With Monkees Season Three in the can, preparations were underway for a two-week blitz tour comprised of two-night stands and accompanying press and radio appearances (San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, New Orleans, and New York) to promote the soon-to-be completed Monkees album. A recording that, finally, was fully under the band's control, including choosing the session musicians, writing most of the songs, and taking a major hand in production. It was decided that what had been premiered in Paris the year before, but not yet recorded, would be included. To say recording studio activity had ramped up would be a criminal understatement, but now they were within a few tracks of the final mixdown. Only one album cut remained to be recorded, Mike's newest composition.
He'd been strangely closed-mouthed about it, even to the point of announcing he'd be recording the instrumental tracks only with Davy Micky and Peter. Mike had laid some minimalist guitar stuff already and mixed it with the other tracks. As for the lyrics, for the first time ever nobody had a clue. Mike was always a real pain in the ass about his lyrics and how and by whom they would be sung, down to the last syllable. Even the ones he sang himself were subject to the kind of painstaking vocal choreography and re-takes of backing vocals that led to hoarse throats and frayed tempers.
This time? Not even a mention, though Mike consistently referred to this final album track as his "new song." And he was mighty anal about properly referring to a song as "music with lyrics... if there ain't lyrics, it's a tune!"
"Mike, man, this is far out stuff!" Micky had fairly shouted after hearing the playback of the instrumental mix. There were funky rattles and echo and organ effects and a badass bass line, finishing with a combination of all of it in a quick dissonant fade-out. Micky and Davy had swapped off on drums, Micky had worked his beloved Moog, with Peter on bass and keyboards and Mike's near-ghostly guitar licks. In the end it sounded so completely new and mind-bending that the issue of lyrics was forgotten. The Monkees had never released a completely instrumental cut, and this one was more than worthy to be the first.
Mike had little to say after all the the "groovy" and "far-out" except, "Thanks a million, fellas, this turned out better than it did in my head."
Micky gaped in over-played surprise. "Speaking of firsts. Your head is usually the temple of the impossible."
On the other side of the "Raybert Plantation" (so called by its "slaves to Bob") a more pragmatic sort of planning was being thrashed out, "thrashed" being the operative word. Bob had decided that Bonnie would be promoted from her usual on-tour job of backing him up by handling assorted needs and tasks to ... assistant tour manager.
"Why is it your 'promotions' always end up more like prison sentences?" she'd asked him after he made the announcement. Because for the first time, Bob was going to Sit This One Out entirely. It was well known he hated touring, and now had the excuse that he was working on nationwide airplay deals (wink wink nudge nudge), enticing new and bigger show sponsors, and getting involved with the Marketing department in all things licensed.
Or, as Bonnie put it, "Don't you have to have a tour manager to have an assistant tour manager? Swell. You'll be hustling lunchboxes while I'll be playing ringmaster to the traveling circus."
Because they never had the same tour manager twice, for reasons that became obvious to each new one who came along.
Right now Bonnie and Bob were going over the breakdown of what had been done versus what was still in progress. Venues had already been booked; press calls and radio appearance scheduling was in progress. Hotels were currently being finalized, along with hiring whatever roadies and security were needed. Not many, thankfully, because those tended to come back begging for every tour. For very obvious reasons, as in the perks of female companionship. Or, "The promise of getting laid is a mighty inducement, thank God." Bonnie was particularly grateful for the staying power of the security staff. By now not only were they hip to the evasive maneuvers of the guys, they were versed in wrangling the fans, groupies, and psychos that came with life on the road, and they knew how to tell them apart.
Bonnie hated wrangling groupies. Not because of Nesmith's checkered past, or the other guys' sometimes questionable social habits. It was because so many of them were so earnest in their devotion, even the ones who knew they were the flavor du jour and didn't care as long as they had a chance to get tasted. As for the Party Girls, that special breed of groupie whose only recreation was meeting up with the same bands every year, their sense of entitlement was annoying as hell. They didn't even always care if they scored with one of the band, or the crew, or anyone at all, as long as they were there for the after-gig Happening. Bonnie always found it incredibly perverse that when the amp echoes had died out and her ears were still ringing and she wanted to fall on her face and sleep for days, these broads were just getting fired up. Apparently screwing traveling bands was nice work if you could get it. So having reliable security to keep them out of her way was probably Bonnie's biggest obsession.
Except maybe for locations, which were out of her hands and completely up to Bob and other Über-Official PTB.
"Detroit," she moaned, and banged her finger on that heading in the tour itinerary. "Jesus, Bob, I hate Detroit, the fans are savages! They tore up two grand worth of costumes last time, I know you remember that!"
Bob was unimpressed, as he had been with all of her various objections and complaints. He had no doubt she could back up what's-his-face the latest tour manager just fine. While it was true in some cases her known association with Nesmith cost her a bit in the respect department with newer roadies and other crew, she more than made up for it by scaring the crap out of them once she got rolling.
"So have 'em change before they leave the theater. Who cares if a few hundred bucks' worth of J.C. Penney hippie shit gets torn up? Problem solved. Now if you don't have any other parades you wanna rain on, why don't we call it a night."
"I was hoping we could have another look at the hotels budget. It's pretty over the top."
Admittedly, Bonnie had a hard time separating her Production brain from her Tour brain.
"Not your problem, I told you."
Already imagining the parties and races from venue to limo to God knows where... it was piling up in her face like it did every time before every previous (wildly successful) tour. And this time there would be no Bob to run the show.
"Look," she suggested desperately, "I bet we could get Peavey to design some of them foam-lined crates like they have for the sound equipment... we'll just lock the guys in and pull 'em out in time to go public. How's that?" She was only half - okay maybe one third - kidding.
Bob looked thoughtful for a minute, then deadpanned, "I think there could be a law against that in some states."
"Shit..." she snorted dismissively, "wouldn't be the first law we broke on tour."
After the playback in the recording studio Micky and Davy had gone off into the night, but Peter had stayed behind at Mike's request.
"What can I help you with?" he asked.
"Here." Mike handed him a lyric sheet that included musical notations. "Can you give me a hand with backing vocals?"
"Lyrics, we figured you'd decided to do without. You know," he emphasized with raised eyebrows, "a tune."
"Very funny." All business, Mike leaned in to indicate some notes. "Got a fade-back harmony in mind here and here, a call and response in the bridge, and just a same-key duet phrase that'll cut off here, I'll take the last repeats into the fade-out." He didn't notice Peter's expression intensify as he studied the lyric and explained, "This'll just be a rough take, we can polish it up tomorrow. I'll cue up the tape for the 'phones." He handed Peter a set of headphones and sprinted to the booth.
"Yeah, sure," Peter responded, very distracted by the lyrics he was now re-reading. This wasn't just a song... it was a play-by-play of the months-long hell Mike and Bonnie fell into after he cheated on her during that location shoot in Chicago, though nobody except the people who knew them best would recognize it. Especially the title, whose words ended each verse, and would wind up the vocals in the eerie pre-fade-out repetition. He knew he'd be talking about this with Mike, maybe the only one beside Bonnie who had both the knowledge and the right. But Peter decided now wasn't the time as Mike hit the tape delay and jogged back down the stairs to put on his headset and take his place in front of one of the suspended microphones.
"Just go with it, Pete. You know what to do."
He did, and he followed Mike's notes. As he did he felt the uncanny rightness of Mike's instincts, and when they reached the call-and-response at the end of the bridge he actually felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. This song went deeper inside than any song had a right to do, and it was hard for him to believe Mike was able to write it at all, much less willing to record it.