My memory of Davy Jones will forever consist of an image I have of him sitting across the dining room table from me, dressed in a grey shirt and black blazer. He might have black jeans on, or blue jeans, I don't remember. I remember he was drinking red wine. His girlfriend, considerably younger than him (bravo, Davy, she was fine), is in a pink sweater and khaki pants drinking white wine. Davy is totally the center of attention tonight, and we're all totally okay with that. Here I am, 13 or 14 years old, too young to have experienced the Monkees in their moment but certainly not ignorant to their lasting impact, and what a marvelous trip it was to have the guy who sang "Wake up sleeeepy Jean, oh what can it mean to uh...day-DREAM believer and uh, homecoming queen!" sitting across from me, vibing off the conversation and laughing and making us laugh. We didn't talk about the Monkees too much, no, Davy knew something about the higher level of vibration and he kept us there. I brought up a funny recording I heard of a Japanese singer named Dokaka who has recorded some hilarious a cappella metal tunes, in particular his Raining Blood cover, during which he makes a strange sound by buzzing his lips loose and plucking them with a finger, like you do when you're a kid trying to make silly sounds. I was trying to describe it to Davy, who seemed a little confused, but then he clarified the matter by demonstrating the technique I was describing. Amidst the uproar, and maybe my dad asking "what are you doing?", Davy pronounced that he was practicing his heavy-metal-a-cappella techniques, didn't-ya-know?
Even up until a few days ago, I've told stories about that evening to many different people I have come across. Again and again, an important detail comes up about Davy: his humanity. When he walked into our vestibule that evening, he was a myth to me. He still is, in some ways, but at the table that night he brought us all into the moment, and he made us laugh like an old friend does. He infatuated us with his spirit and good nature, like a new friend does when we meet them, vibing off the newfound connection. It wasn't a celebrity walking into our house that day, it was just a dude with his girlfriend happy that some people had invited them for dinner.
Now that Davy Jones has left his body, he's out there, the particles of his humanity floating further and further out into the world he took them from. It warms me to think that little bits of Davy Jones' essence are working their way into the dark corners of the universe, into hearts and minds of both the despairing and the jovial. Anyone could use a dose of the good energy this guy had, and now he shares it with all of us. As we mourn his death and reflect on his life, we can imbibe his spirit and feel his love and energy fuel our hearts, our voices, our dreams. Thanks Davy.
Andy, I remember that I gave David (as he preferred to be called) an autographed copy of my first book at the end of our shoot. He thanked me for it, etc. but then he called me about a week later from his farm to apologize because he hadn't realized that I had given him a book I wrote ( as opposed to just inscribing a book to him. He was so sweet. He then determined he needed to return the favor, and a few days later I received copy of his book "Daydream Believing" in the mail. Inside he wrote: "Hey Rick, one good book deserves another! All the best, David Jones, Meet The Royals 2003." He was, in other words, a genuinely nice person.
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