nostalgia is such a hard thing to explain. Why are we attracted to something just because we remember it with at least a smidgen of fondness? I’m not talking about deeply held bonds and obsessions like I have with, say, most of the Rocky movies and the entirety of The Hilarious House of Frightenstein. I buy those lunchboxes because the shows are still endlessly entertaining on their own merit. But take something like H. R. Pufnstuf…why oh why would I retain even a sliver of emotion for this show when I know that the content doesn’t hold up to the test of time even a little bit? Believe me, I got sucked into buying the first season the moment it came out on DVD (of course) and it’s terrible*.
But I do.
Anyway, no surprise that this preamble is leading up to me seeing a long-dead-but-still-actually-alive band at the Ottawa Bluesfest (a virtual petting zoo for acts that fall under such a category), and it is:
I can’t say I was excited when I cycled down to the Bluesfest site on July 14th, 2016, my lanyarded festival pass flapping in the wind behind me. I parked in the bike valet lot and shunned any and all small stages, heading straight to the decidedly un-busy beer tent and taking my place close to the front of the lawn, stage right. I was here solely because of my unexplainable self-imposed obligation to nostalgia (and my free pass); no need to muck about looking for good music.
Though I had caught early reruns of their television show when I was a kid, I can’t say I was ever that much of a fan of The Monkees. I’m not sure why; I love camp (I was and remain rabid over Adam West’s Batman and cherish the personalized autographed 8×10 photo that hangs on my wall) and I love parody (don’t even get me started on Mad Magazine or the Airplane films), but for some reason The Monkees never resonated with me. It’s probably because while they excelled in pastiche and surface comedy they were rarely (if ever) clever**. And I like a good dose of ‘clever’ in my camp and parody, which probably explains my affinity for Frank Zappa.
Heck, The Monkees are so unclever that when they altered the spelling of their name they took out a musical term.
Anyway, the show started with a scene from their old television show projected on the bigscreen…it might even have been the opening credits. Then the old lads hit the stage and did their thing for a song or two before huddling backstage whilst another video montage played on the screen. And so went the next eighty minutes: video-song-song-video-song-song-etcetera.
It was terrible. I walked away quite pleased that I had never really been a fan in the first place. Though I did stop by the merch tent on my way out, just for a peek. They were out of lunchboxes.
*Though Witchypoo’s motorized broomstick is still pretty cool. I’d probably buy her lunchbox.
**With the very notable exception of their 1968 film Head, which is decidedly clever and perhaps even brilliant. Directed by Jack Nicholson, the very un-Monkee Monkees movie includes cameos from the likes of Dennis Hopper, Teri Garr, and Frank Zappa, and I highly recommend it.
Todd Man Out 