Davy Jones Productions
OK, perhaps this is cruel, and I should just ignore this little bit of drek and relegate it to the land of ignorance that it deserves, but nope. He sent it out, and we review new releases. So, if you’re a lifelong Monkees fan and think that “Davy is just so cute,” then I have a few suggestions for ya:
One, get a life. The Monkees were nothing but pod people created to sing catchy pop songs. Some great songs, make no mistake — “Daydream Believer,” “(I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone,” etc. — but taken on music alone (and stop whining about the TV show, that had nothing to do with it), any late ’60s bar band could have played those songs as well or better — and without Jones’ annoying British accent.
Secondly, if the idea of Davy Jones talk/singing his way through 13 “songs” of broken hearts and failed love affairs sounds good to you, then by all means, order this little gem. If you drive hundreds of miles to see him perform at a convention or a rodeo, if you have a denim jacket with his face emblazoned on it, then by all means, send your $20 to his Web site posthaste, and await with sweaty thighs and baited breath this opus. You won’t be disappointed.
The rest of us — meaning the majority of the known world who have matured past the “he’s so cute” stage of musical appreciation — the rest of us should avoid this thing like white powder in a mysterious bit of mail. I would have to invent words to describe just how wretched it is, and frankly, he ain’t worth the task. The nearest I can describe this record is this: remember Bill Murray’s take on a hotel lounge singer on Saturday Night Live, singing the Star Wars theme? Davy Jones would OPEN for that yutz.
Truly, there should be laws to protect the general public from this sort of thing. Really. Unlike fellow teen icon Donny Osmond, who wonder of wonders can actually sing and pick suitable material, Davy Jones is a tired, no-talent smoo dogpaddling in the murky depths of hackdom. Let’s hope he gets a cramp real soon, OK?