At the start of 1968, The
Monkees were one of the most popular bands on the planet, with a top rated
television show that provided prime exposure for their music, helping them sell
more records in America than any other group except The Beatles. By the end of the year, the show was
cancelled, their music dropped off the charts, and The Monkees were essentially
finished as a group (though they continued to drag out their sagging fortunes
for a couple of years, with ever-shrinking lineups). The speed with which this decline took place
is pretty staggering, but, in a post-Sgt. Pepper world, the deck was
decidedly stacked against the Monkees, with new premiums placed on ideals such
as “authenticity” and “adventurousness,” ideals that the public (and the new
wave of music critics in particular) thought the Monkees lacked, being “manufactured”
by the industry.
The Monkees, understandably, were tiring of these
accusations, as they had assumed total control of their work by this point, and
had been putting out quality records for years. In reaction to this, they
started taking more chances on their show, adding psychedelic elements, as well
as having counterculture figures like Frank Zappa appear regularly, which
prompted their producers to pull the plug on a show that was starting to
outgrow their largely young audience.
With no way to seemingly please either their built-in audience, or the
more mature listeners that would never give them a chance, The Monkees decided
to blow it out in grand fashion, fashioning a film with the help of producer
Bob Rafelson and writer Jack Nicholson, and a soundtrack album to accompany
it. The resulting record, Head,
is, like the film itself, absolutely wild.
It’s also completely ahead of its time.
Head is, at its heart, a sound collage, conveying
the plot of the film in chronological order through the use of dialogue
snippets, with the music serving to illuminate the themes on hand. The dialogue
is, by turn, faux-profound, satirical, sometimes overwrought, and sometimes
hilarious, and completely soaked in psychedelia, a skewed window into The
Monkees world at this time. They address
their critics (“Ditty Diego - War Chant”), delve into funny non-sequiturs (“Superstitious,”
“Gravy,” containing the immortal line “I’d like a glass of cold gravy with a
hair in it, please.”), and engage in hippie mysticism (“Swami-Plus Strings (Ken
Thorne). Etc.”) The scattered nature of Head
brings to mind contemporary works by Frank Zappa such as Lumpy Gravy,
where dialogue and music work together in a similar manner.
The heart of the record, however, lies in its music,
which is as scattershot as the dialogue in between, but is infinitely more
palatable and engrossing. “Porpoise
Song,” written by Gerry Goffin and Carole King, is the first proper song on Head,
an epic psychedelic masterpiece, with towering organ and strings accompanying a
mournful, fantastic Micky Dolenz vocal, which is strangely reminiscent of Grace
Slick of Jefferson Airplane fame. It’s
one of The Monkees greatest achievements as a band, and stands up to similar
epics like “Nights In White Satin.”
Dolenz also shines on another Goffin/King composition, “As We Go Along,”
a more low-key folk ballad with gentle acoustic guitar and great instrumental
interplay. These two songs also show how
Michael Nesmith, the main creative force in the group, had matured into a great
producer, adding the right touches, never going overboard in arrangements, as
other groups of that era were guilty of doing.
Nesmith gets to highlight his own songwriting as well
with the rollicking “Circle Sky,” a country rock song driven by a fantastic
guitar riff and layers of percussion, with cowbell, shakers, and tambourines
keeping a tight groove in the midst of its seemingly chaotic production. It’s his only contribution to Head,
but it’s strong, and shows that he had a tighter grip on country rock than
several similar acts around this time, including The Byrds, who had put out
their seminal Sweetheart Of The Rodeo that same year (on a side note,
Nesmith had been doing country rock years before it became popular, at least
since “Papa Gene’s Blues,” from The Monkees’ self-titled debut album in 1965,
predating the genre‘s emergence by at least three years).
Davy Jones also gets his time in the sun, and thankfully
avoids falling into his usual habit of putting out sappy, cheesy material. “Daddy’s Song” is a comical delight, written
by Harry Nilsson and performed in the music hall style that The Beatles had
popularized with songs like “When I’m Sixty Four.” Jones sells it for all it’s
worth, using his theatrical background to give the songs a brassy, Broadway
style interpretation.
The big surprise of Head, however, is the
emergence of Peter Tork as a songwriter of note. Previously with only a few songs to his name,
he provides two songs, both of which are highlights. Perhaps playing on his Harrisonesque role in
the group, his first contribution, “Can You Dig It?” is a full on Indian
rocker, with guitars that sound like sitars noodling in the mix, while Dolenz
sings in a near drone, helping to sell the contrived hippie clichés contained
in the lyrics. It’s a dark, menacing
song propelled by some great guitar and bass interplay. His other contribution, “Long Title: Do I
Have To Do This All Over Again?,” is full-bore acid rock, with Tork himself
giving in a convincing vocal, and searing guitar rock providing the icing on
one of the Monkees’ hardest rocking songs.
So, The Monkees touch on a lot of bases here. Psychedelia, country rock, music hall…it’s
almost a summary of the prevalent musical styles of 1968, and only in six
songs. If that seems a bit far reaching,
well, that was the intention anyway. With Head, The Monkees really did
blow it out in grand fashion. And how
were they rewarded? With more critical lambasting, this time for both the film
and album. Both flopped miserably. However, Head lives on as a testament
to how out there, almost avant-garde, The Monkees could be when putting their
energy into it. In this instance, they
created something that critics never thought they were capable of: art.
