AT 80, MICKY DOLENZ, THE ONLY SURVIVING MONKEE, SHARES A NEIL DIAMOND SECRET THAT NO ONE SAW COMING
At 80 years old, Micky Dolenz walks a little slower, speaks a little softer—but behind those familiar eyes still sparkles the same mischief and magic that made The Monkees a cultural phenomenon in the 1960s. As the last surviving member of the group that once rivaled The Beatles in TV ratings and fan frenzy, Dolenz has become the reluctant keeper of a golden era—one filled with laughter, music, and the kind of friendships that both blossom and break under the weight of fame.
But during a recent interview at the Grammy Museum in Los Angeles, where he was being honored for his lifelong contributions to music and television, Dolenz stunned fans with a quiet confession—one that had never been made public, not even during the decades of Monkeemania retrospectives.
“I think it’s time I told this story,” he said, leaning forward with a nostalgic smile. “Neil Diamond saved The Monkees… and none of us really knew it at the time.”
The crowd fell silent.
He wasn’t speaking metaphorically.
Back in 1966, when The Monkees were just a TV concept in search of a musical identity, the pressure was mounting. The group had been assembled for the screen, not the studio, and there were whispers in the industry that they were nothing more than a fabricated pop act. That all changed with one song: I’m a Believer—a song penned by a then-little-known songwriter named Neil Diamond.
“We didn’t write it, but the minute I heard it, I knew,” Dolenz recalled. “I recorded the lead vocal in one take. Just one. That’s how good it was.”
Released in late 1966, I’m a Believer became The Monkees’ biggest hit—spending seven weeks at No. 1 and selling over 10 million copies. It didn’t just silence the critics—it legitimized the band overnight. And behind that success was Neil Diamond, a fellow New Yorker with a knack for melody and a hunger to break through.
“Neil was still climbing then, trying to find his way just like we were,” Dolenz said. “He gave us that song, and it changed everything. It changed my life.”
What no one knew—until now—was that Diamond had also quietly offered the group two other songs that were never used. One, according to Dolenz, was a ballad meant for a future episode of the show, but was shelved when the script was rewritten. The other? A prototype version of Sweet Caroline, with early lyrics scrawled in a spiral notebook that Dolenz says he once held in his hands backstage.
“I remember Neil humming it,” he said. “Back then, it was called Sweet Marilyn—I swear. We all laughed, said it sounded like a lullaby. But he kept working on it. The next time I heard it, it was on the radio… and history was made.”
Dolenz says he kept the memory to himself out of respect—for Neil, for the band, and for the quiet way songs sometimes find their true place. But now, with time moving forward and friends like Davy Jones, Peter Tork, and Michael Nesmith no longer by his side, he feels a responsibility to share what really happened behind the curtain.
“Neil Diamond gave The Monkees a real chance to be heard. And in doing that, he helped me find a voice I didn’t know I had,” Dolenz said. “That’s not just history—that’s gratitude.”
As he stood to leave, a fan in the front row called out, “Hey Micky, do you still believe?”
Dolenz turned with a grin that belonged to both the boyish drummer on TV and the wise man he’s become.
“Always,” he said. “And I always will.”
Because sometimes, even fifty years later, the biggest surprises come not from what you sang—
But from who handed you the song in the first place.