The Long and Winding Road
"We'll make
up our story.. as we go along.."
* * * * *
~ ~ Friday Afternoon,
October 12th, 2001 ~ ~
Posters proclaimed in large letters: "NYC Trade Center
Relief Concert Tonight! 'Come Together and Listen to the
Band'." There was no mention of either the Monkees or the
Beatles appearing. Of course, a person could guess as to whom the
artists would be, based on the title, but for security (and
sanity) reasons, the promo material didn't come out and just say
so. Keeping the press to a minimum and inacting a gag order on
those involved were two key steps. Ideally, no one would find out
until the curtain came up at 8pm on Saturday, October 13th that
seven legends of rock & roll had united.
This was an ideal situation, however. The press had pounced upon
the sudden sliding from the spotlight of Paul, Ringo, Micky,
Davy, George, Peter, and Mike. Rumors spread that they had all
been killed in the crashes- rumors quickly dispelled by the boys'
agents. When asked where they were then, excuses ranged
from grieving the deaths of so many people in private, to the
generally accepted story currently running. This story stated
that yes, indeed, the Monkees and the Beatles had gotten
together.... in LA. They were "cutting a new album for
commercial release" and wished not to be disturbed. While
the entertainment media raced to Los Angeles to report on this
"breaking story", the seven artists boarded a plane for
Albany, New York.
Arrival at Albany International Airport was free of hooplah
thanks to these carefully laid plans by Mike and George, who had
worked together to deflect the attention of the press.
Ringo was first off the plane, thoroughly enjoying the fact that
behind his oversize glasses and baseball cap, he could come and
go unnoticed. Their travelling group was quite a sight, to say
the least with Ringo and George in similar hat and sunglasses get
ups, Mike in a hooded sweatshirt, Davy in fedorah and trenchcoat,
Paul in puffy winter coat and earflap hat, and Micky, hawaiian
shirt, straw hat and green tinted sunglasses.
As Micky exited, loaded down with bag upon bag of
"stuff", he drew sharp glares from the others.
"What 'appened tah travellin' incognito?" Paul's eyes
scanned Micky from top to bottom.
Micky gave everyone a wide, cheeky grin. "Anyone asks, my
name's Milo Phlino from Southern Samoa. Si?" He pushed the
brim of his har back a bit. "Besides, it's no worse than
agent 007 over there." He pointed an accusatory finger at
Davy, who was practically swimming in the gray trenchcoat he
wore.
Davy spluttered, following Micky off in a huff. "Whatevah ya
say... Milo!"
Peter, Paul and Mike chased after the two Monkees before they
killed each other and drew attention to the group. Not
necessarilly in that order, either.
Left with the remainder of the bags, George and Ringo loaded up
and took the rear.
"What's south a' Samoa?" George scratched his head
quizically.
Ringo rolled his eyes and chuckled slightly. "The bleedin'
ocean."
* * * * *
~ ~ October
13th, 2001 ~ ~
"Nice ol' theater." Davy stared out at the empty house
in wonderment. The seats were mahogany red, marching carpet and
gold painted fixtures. If one looked up, he had the feeling the
ceiling was miles above. Six boxes accented the 2700 seaterm
three on either side. Topping this off was the gentle golden glow
thrown off from grand crystal chandalieres hanging above. The
management and historical preservation committee had obviously
gone to great pains to restore the old vaudeville house to it's
former glory.
George was tuning up behind Davy at that moment. "Ya got
that right." He, too, let his eyes wander to the ceiling.
"An' ta think they almost demolished it. How did Mike found
out 'bout this theatah in the first place?"
"'E's Mike. S'got all kinda of connections." Davy
replied as the stage manager called fourty minutes to showtime.
The curtain slid shut and last minute preparations began in
earnest around the musicians.
"Anyone know what presale looked like?" Micky really
only half cared. He'd play for one person and wouldn't think
twice about it. That was the point of playing this venue. It
wasn't about the star power, it was about the power of the human
spirit to overcome the largest of obsticals.
Paul answered from the wings as he tested his microphone battery
pack. "Somethin' like 2500. Can ya believe it? Not even a
sellout."
Everyone laughed. It had worked. "Those people don't even
know who's playing and they were willing to set down over $70
bucks a seat. The cause mattered to them. That's the way it
should be." Mike's voice seemed to come out of nowhere, as
he had yet to come out for warmups. Frankly, everyone was
starting to wonder if something was wrong. They hadn't seen him
since arrival the day before. And even prior landing in Albany he
had been pretty quiet. It was like he'd achieved a new level of
focus that he hadn't had before.
Finally emerging from his hiding spot offstage right, Paul moved
to centerstage. "Anythin' last minute, mates?" Paul,
himself was working on the "focusing thing". He ran a
hand through his dark, graying hair, and took a deep breath.
"Nope." Peter smiled. "Unless... hey Mike?"
"Ya comin' out, Nez?" Davy chuckled. "Or are ya
gonna play the 'pay no attention to thah man behind thah curtain'
game?"
Mike walked out slowly, carrying a purely white guitar in his
hands. It was a beautiful instrument, and yet that wasn't what
drew the strange looks from everyone. Dress was to be casual,
yes, but no one had expected Mike to show up in a loose-fitting
black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, with white pants
and.... most interesting of all... sandals. The outfit wasn't in
typical Nesmith style at all. More-- well, no one could place it
specifically in their mind, but it was extremely
familiar.
"Hey you." Micky smiled. "I was worried you
weren't gonna show."
Placing his new guitar on a stand at the right hand side of the
stage, Mike's mind seemed to be a million miles away. "I
wouldn't miss this for the world."
"Where'd ya get it?" Davy inquired about the guitar
hesitantly.
Paul's eyes went wide as he suddenly remembered a story Yoko had
told once. About how John had just bought a "heavenly white
guitar" the week he died. John had planned on trying to
teach his son Sean how to play, his first attempt having come up
empty as Sean seemed to have very little interest. Prehaps he
would have even taught the boy Lennon standards like
"Woman" or "Imagine"... obviously, he hadn't
had the chance to do so.
Mike's new guitar was... nah. It couldn't be. He shook off the
strange deja vu feeling and sent everyone off to their dressing
rooms to relax a bit before the show. Paul did, however, make a
mental note to ask Yoko to make a guitar comparison later, when
she saw the broadcast on TV. He went up the back stairwell, and
as he entered his dressing room, was overcome with a strange
feeling. It was as if someone had walked across his grave. A
certain presence that he hadn't felt in years.
"John..." He closed his eyes briefly. "Shoulda
known yah'd be around, old mate. Can't resist a big public
suaree, can ya?" Paul instinctively reached into his
suitcase and was surprised to find--
"Flowers? Johnny.. didn't know ya cared so much." He
glanced up and teased his bandmate. A card nestled in amongst the
carnations caught his eye and he pulled it out.
Tears stung Paul's eyes.
"Linda
wanted me to pass these along to you, mate.
She sends her love.
We're both proud of you and the boys. " //oo\\
* * * * *
~
~ Same day, 8:00pm ~ ~
The audience shuffled about noisilly, claiming their seats and
playbills, flipping seats down and up, unwrapping refreshments--
standard pre-show festivities.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to this evening's musical
performance." A voice came over the PA system. Cameras
filming the event from the boxes and the back of the theater
buzzed to life. "The past few weeks have tested us as a
nation and it seems that everyone wants to do something to help.
In this spirit of unity and brotherhood, we bring you a small
group of moderately successful performers who hope their music
and tonight's proceeds will help us heal. Now, sit back and relax
and----"
The opening notes of the Monkees theme song blared from the
speakers.
"-- welcome to the stage... THE MONKEES!"
Heads whirled around to three silhouetted figures coming down the
center aisle, Monkee-walking the entire distance. Reaching the
foot of the stage, a spotlight hit the men.
Paul was practically giddy over the looks of surprise on
everyones faces.
"Who were ya expectin'?" Ringo, on Paul's left,
exclaimed to the audience's screams of approval.
George gave everyone a look of confusion, then nudged Paul.
"Uhh, Macca... I think they were expectin'..."
The curtains onstage parted and Mike, Micky, Davy, and Peter
struck into--- "Close your eyes and I'll kiss you...
tomorrow I'll miss you... remember, I'll always be true... and
then, while I'm away... I'll write home every day... and I'll
send all my lovin' to you."
Everyone roared with laughter.
"Oooops!" Micky called from his perch behind the drum
kit.
The three Beatles mounted the stairs to the stage and took their
instruments, Micky switching to guitar so that Ringo could take
the honorary spot at the back-- front drum skin painted with both
the Monkees and Beatles logos.
Paul switched off the lapel mike and took his spot in front of
the stand microphone... one in a line of eight. "Let's try
this again, eh mates?" Voices chimed in at various points in
the verses, each taking a line here and there.
"Come together... right now... over me..."
__________________________________________________________________________________
Hefty
Disclaimer:
Alright, I'm taking MAJOR liberties here, I know it. I know
diddly about these guys and their real lives, and even less about
how they interact with one another. However, I did want to write
a piece about the events of September 11th, 2001 from a different
standpoint. I could have written a poem... a lengthy essay about
Islam and Bin Laden. Instead, I picked a medium that I know...
music, and the people who make it. Music really is the universal
language. It sounds corny, but it can lift you up in your darkest
moments, and put a smile on your face.
Okay, now for the general disclaimer. The Beatles are themselves,
I don't own 'em. The Monkees are themselves too, and I don't own
them either. Frankly, I don't own much except an excessively busy
brain that cranks out stuff like this.
Oh yeah. And if this offends anyone too much... I will remove it.
I mean it. This piece has everything to do with how I deal with a
major trajedy and how I imagine others would. However, I don't
want to cause more pain by publishing it.
With all of this said.... read away!