“I always kept a wall between the real me and the guy with the tambourine on TV. Mickey Dolenz—the Monkee, the drummer, the poster—was a character. People didn’t fall in love with me. They fell in love with him. And I never confused the two.”
By 1970, the television show had been cancelled, but to call it a “breakup” missed the point entirely. The Monkees weren’t a traditional band. We were cast. Hired actors, really. So when the curtain dropped, we did what actors do—we waved, we hugged, and we went our separate ways. It wasn’t personal. It was the end of a show. William Shatner didn’t keep phoning Leonard Nimoy to reenact “beam me up” for the rest of his life either.
Now, we did keep in touch. Finished some post-show albums. Wrapped up a few tours we were contracted for. But the truth? We were never really a band—until we hit the road. That’s when it became real. That’s when Pinocchio became a real boy, as Mike Nesmith once said.
For me, I didn’t fall apart when it ended. I’d already lived through the cancellation of a series when I was ten. By 1970, I’d been in the business 15 years. I knew what the end of a show felt like.
But acting? I was done. Burned out. I didn’t want to audition anymore. I wanted to create. Direct. Produce. I’d written and directed the final episode of The Monkees, and I’d caught the bug.
So I started Dolenz Productions. Shot some commercials. Tried a documentary. Had no illusions about returning to the screen. I remember one audition where the producer looked up and said, “We don’t need any drummers.” That was all I needed to hear. I’d played the drummer so well, they forgot I was an actor.
Still, I wasn’t bitter. I was exhausted. Fifty-six episodes in two years. Recording at night. Touring. No time to breathe. So I gave myself that time. I drank beer. Spent days with Harry Nilsson. And then Lennon showed up, and suddenly it was that weekend. And the stories from those days? Some of them I’ve been told I enjoyed.
Then came England. A musical Harry wrote—The Point. I was supposed to be there for three months. Ended up staying 15 years. Got married. Became Michael Dolenz, not Mickey. Produced and directed for the BBC, LWT, created my own shows. And for the first time, I wasn’t the Monkee. I was just a guy behind the camera. It was liberating.
Funny thing is, The Monkees always had more respect in England. Their TV traditions made room for irreverence—Goon Show, Python, The Goodies. They understood our improvisation. America didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Flash forward to 1986. A producer tracks me down. Wants to do a reunion tour. Eight weeks at amusement parks. No big deal. But he didn’t tell us MTV was about to re-air the show. And when they did, boom. Pandemonium. Suddenly I’m back on the road. That “small tour” became three years. My marriage ended. But the audience? Still there. Bigger, even.
So we toured. Mike didn’t join at first. But Davey, Peter, and I—it was like a time warp. Except this time, we knew it was real. No script. Just music. And the fans weren’t screaming at a character. They were screaming at us.
We never owned the name. Still don’t. We had to pay to say “The Monkees.” No royalties. No logo rights. William Shatner doesn’t own Star Trek, and we don’t own The Monkees. But we owned our performances. And that was enough.
And HEAD? The movie? That was something else. A fever dream. A satire. A eulogy. A middle finger to the machine. Jack Nicholson wrote it. Bob Rafelson directed it. We didn’t want to do a 90-minute episode. We wanted to rip through the fake backdrop and show what was really going on. It wasn’t just about us. It was about destroying the fourth wall of Hollywood itself.
So here we are, decades later. People still ask about the songs, the screaming crowds, the elephant named Bimbo. And yes, I opened for an elephant once. My first gig. Full circle.
But what I remember most isn’t the mania. It’s the quiet moments—the production office at Screen Gems, the sound of my own voice in a London editing room, the feeling of shedding a persona and becoming a person again.
That’s the story. Or at least, my side of it.
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