Monkeeing Around with Davy Jones

Davy Jones


Here, for your pleasure, is part two of our special excerpt from Davy Jones’ book, They Made A Monkee Out Of Me

I got a call from a doctor in a hospital in Phoenix, Arizona, one time. How he found me, I don’t know, but here he was on the other end of the line telling me about two little girls who were crossing the road with their Monkees albums, which they’d just been out to buy, and they’d got run over. One of them had very bad leg damage and the other had been unconscious for six weeks.

Well, now she’s come around and they’re playing her Monkees records in the hospital, and the doctor calls to say it would just be the greatest thing for them both if Davy Jones were to visit them out of the blue.

Well, you get a lot of this sort of thing, and it’s really hard sometimes. But this guy is really genuine, I can tell—so I say I’ll come if he’ll promise not to let the press know. Right! Boy, is he excited! We have a deal.

I get on a plane to Phoenix, and I go to the hospital. I must admit I’m pretty excited myself, just thinking how excited these girls are going to be. You should have seen their faces. Now I know how Santa Claus feels. You can’t measure moments like that. If I’d had to fly twice around the world, it would’ve been worth it.

So we have a little group picture taken, and I meet their families. Both girls live on the same little street in Phoenix—real homey. It’s all very moving. Felt nice.

Then a couple of months later I get invited back to this little girl’s house for dinner, (the one who’d been in a coma), and I think—yeah, that’d be nice—go and have dinner and see how they’re doing. So there I am—and at dinner there’s this sixty-year old guy, Tif, and his wife, Clara. He’s thin as can be—he’s got emphysema, just like my dad and mum died of. They both live out in the desert.

Now, I don’t know why (well, maybe I do if I think about it) but I found myself on a plane to Phoenix a couple of times. I wanted to see the kids, sure—but I really wanted to see Tif and Clara in their tiny little house on the edge of the desert…

I was in this supermarket once—just stepped out to get a loaf of bread, basically. It’s about 1:00 a.m. and I’m checking out the counters—six-pack of beer, okay—don’t forget the bread—ooh, those tomatoes look nice. I’m just sort of enjoying the late hour, y’know. Shopping’s great for me at that time of night—no lines and usually nobody hassles me.

Wrong. All of a sudden I’m attacked by four or five guys and a girl, right in the middle of the frozen vegetables.

“Hey! You’re Davy Jones, right?”


“Hey, c’mon man—we know you are.”

“I used to be.”

“Listen—this is incredible—this’ll blow you away, Davy—you’ve just got to help us, man.”

“I’ve got to?”

“Please, man—it’ll be far out.”

Well, they explain to me that they were at this party, see? And for a forfeit in some stupid game they were playing, they had to go out and bring back a movie star. If they didn’t bring one back, they were out of the game. So this is serious, right? Who wants to be out of the game?

I’m sort of eyeing them whilst I shop. I don’t recognize Manson amongst them—should I? Broccoli—that’ll be good… sprouts love sprouts. Will I be front-page news tomorrow morning?—‘The frozen vegetable murders!’

I switch aisles. Ah, millet… somebody I know will love that.

“So how far is this party anyway?” I sort of fancy the girl.

“Not far, man. Aw, c’mon, Davy.”

So they take me in their car—into Hollywood somewhere. We pull up at this middle-class, real suburban-type house—front lawn up to the street—kiddies’ tricycle left out on the sidewalk. The party’s going full swing, but not real loud or anything—they’re not junkies, these people… just your average, middle-income kidnappers.

Well, we have to do this right—right? So they chair me on their shoulders like I’m their trophy, and they stumble in, shouting and cheering themselves all the way. Looks like the rest of the party gave up this silly game hours ago—they’re into crawling all over each other by now—it’s got much more promise. The only thing this movie star game’s any good for is getting rid of four or five creeps who you didn’t want at your party in the first place.

They let me down in the middle of the room—somebody turns the stereo off—all eyes are riveted on me…

“Ladies and Gentlemen…” my captors proudly announce. “Davy Jones!”

There’s a moment’s silence. Then, from somewhere in the back

“Naaarr… we said movie star, Kirby. He’s TV!”

They had us walking around wearing these matching grey suits all the time—another Beatles sort of thing, except that each one was different in a particular way.

Micky had a one-button jacket—in case he didn’t make it, he was going to be a waiter. Mine was double-breasted—quite fashionable. (England was leading the fashion world in those days. Carnaby Street and all that.) Peter had, err—don’t think Peter had a suit, come to think of it. I think he gave his away. Peter gave everything away. Most of the time he was into Hare Krishna, brown rice, waterbeds—that sort of thing. He even gave the hole away where the button was supposed to go. Nesmith’s had a sort of Western back—his country image, y’know. He’d tuck his jeans into his cowboy boots and suddenly, all you could see was Texas oil.

Speaking of boots… for some reason, just as The Monkees was taking off big, I developed a complex about my height. I don’t know what it was—maybe because of working so close to three six-footers. I mean, on Broadway, Oliver was taller than me. I had an extra heel on my shoes—and a double innersole—but it never used to bother me. The Beatles arrived and Cuban heels became the fashion anyway.

But now all of a sudden it was different. We’d be filming and they’d need to do a four-shot—tight close-up in one frame—the cry would go out, “Man-maker for Davy!”

They’d bring a box for me to stand on. It felt very weird—especially if there was a guest on the set. Usually it was a closed set—Stage 7—the heavy security bit. But occasionally someone’s friend was allowed in—and it was always some great-looking lady that someone wanted to impress, y’know. I’d arrive for work—oh no, a girl!

“Err—no four-shots this morning, okay fellas? I don’t feel up to it.”

So they’d start with a barrage of four-shots, just to get me. Everybody shouting for man-makers. Just the word made me feel like if I was on a sinking ship I’d be with the women and children.

I thought, “Why now?” I’d never felt short before. Well, shorter than most, but it never bothered me. Now all of a sudden I had this great big thing about it.

On tour people would come up to me and say, “You’re so short. I had no idea!” Fourteen and 15-year-old girls would say, “That’s okay. I’m into little men.”

So I had lifts put in all my shoes. With two-inch lifts and a high heel, I was 5'8". It was great—I was taller than some girls. I could dance with them and check out the other talent at the same time. But it only created more problems. I got so used to them that I felt naked without them. At home it got so bad that if there was a knock on the door—on would go the shoes. Sometimes I couldn’t answer the phone without them. It was ridiculous. I even had my bed raised.

Want to find out more about Davy’s book? Drop a line to Dome Press, Box 4000, Beavertown, Pennsylvania 17813

Magazine: Tiger Beat
Editor: Michael Edrei
Volume: 24
Issue: 1
Publisher: D.S. Magazines, Inc.
Pages: 57–58