THE FULL-CIRCLE MOMENT THAT LEFT EVEN THE CREW IN TEARS — HOW ONE MAN’S CHILDHOOD VINYL LED HIM TO THE MONKEES’ LASTING LEGACY
There are moments in life that feel scripted by something greater—as if time itself folds gently inward to honor the dreams we thought were too small, too distant, or too impossible to chase. One such moment unfolded quietly behind the scenes of a Monkees tribute concert, where a seasoned sound engineer—now in his fifties—stood at the very soundboard he once imagined as a boy. But this wasn’t just any concert. And this wasn’t just any engineer. This was his moment.
When he was only eight years old, long before life handed him bills, responsibilities, and a career, he would spend hours lying on the carpeted floor of his childhood living room, headphones too big for his head, wearing out his beloved copy of More of the Monkees. That vinyl wasn’t just a record—it was a lifeline. The melodies became chapters in his personal story, the harmonies his sanctuary. He memorized every lyric, every guitar riff, every skip in the groove from playing it too many times.
He never imagined that decades later, he’d be standing in a dimly lit theater, adjusting faders and frequencies for a live performance where Micky Dolenz himself would sing every single song from that exact album—track for track, note for note.
“It doesn’t feel real,” he admitted quietly during soundcheck, his fingers hovering over the console like a pianist preparing for a sacred piece. “I used to pretend I was doing this in my room—with a flashlight and a tape deck. Now… now it’s real.”
And there, just a few feet away, stood Micky—the last surviving Monkee, still commanding the stage with a mixture of charm, wisdom, and a voice that hadn’t lost its unmistakable tone. That voice, the very one that once played on cheap turntables and filled lonely afternoons, was now echoing in the present… raw, alive, and only meters from the boy who had never stopped listening.
The two met briefly before the show. No cameras. No press. Just a quiet handshake backstage between two men whose lives had unknowingly been entangled for decades. Micky, always gracious, simply said, “Thank you for helping bring the music back to life.” The engineer couldn’t speak at first. His voice caught. There are no words that fully express what it means when the man who shaped your inner world walks into your outer one.
During the performance, the audience sang along to hits like “She,” “Mary, Mary,” and “(I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone.” But for one man in the back, with tears quietly pooling behind his glasses, this wasn’t just nostalgia—it was a homecoming. Every slider he touched, every echo he adjusted, was a tribute to that eight-year-old kid with a dream and a record player.
And when the final chords of “I’m a Believer” rang out and the crowd rose to their feet, no one noticed the sound engineer step away from his post for a moment. He turned toward the darkness backstage, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Not to rest—but to remember. To honor the boy who once whispered to himself, “Maybe one day,” and finally got to whisper back, “We made it.”
Some concerts are meant to be heard.
This one was meant to be felt.