On Saturday night I took my friend Richard to see The Monkees (what’s left of them) at the Greek Amphitheatre.

Part of my interest was in seeing Mike Nesmith. I like his voice and I like his songs. I’d seen him once before, with the other Monkees, about 20 years ago when they played Universal Amphitheatre (no idea what that’s called now — and now it’s been covered, so it’s probably not called “Amphitheatre”) and Nesmith ran on to do two songs, to thunderous applause, before going back to everything else he’d rather be doing than playing with his former bandmates.

Part of my interest was ghoulish:  seeing what they’re like without Davy Jones. (So shoot me. But hey — the Beach Boys in May were fantastic, minus two dead Wilson brothers. So I figured: who knows?)

So here’s how it was:  Odd. Have you ever been to a funeral where the family didn’t seem to miss the deceased? This was like that. Advance publicity had it that there would be a “tribute” to Davy Jones. If by “tribute,” his surviving bandmates meant that occasionally a song of his would come on and they’d leave the stage while the band played along to the video, and that they’d draft a completely tone-deaf woman from the audience to sing his biggest hit (“Daydream Believer”)  and that never once would they acknowledge his death or that they missed him, well, yeah, then there was a tribute. One could be excused for thinking that rather than being absent due to death, Davy had just failed to catch a cab in time.

There were oddities in the audience, too. Richard and I had the smack-dab last seats in the audience, Row D on the benches, way in the back, just slightly north of Mexico. We had these because if I was going purely for reasons of morbid curiosity, then I wasn’t paying more than 10 bucks a ticket. This low-low ticket price (less than the cost of some six packs) meant, though, that some people felt they could show up, drink heavily and behave themselves like they were at a drive-in movie in the 1970s. In front of us were two families — two sets of middle-aged parents, one with one girl of about 10 and the other with a girl of about 14 and another of about 10. Both sets of parents were drunk. I mean, smashed.  Obliterated. Like I haven’t been since I was… 24 at the most. Like you don’t get if you’re past 24, unless you’re Mickey Rourke. The guy in front of me, an English guy looking like an older, poorer, stubbled Phil Collins with a goatee and cheap eyewear, stumbled his way up to his seat, then later tottered way way way down the steps to get more of whatever they were drinking (something clear in a clear glass bottle — like moonshine), falling down on his way down, then repeated the effect later, then of course fell whammo into a whole section of the audience both those times and when he was trying to leave. The mother was in a similar state and kept trying to engage me in conversation until my frozen stare got her to direct her attentions to my friend instead. But the most appalling thing was the spectacle of how they treated their daughters. The guy sat to the right of her and throughout much of the show leaned in on her, caressing her long golden hair,  whispering in her ear, hugging her close to him, and bestowing all sorts of attention and favor; the mother did the same, from behind. The daughter basked in all this attention and played it for all it was worth. The other daughter, younger, brunette, to the left of the chosen one, got nothing. She sat there abjectly ignored. It’s nice that Mom and Dad got smashing drunk and showed everyone how they really feel about each of their  kids.

All of that was far more camaraderie than there was on stage. The song list was carefully parsed out:  First a Mike song, then a Mickey song, then a Peter song. (At least, before they ran out of Peter songs.) The first Peter song was truly wack-a-doodle, “Your Auntie Grizelda,” which was embarrassing in 1967 and has become even moreso as the millennium turned. The kindest thing one can say about it is that Peter Tork’s singing isn’t as bad as his dancing — and, yes, he did an odd skipping shuffle during the song. If I could somehow wipe this memory from my brain I would, except I like to think there are things to be learned from the embarrassing public displays of others. Here are two:

1. when it’s 45 years later, realize that 45 years have passed and that what was cute when you were 24 now looks like an Alzheimer’s episode; and
2. if you’re going to bring the kids out for your big public drunk, at least buy enough for the rest of the audience, because otherwise we’re not enjoying a bit of it and you’re just a boor.

I enjoyed many of the songs, and indeed, the concert overall. It was great to hear the Mike Nesmith songs played live this once; I doubt there’ll be another opportunity, and even if there is, it isn’t one I’ll be taking. Mike shone when singing and playing his songs; Micky is in good vocal form and really delivered his; and Peter Tork was there. But the band never played like a band — which is fitting, because in some ways, put together by chance as they were, they never really were one.

Here’s Brian Wilson’s response to Mike Love, also printed in the Los Angeles Times, which must be loving this little controversy. Take a good look at the guys in the photo above. I don’t think we’re going to see them all together soon — and maybe never.

A week ago, I emailed some friends furious about the latest shenanigans of Mike Love of the Beach Boys. Love had unceremoniously called an end to the Beach Boys’ 50th anniversary tour, pulling the plug on an experience that had surprisingly revitalized Brian Wilson and the crew and resulted in an actually pretty good album, “That’s Why God Made the Radio.” Wilson had been looking forward to continuing the tour, and even recording another new Beach Boys record. I couldn’t have been more thrilled — but now this was all off, because Love held the rights to the “Beach Boys” name, and planned to misappropriate that name by resuming his tour of truck stops and juke joints with Bruce Johnston. Here is the story I sent my friends; I’m still pretty animated about it, and was complaining about it against last night when I saw Peter Gabriel at the Hollywood Bowl with my wife and some friends.

Evidently, I’m not the only person who felt outraged, because Mike Love felt compelled to respond. This was in yesterday’s LA Times, which I hadn’t seen before foaming at the mouth about this issue last night. Here’s the piece.

It bears reading.

In Mike Love’s view, this contretemps seems mostly not about relationships or even the primacy of the progenitors. (He says in the end “The Beach Boys are bigger than those who created it,” which on the face of it seems true, but which also diminishes the roles of specific members of the band. If “those who created it” aren’t as important as “The Beach Boys,” then I suppose it’s perfectly acceptable to tour with one just one founding member and call it “The Beach Boys.” I look forward to Pete Best’s tour as the Beatles.) No, it’s mostly a business decision:

“Like any good party, no one wanted it [the tour] to end. However, that was impossible, given that we had already set up shows in smaller cities with a different configuration of the band — the configuration that had been touring together every year for the last 13 years. Brian and Al [Jardine] would not be joining us for these small market dates, as was long agreed upon.

“It is not feasible, both logistically and economically, for the 50th anniversary tour to play these markets. It’s vitally important for the smaller markets to experience our live shows, as this is how we’ve maintained a loyal fan base for 50 years. You can’t sustain a fan base on a great catalog alone. You must take your music directly to the people.”

In other words, if the Mystic Lake Casino Hotel in Prior Lake, MN, doesn’t get this performance by Mike & Bruce, the Beach Boys’ legacy will succumb.

Mike Love holds the license to the band name, so he can go out with just his baseball cap and a tambourine and call it “The Beach Boys” if he likes. Me, I’m just glad I got to see the real band in Dallas in April. It was a great show, and a cherished experience — and it doesn’t look like there’s going to be another one like it.

Last night we had a major family emergency that meant I had to run out with my 10-year-old at 8 p.m. on a Sunday: He and his sister had had a mishap with the Xbox, scratching the disk for “Call of Duty: Black Ops” and rendering it inoperable. Thankfully, we located a Game Stop that was open that late, and sanity was restored.

On the way home, we were listening to music in my car. One song in particular caught Dietrich’s attention. (Yes, my son’s name is Dietrich, as people keep inanely asking me, “Your son’s name is Dietrich?”)

“Who’s this?” he said.

“Sonic Youth,” I said. “Why?”

“This is the most awful song I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, your mother would agree with you. But your sister and I like it.”

“It’s awful. What’s wrong with it?”

“The guitars are purposely tuned ‘wrong,'” I explained helpfully.

“Yeah, but what about her voice? She sounds terrible.”

Hm. One person’s “terrible” is another person’s effect. Just last week I had forced one of the designers at my company to purposely “misdesign” a client’s ad so it would get more attention. In this way, I like to think I have some distant kinship with Picasso, who applied those “rules” of his art before he broke them. But none of this made any impression on my son, or, at least, not any positive impression.

“I don’t care,” he said. “I just want this to end!” Again, it was almost as though he were channeling his mother, who has been known to casually reach over and turn a dial, any dial, to remove the offending noise.

So now I think when I get home I will share this news with Dietrich: His new favorite band, Sonic Youth, has just recovered some stolen guitars. Guitars that were stolen 13 years ago. So now they can make even more of this discordant, irritating, off-key music.

That is, if the band hasn’t broken up, as it apparently has, in the wake of the divorce between bassist and “singer” Kim Gordon and guitarist and singer Thurston Moore. Even if that’s the case, though, there’s a whole back catalog I can introduce the kid to. And wait ’til we get to Captain Beefheart!

Two weeks ago, I had a terrific time at the Pasadena Pops show in the Los Angeles County Arboretum, featuring the pop opera group Poperazzi. The duo in this video covers one of the songs performed at the Pops show, but in its own unique way.

I grew up watching Marvin Hamlisch on television (and, certainly, hearing his music in movies). He was a frequent presence on “The Mike Douglas Show” and “The Merv Griffin Show” in the afternoon, and probably did more to introduce me to piano music than anyone else who comes to mind. While I never got to meet Marvin Hamlisch, who died yesterday, I almost did, just two weeks ago.

My company, Counterintuity, works with the Pasadena Symphony and POPS, where Marvin Hamlisch had served as principal pops conductor since 2011. (Click here for more about his relationship with the Pasadena POPS.) On July 21st, my business partner and I entertained clients at our table at the pops performance at the Los Angeles County Arboretum, in what turned out to be Hamlisch’s final performance. He was a real showman: unexpectedly funny, filled with passion and wit about the musical performance he would be leading, in an evening also featuring Michael Feinstein (with whom he later did a piano duet). As the photo above helps to indicate, it was a beautiful summer night spent outdoors with friends and associates and good food and wine and wonderful music.

Afterward, our little group went backstage for the VIP reception, which our friends at the Pasadena Symphony had kindly invited us to. I had brought along two copies of recent ad proofs we’d done for the Marvin Hamlisch performances at the Arboretum — including this particular show — in the hopes that he’d sign them, one copy for our office and one for the designer. We waited for a while, but he hadn’t come out yet, and my wife had noted during the show how he’d been leaning on different things when possible in a way that indicated an aching back. (It was later confirmed that he’d pulled a muscle and was in some pain.) So given that we were unsure he’d be coming out, and eyeing the gathering waiting to congratulate him, as well as the time, I slipped the ad proofs back into their folder and said, “I’ll ask him to do it next time” and we all left.

Funny how every once in a while in life you get a reminder that you can’t always count on “next time.”

Shovelman.

He sings delta blues.

He plays a slide guitar — made out of a shovel.

And I dig it.

In which a talented group give us the theme song from “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” — done on ukeleles. (Thanks to Mark Chaet for letting me know about this.)

David Lowery (of the bands Camper van Beethoven and Cracker) lays it all out: When you’re stealing music, you’re still feeding big corporations — but you’re shafting artists. (And you’re fishing around for self-justification.) This one post says it all better than I’ve been able to do in several discussions and emails with my own kin. If there are artists you like, you need to support them with your cash. (But then, we theatre people already know that.)

In which Mr. Rogers gives us good advice in a haunting and somewhat sinister manner.