Carlisle Wheeling

"Okay, you guys, let's take it once more from the top," Mike said, "then we can break for lunch."

The other three Monkees situated themselves again and Micky counted off, "One, two, three, four."

They played the intro, and Mike started in on the lyrics, "In a long and involved conversation with myself...."

The song was interrupted, however, by a knock on the door. "I'll get it!" yelled Peter, jumping off the bandstand. He expected a package to arrive, and hoped it was the mailman.

"Hello, Bobby!" he exclaimed as he answered the door to find the mailman on the other side. "Do you have a package for me?"

"Why yes I do, Peter," Bobby smiled as he handed over a medium-sized package to the excited bassist. "I also have a package for Micky and a couple letters for Davy and Mike. Oh, you also got your Marine Digest magazine, Peter." The mailman placed the rest of the mail on the table and left, "You guys take care now."

"Bye Bobby!" Davy said as he sifted through the letters, "Me, me, me, me," he placed several letters in pink envelopes with scrolly handwriting on the table, "Oh, here's one for Mike," he handed a business-looking white envelope to the guitarist, "and the other two are for me!" Of these last two one was from his sister and the other was from an unknown address. "What did you get, Micky?" He asked, opening the letter from his sister.

Micky had grabbed the package carefully and proceeded to open it with extreme caution. "Oh, it's an addition to my chemistry set."

Davy groaned and rolled his eyes before reading his letter, "Oh, my sister had another baby," he said, "and my other sister is getting married. The wedding's in two months.... wonder if I could save up the money to go back for it." A wave of homesickness flowed over the Englishman, and he suddenly wanted to be back in Manchester. He shook it off, and looked over at Peter. "What is that?"

Peter had opened his package and was assembling a small aquarium. "Well," the bassist explained, "In my Marine Digest they had a coupon for a free sea monkeys aquarium if you filled out their survey. So I did and now I got it! I have to put these little eggs in the water and put in the food, and then they will hatch and grow and I'll be able to see them through little magnified spots in the aquarium. Neat, huh?"

"Yeah, babe, groovy," Davy turned back to his letter.

"What's your letter about, Mike?" Micky looked over at the Texan, who was reading his letter, a shocked expression on his face.

"I don't believe it!" Mike exclaimed, "This letter is from a music producer. He heard us playing at the Cassandra last night, and was totally impressed with our music." He lowered the letter and looked at the others. "He wants to record us."

Micky, Davy and Peter gazed in shock at Mike, then Micky let out a whoop, "We did it!" he shouted, jumping up from his chemistry set, "We've finally gotten our break, we're gonna be famous! I can see it now, our own record, by The Monkees. Where will we tour first, Boston? New York? Paris!"

Peter smiled and hugged the others, "We're gonna be rich! We'll be able to pay our rent!!"

Davy forgot about England and his sister's wedding at a new thought, "We won't HAVE to pay our rent, we'll be able to get a mansion in L.A.!"

All four danced around for a good fifteen minutes, coming up with all the things they would do when they acquired their first paycheck.

"We could buy a limousine!"

"We can have all the food we want!"

"We'll be able to afford high-tech instruments and equipment!"

"We'll have adoring fans!"

Davy smiled at this last statement, then thought aloud, "Maybe we'll even be on the radio, or TV!"

"So," Micky asked Mike, "who is this music producer?"

"His name is Don Kirshner," the Texan explained, "and I'm supposed to call him to set up an appointment to go in and talk about our music and stuff."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Peter. "Call him!"

Mike reached for the phone, lifted the receiver, and dialed the number from the letter. After a few rings they heard Mike say, "Yes, can I speak to Don Kirshner please? Okay. Yes, this is Mike Nesmith, and you sent me a letter saying you wanted to record some of our songs and that I was supposed to call you to set up a time. Yeah. Uh-huh. Let me check my schedule." He covered the mouthpiece and asked the others in a whisper, "Is tomorrow afternoon okay?" After receiving encouraging nods from his friends, he returned to the conversation, "Yes, that would work. Two o'clock? Yeah. Yep. Thank you. Buh-bye."

He hung up the phone (backwards, as usual) and looked at the others. "I guess we have an interview!"

I REMEMBER THE TIME I SAID I REALLY HAD TO GO

The next afternoon found the Monkees, suited and combed, waiting outside Don Kirshner's office. They had arrived at one forty-five, not wanting to be late, and had been asked to wait, since the producer was busy with another client at the moment.

At two o'clock, the door opened and a mid-twenties man walked out followed by a slightly older fellow. The older guy, apparently Kirshner, stayed at the door while the other continued out of the room. "That sounded great, Chip!" Kirshner said, "I'll call you when I kneed you, okay?"

Chip nodded and left. Kirshner turned to the Monkees, a smile (which Micky thought a little too happy) covering his face. "So, you must be Mike," he asked the wool-hatted leader. "Oh, and I see you brought your friends with you," he looked a bit surprised, then the smile returned as he talked to the other three, "If you don't mind, I just want to talk with Mr. Nesmith right now."

"Hey, why can't they come in? They should hear what you have to say, too." Mike defended his bandmates.

"Hey, babe, it's okay," Davy suggested, "We can wait out here while you talk to Mr. Kirshner. No problem." When the other two added assuring nods, Mike followed the man inside the office.
 
Once seated in his office, the producer questioned the guitarist. "So," he started out, "How long have you been in the music business?"

"Well," Mike answered, "I've been playing the guitar since I was a kid, and just joined up as a Monkee a few years ago. Peter has played quite a few instruments since he was little, and..."

Kirshner interrupted Mike with a new question, "Have you ever had voice lessons, or does that just come naturally?"

"I've never had voice lessons, but Davy took some..."

"Okay," the man disrupted once again, "Great. Do you have a sample tape of your music?"

"Yeah," Mike produced a tape he was holding, "we recorded this a couple weeks ago, just for fun, but you can take a look at it."

"It looks like a normal tape," Kirshner joked, "I want to hear how it sounds!" He then proceeded to load it into a nearby tape player. The first song was, naturally, Last Train to Clarksville.

"Now, this one I wrote," Mike explained, "and Micky sings it. I would like to record this one, cause it's kind of one of our first songs we did, and we always start with it at the discotheques, so it's kind of a 'classic' with us."

"You wrote this?" Don Kirshner asked, "It's not bad."

Last Train to Clarksville finished up and it went into Shades of Gray. "This one was written by Davy and Peter. It was Davy's first attempt at song-writing, and I think it turned out pretty well."

Kirshner stopped the tape, "Yes, it's all very well, but are there any songs on here that YOU sing?" He looked at Mike imploringly.

"Um, yeah," Mike was unsure why this man just wanted to hear the songs he sang. "A little further on I sing You Just May Be the One, and Papa Gene's Blues."

"But what about that song I heard you singing last Thursday?" the producer requested. "The one about the guy remembering when he was younger or something..."

"Carlisle Wheeling?" Mike questioned. "Well, that's not one of my favourite songs I wrote, it just didn't quite work out how I thought it would, besides we've just started performing it, so we weren't ready when we made this recording."

"Yes, that's the song I want to do. It expresses everything the public wants to hear. It has sadness, happiness; it's poetic, yet easy to understand. That song will be a number one hit!"

"But that is truly not one of our best," Mike protested. "If you want hits, I suggest recording one of our more popular songs like Micky singing Clarksville, or Davy's I Wanna Be Free. Those would be more sure hits."

"I'm sorry, but you seem to be mistaken," Kirshner's smile faded slightly. "I'm not looking for a group, but a solo. A single soul. We have plenty of musicians, as well as backup singers. Michael Nesmith, I want just you, singing songs that will touch the hearts of America."

"Wait a minute," Mike defended, "We're a band. We're the Monkees. I don't want to go solo!"

"Don't want to go solo?" Kirshner seemed taken aback, "But you'll be a star! You'll have millions of adoring fans, you will ride in limousines, buy whatever you want, you'll be recording and touring in Boston, New York, maybe even Paris! You'll be making more than enough for yourself and your friends with money left over."

"Well, I don't know," Mike began to soften to the idea. "I'd definitely have to talk it over with the guys."

"Yes, of course," the producer brightened once again. "Naturally. Talk it over with them, sleep on the idea, and call me tomorrow. I believe in your talent and would like to help you. Remember Mr. Nesmith, you could be living in luxury for the rest of your life. Don't forget that."

"Yeah, I won't." Mike made his way out of the room, "Goodbye Mr. Kirshner, I'll let you know."

"Goodbye Mike, and I hope to hear from you soon." The last view Mike had of Kirshner was his overpowering smile as he left the room.

~*~

Mike walked over to the others, who were surprised at his saddened face.

"What's the matter?" Micky asked, "Didn't he like it?"

"Oh, he liked it all right," Mike explained, "It's just, well, let's go home and I'll explain there."

"Okay...." Davy opened the office door and they left.

~*~

Back home, Mike broke the news to his friends. "Guys," he said, "Kirshner wants me to go solo."

"Wha-?" Davy gasped, "You mean, not be a Monkee?"

"He doesn't want us?" Peter sobbed.

"Yeah. That's just the problem, he doesn't want a band, he wants a solo performer. He said I'm just what he needs to touch the hearts of America. He says Carlisle Wheeling will be a great hit and that I'll make millions."

Micky had been quiet since Mike had laid the bomb, but now he spoke up, seeing in his band mate's eyes the desire to go. "You gotta do it, man. Don't let us hold you back. You'll be a star! An opportunity like this doesn't come knocking on your door every day; you got to catch it when you can."

"But what about you guys? The Monkees won't be able to carry on without a guitarist. I don't want to leave you without a job." Mike wanted desperately to take this opportunity, but his conscious told him otherwise.

Davy tried to smile, "Hey, there's lots of jobs out there. We'll be fine. The point is, you gotta do this. Like Micky said, it's not every day you get a chance to become a star. We'll be alright, babe, won't we, fellas?"

"Yeah," Peter mustered, "Go on, but remember me when you're famous."

Micky grabbed the red rotary phone and handed it to Mike. "Call Kirshner. He should probably know as soon as possible."

I REMEMBER THE TEARS THAT FILLED YOUR EYES

The next day found all three Monkees in the upstairs bedroom, helping Mike pack his belongings. When he phoned Kirshner, the producer had excitedly set up some recording dates in Los Angeles. Kirshner told Mike to pack his things and be there early the next morning. They would stay at an LA hotel, only minutes away from a big-name recording studio.

"Here's an extra pair of socks," Micky said, handing them to Mike. "Actually, it's your only other pair. We used the rest for dusting rags."

Mike smiled at Micky's attempt to find humour in the situation. Though he was totally excited about going, this meant leaving his friends, and he felt the pain.

"So," Peter examined the contents in the Texan's suitcase, "Five shirts, three pants, two socks and a few changes of underwear. How long are you going to be gone for?"

"Only a couple days," Mike explained. "It never hurts to be prepared!"

"Well, that's everything," Davy said, and began to close the lid of the almost-empty suitcase.

"Wait," Mike stopped Davy's action and reached over on to his bed, grabbing a pillow. "Can't forget my pillow. I don't sleep well on hotel pillows." He stuffed the pillow into the suitcase and shut it.

"When have you slept in a hotel?" Micky asked. "We've never had the money."

"I admit I've only stayed two nights, and that was when my mom and I went for a short vacation when I was eight. I forgot my pillow and my teddy bear, and slept terribly both nights."

Davy chuckled as he heaved the luggage onto the floor. "Let's go, Kirshner's expecting you in," he checked his watch, "Ten minutes."

"Okay," Mike grabbed the suitcase and his guitar in its case and walked down the stairs and out the door. The others followed him. They piled into the Monkeemobile and drove off.

They pulled into the parking lot of Kirshner's office two minutes before the expected time. Kirshner, however, was already outside, sitting in the back of a small limousine. The Monkees eyes boggled as the producer motioned Mike over.

Mike paused to say goodbye to his bandmates. "See you in a couple days," He said and rushed over to the limo, hauling suitcase and guitar.

"'Bye, Mike!" Davy said, scooching over to the driver's seat.

"He seemed a little excited," Peter noted as they drove away. "He didn't even really say goodbye."

"Anyone would be excited," Micky pointed out, "He's gonna be a star, and it's kinda getting to his head."

~*~

That night, Peter stood at the stove, cooking up a dinner. Davy grabbed plates from the cupboard with which to set the table. Micky sat on the stairs reading last week's newspaper.

"Davy," Micky said as the last plate hit the table, "We don't need four plates. Mike's not here."

"Oh, right," the percussionist looked around the room, then grabbed their dummy, plopping him in Mike's spot. "I was setting the place for Mr. Schneider."

Peter ended up cooking too much for dinner, being used to Mike's appetite. It didn’t matter, anyway, since no one felt well enough to even fake enjoying the cream of root beer soup.

~*~

Three hours later, Micky climbed the stairs up to the bedroom he normally shared with Mike. He changed into his PJs, plopped on his bed and clicked off the light. With a sigh he realized that there was no Mike there to argue with him about keeping the light on to read a bit. The silence of the room was overwhelming, and Micky found himself breathing extra heavy and shifting around to make up for it. He slept terribly and stumbled down to breakfast at eleven, only to find his two friends still in their pajamas.

Without Mike to urge them to get ready so they could practise, Peter and Davy had spent the morning moping around. Finally the organized spirit in Peter took control.

"Come on, guys," He suggested. "Let's get dressed and practise some." He really needed to do something to keep his mind off his friend's absence. The three of them changed and found themselves on the bandstand ten minutes later.

Peter instinctly grabbed his bass, then with a second thought, handed it over to Davy. "You're gonna have to play bass," he said. "You've been practising, and you're actually pretty good. We need me to play guitar." The other two let the blonde take the role of leader. Though he wasn't always the brightest bulb in the bunch when it came to everyday decisions, his abilities with music were phenomenal, and therefore he deserved to lead the three-man band.

"Let's start with Mary, Mary," Peter suggested and Micky counted it off. Davy was a little shaky on the bass, and had to use sheet music, but after the fifth time he definitely had progressed, and rarely looked at the music.

"Wow," Peter said, "We might make it okay without Mike!" Then it dawned on him what he had said, and he stifled a sob, "We might actually do alright without him here." The thought crushed the three of them. To think that they might be able to live without Mike around seemed nigh impossible. But here they were, playing their music without him.

They would have sat there in entranced thinking if it hadn't been for the phone's shrill ring piercing the silence. Peter jumped off the bandstand and reached on top of the icebox to lift off the plastic lid covering the phone. He lifted the receiver at the third ring and was surprised to hear the owner of the Vincent Van Goh-Goh on the other line.

"Is Michael there?" He asked.

"No, he's not available right now; can I take a message for him?"

"Well, I was just making sure you guys are still on for tonight. I hadn't heard back from you, and am hoping that's because you can make it."

Peter looked baffledly at his bandmates, "Tonight?" He gave them an inquiring look, then said after their nods of approval, "Yeah, tonight will work. Seven o'clock? Sure, we'll be there. See you then!"

He hung up the receiver and replaced the cover. "We gotta practise," he said, "I guess Mike accepted a booking and forgot to tell us."

THEN I TOUCHED YOUR HAND AND TOLD YOU THAT IT REALLY WAS A LIE

Kirshner beckoned Mike inside the limo, after shooting an odd look at the black guitar case. The chauffer took Mike's suitcase and guitar then shut the door behind him. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Kirshner introduced Mike to three guys, about Mike's age, sitting across from them. The middle guy Mike recognised from Kirshner's office as Chip.

"This is your knew band, so to speak," He said. "On the right we have Eddie Hoh, drums, then Chip Douglas, bass, and Tommy Boyce, guitar. When we get to LA we'll meet up with Bobby Hart, who does organ and an occasional backing vocal with Tommy." He turned to the artists, "Guys, meet Michael Nesmith, a young guy with some amazing talent."

The three said their respective hellos, but Mike turned to Kirshner, troubled. "You said that Tommy plays guitar, right?"

"That's correct."

"He's not gonna play for me, is he? Cause I like to play my own guitar. Seems more authentic if you ask me."

"Mike, Mike, Mike," the producer admonished. "You'll do all the vocals, but we need professionals playing the instruments. Ones who are used to this kind of thing. I have no doubt that you can play, and play well, but let's let these guys handle the instrumentals. You are here to sing!"

"Yeah," Mike agreed, reluctantly. "Sing."

~*~

When they arrived at the hotel, threads of doubt wove their way into Mike's mind. Something about this whole situation seemed really wrong. Not play his own guitar? He'd assumed that Kirshner had hired others to play the instruments he was incapable of handling, but he'd thought that he'd still play guitar. It seemed too fake otherwise.

Don Kirshner's voice broke into Mike's thoughts as he handed the Texan a key. "Here's the key to your room. Go up and get settled, then meet me down here in half an hour. We'll head right over to the recording studio."

Putting the key in his pocket, Mike felt a folded piece of paper already occupying the space. Pulling it out, he remembered what it was and handed it to Kirshner. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "You'll probably want this. It's the music for Carlisle Wheeling."

The producer thanked Mike, but stuck the paper in his pocket without even looking at it. This unnerved the guitarist still more. He'd assumed Kirshner would be thrilled to look over the music, but he hadn't even glanced at it. Most of Mike's assumptions had proven false today. 'Too late, though,' he thought as he headed up to his room. 'I've started this, and I'm sticking with it.'

~*~

Half an hour later found Mike in the lobby waiting for Kirshner. He had decided not to bring his guitar, as he obviously wouldn't need it. He didn't have to wait long before the producer entered the room, followed by Eddie, Tommy, Chip, and another man. Kirshner greeted Mike and continued walking, motioning the guitarist to follow him. "Mike, meet Bobby Hart," he introduced as they climbed into another limousine. "Bobby, this is Mike Nesmith. The golden voice." The two shook hands, but Mike's wasn't very enthusiastic. He was seriously rethinking what he'd gotten himself into.

Before he knew what was happening they were at the recording studio and setting up for the first song. Only Tommy, Bobby and Mike were in the room with Don Kirshner, as they were recording just the vocals now. While the adjustments were being made, Kirshner handed Mike a sheet with some music on it. "Here," he said, "You should know these songs. We'll be recording them in the order they are there."

Mike thumbed through the sheets of hit country songs and noticed that, though he knew them all by heart, Carlisle Wheeling was not among them. "Wait," he protested, "Whatever happened to Carlisle Wheeling? I thought that's what we were gonna record!"

Kirshner smiled his cheshire grin and stated, "When I looked it over, I decided it's not quite what we're trying to accomplish. An old guy thinking about his past is not the feeling we're going for." He placed his hand on Mike's shoulder and gestured with his other, "Picture this as your first album, Mike Nesmith Sings Country Hits. It's perfect! Everyone's familiar with the songs already, but your voice will sell the record like hotcakes! People are bored with everyone already out there, but I don't think they're ready for new tunes yet. You'll give them words they love with a new twist on the songs. Later, when we think of a second album we'll put some new songs on there, and perhaps one or two of your own. But for now, let's just stick with these, okay?"

Mike's heart dropped slowly to his knees during this speech. 'Perhaps one or two of your own'? He'd intended his entire first album to be his songs, and anticipated Carlisle Wheeling as an introductory single, but it was not to be. Another assumption down the drain. His heart screamed at him to get out of there as fast as he could, but his mind told him that he'd started this and shouldn't back down now. While this battle raged inside him, the preparations were completed, and Mike found himself being led to a microphone. Earphones fitted on his head, he found a tune playing, and he began to sing the familiar opening chords of the song. His voice came out as a mere squeak, however, and the guys in the sound booth shut off the music.

"This is wrong," He said.

"That's okay," Kirshner assured, misinterpreting Mike. "We'll get you a glass of water and start again. This is never a one-shot process."

"No," Mike insisted, waving away a proposed glass, "I mean, I can't do this. I can't sing your songs. I can't have my picture on the record with a guitar, and not have played one chord. This is not how I wanted it to go at all. If I'm to make it big, I want to make it with my own two hands. Actually, that's wrong. I'd want to make it with my two hands and the other six of my bandmembers. I'm a Monkee, and that's all there is to it. We don't believe in having others play our instruments, write our songs for us, or even," he turned to Tommy and Bobby, "do the backing vocals. I'm part of a group, and though I lost my focus, what with the money and fame, I've realized now that I can't break up my friendships just for an album I had barely any part in. I'm checking out of my hotel and taking a taxi home." He headed for the door, and left before anyone could object.

As he walked out, he heard Kirshner say to Tommy and Bobby, "Well, it's back to the discotheques. There's plenty more out there who will be willing to record what we want them to…"

"Do you have any queens?" Micky tried to look over at Davy's cards.

"Nope, go fish," the Englishman replied. Micky drew a card from the pile then sighed.

"I wish Mike were here," Peter stated. They had practised all afternoon, and were now taking a break while eating salami sandwiches for dinner. Only one hour left before they were to appear at the Vincent, Mike-less.

Unexpectedly, their front door opened and in walked a familiar wool-hatted figure, carrying a suitcase and guitar.

"Mike!!" all three cried, tossing cards in the air and rushing over to the prodigal's son, wrapping him in a gigantic group-hug. After the initial shock wore off, Davy looked up, confused.
"But, why are you home? Aren't you recording Carlisle Wheeling? Did you forget something, or what?"

Mike sighed as he placed his luggage on the ground and headed to the fridge. "Do we still have anything to eat, or did Micky scarf it all down while I wasn't here?" Finding the ingredients for salami sandwiches on the counter, he fixed one for himself, then turned back to his suspenseful bandmates. "Let's just say Donnie Kirshner was a bit too much in charge of everything. 'Sides, you guys don't really think I would walk out on you like that, do you? We're a band, and we're gonna stick together, famous or not."

"Speaking of band," Peter started, but Micky finished.

"We have a gig at the Vincent in forty-five minutes. We were gonna do it ourselves, but now that you're back, I suppose we wasted an entire afternoon prasticing…"

Mike slapped his hand to his forehead, "I completely forgot!" Then he looked at Micky, "You guys were gonna do it without me?"

Micky joked, "Yeah, I really think that Peter's better at guitar and Davy on bass, so if you wanna be a Monkee again, you'll hafta take up the tambourine…"

He dodged a friendly blow from the guitarist as Davy said, "No, man, I couldn't quite get the hang of that bass, and the songs sounded really lame without the tambourine. I'm glad you're back to do the gig with us."

AND THOUGH YOU NEVER KNEW IT, DEAR, I CRIED

They played the gig, with Mike completing his difficult guitar combinations of Valleri with renewed energy, Peter bouncier than ever on electric bass, Davy dancing his heart out and catching the eye of the girl in the front, and Micky rocking on the drums. So fantastic were they that the manager signed them on a month-long contract.

When they got home, the others went to bed, but Mike sat outside on the deck. Tonight had been his best night in a long time. Even though he'd been gone for not even a full day, he'd felt the loss of The Monkees, and it hurt. The joy of coming back to their crummy beach pad and eating salami for dinner overwhelmed him. Sure, the hotel and studio had been really nice, the food he'd had for lunch delicious, and even Tommy and Bobby were alright, but they weren't Malibu. They weren't this over-priced apartment. They weren't The Vincent Van Goh-Goh. They weren't Micky, Davy and Peter. They weren't The Monkees.

A silent tear slid down Mike's cheek as he realized that he had almost lost it all. He now recognized that he couldn't trade his friends for all the fame money could buy. This was where he belonged, and he was gonna stick with it. Like he said, "I'm a Monkee and that's all there is to it."

CARLISLE WHEELING
by Michael Nesmith

In a long and involved conversation with myself
I saw precious things come into view
When I poured through the files taken off my mental shelf
I dusted off some memories of you

Then I thought about the time
When all the world was green
How the phoenix of our love first flapped its silver wings
All the urgency and passion of each new day as it happened
And how it all mellowed as it grew

I remember the times that our laughter would explode
And how you would turn to hide your smile
Then the hours of silence while the perfumed candle glowed
And both of us meandered on for miles

I remember the time I said I really had to go
I remember the tears that filled your eyes
Then I touched your hand and told you that it really was a lie
And though you never knew it, dear, I cried

It's amazing how time can so softly change your ways
And make you look at things that can't be seen
How the years that roll by can start you listening
Not just to what they say, but what they mean

So forgive me my dear if I seem preoccupied
If the razor edge of youth filled love is gone
But we're both a little older, our relationship has grown
Not just in how it's shaped, but how it's shown

So forgive me my dear if I seem preoccupied
If the razor edge of youth filled love is gone
But we're both a little older and our relationship has grown
Not just in how it's shaped, but how it's shown