Chappell Roan Really Was Like "I Won't Endorse Harris Because Of The Continuing Genocide And The Fact

Peter Tork onstage at Wembley in 1967; photo courtesy of Melody Maker.

Q: “Peter, starting with Headquarters in 1967, it seems you were one of the first guys to actually make the banjo a significant element of pop-rock songs.” Peter Tork: “I wasn’t even thinking about doing that. I just thought, ‘The banjo would sound good here.’ If I’m fond of my own work at all, it’s the opening lick to ‘You Told Me’ from Headquarters. The guitar starts off [mimics guitar] and then the banjo cuts in [mimics banjo] and suddenly, you’re in a whole new realm. To me, building those kinds of textures is what music is all about, and there are a couple of places where the banjo contributed nicely to the Monkees’ basic rock. It seems I’m a rocker who happens to play banjo, or a banjo player who happens to rock. I don’t know.” Q: “Was it pretty seamless when you first started working out your parts for Headquarters, or did the whole studio look at you and go, ‘Peter, what are you doing with a banjo?’” Peter: “It was seamless. Everybody knew I had a banjo, and so they knew it was part of what I brought to the table musically. Nobody was surprised.” - Guitar Player Magazine, October 2016 “[On ‘You Told Me,’] it really kills when the banjo comes right in the middle and then the band hits with that nice bass drop. That moment is really exciting, that’s what music is supposed to be.” - Peter Tork, Headquarters, 1995 liner notes

me when feeling suspiciously relaxed: what responsibility have i forgotten

my meloncholic nature and depressive tendancies are great paired with my ecclectic fashion sense because i will be taking a quiet and lonely walk in the rain in platform cowboy boots that have planets on them

My current mental state: Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. No I will not elaborate.

“i don’t wanna die, i sometimes wish i’d never been born at all” remains the rawest fucking lyric in the history of music thanks freddie

Reposting this photo I shared yesterday because I think I finally put together what Micky and Peter were actually doing. Micky “shot” Peter and Peter had to “die” so Micky could photograph his dramatic demise.

In They Made a Monkee Out of Me, Davy Jones explains a Monkee game called Killer.

We defused a lot of the tension with humour, naturally. On the set, and on the road, we had a game we used to play called Killer. Jim Frawley invented it. The idea was each person was allowed three shots per day. You could shoot whoever you liked—you just mimed your hand as a gun, like kids do, y’know—tssshhh! And whoever was shot had to die. But you couldn’t just fall down, nice and simple—it had to be a spectacular death. You had to moan and kick and fall over furniture and people and take about three-quarters of an hour to do it—like they used to in all of the best Westerns. And if you didn’t die loud enough, or long enough, or imaginatively enough, or if say you just didn’t die at all, because you were being introduced to the Queen Mother at the time, then you lost a life. And if you lost three lives—you were out of the game. Forever. No second chances. That was as good as being really dead. So, of course, we’d look for the best moments to shoot each other—when it would cause the most commotion. Not everyone was included. It was a clique of about eight. Sometimes we’d have a different director—we used to have a guest director to do one or two shows. They’d be in the middle of a scene and somebody would get shot and the whole scene would be ruined because this was very serious business—you couldn’t lose a life. The game produced no end of possibilities for going right over the top. In the middle of a love scene once—I had the stars coming out of my eyes, the whole bit—I’m walking over to the girl with my arms outstretched and she says, “Oh, Davy!” We’re just about to kiss when … Tssshhh!—Peter shoots me. I have to go into an epileptic seizure routine for about five minutes—knocking lamps over, fall over a drum kit, out the door, roll around the parking lot, up the stairs, across the president’s desk—“Oh my God, are you all right, David?”—“Aaargh! Shot, sir!” Back out the door, down the stairs, onto the set, collapse in a heap at her feet. Wild applause. One time in Australia, in front of about five million fans at the airport, Micky got shot and he fell all the way down this gigantic escalator. People were stunned. They thought he’d been assassinated. It was very rarely someone wouldn’t die—not even a token head slump. One time was the Emmy Awards. I think it was Bert Schneider stepped up to receive the award for “Best New Comedy Show.” We shot him, but the moment was too special for him to spoil it. He won an Emmy and lost a life. Towards the end of the second year—to show you how badly things were going—even Frawley couldn’t be persuaded to die anymore. Everyone had been up all night, as usual. We were on the set—first diet pill of the day—started fooling around, messing up takes as always. But somehow it wasn’t the same. Nobody was laughing. Frawley was so mad. The only thing we could do was shoot him. Dolenz shot him—he didn’t die. Mike shot him—still standing. I shot him—nothing. What a bummer. All the feeling was gone. The beginning of the end.

i think the funniest thing about the Paul Is Dead theory is that Fake Paul still had that homoerotic relationship with John. imagine being John Lennon and your best friend since you were 16 whom you are also in love with dies in a car crash and is replaced with a lookalike and you’re like. whelp. i guess i have to be in love with Fake Paul too. and then you go through one of the messiest divorces in music history.

what is it they put in the hardware store to make it smell so good

on wikipedia straight up "learning it". and by "learning it" i mean, lets just say.. information