Have you ever had a moment when a song resonates with you on a deeply personal level, making you question, “Song Who Am I” in relation to its story? Music has a unique ability to unlock hidden corners of our minds, often sparked by unexpected triggers. For me, a Monkees tune did just that, intertwined with a surprisingly candid revelation from my mother during my junior high years – a story involving a Chicago bartender and the unpredictable nature of life. This memory always resurfaces whenever my favorite Monkees song begins to play.
Often dismissed as manufactured pop, The Monkees were more than just a TV creation. As Mark Deming of Allmusic aptly noted, they were “talented singers, musicians, and songwriters who made a handful of the finest pop singles of their day… and delivered exciting, entertaining live shows.” Formed in the wake of Beatlemania and inspired by Richard Lester’s zany Beatles films, A Hard Day’s Night and Help!, Bob Rafelson and Bert Schneider conceived The Monkees as a comedic television series about a fictional band. NBC embraced the concept, and in early 1966, the world was introduced to Micky Dolenz, Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork, and Davy Jones.
For teenagers like myself during that era, The Monkees were a cultural phenomenon. Alongside shows like American Bandstand, Hullabaloo, Shindig, and Shebang, The Monkees TV show was essential viewing. It was a vibrant part of the revolutionary 60s, a time when music was rapidly evolving, mirroring the psychedelic experiences and shifting perspectives of a generation. While initially, The Monkees weren’t permitted to play their own instruments on recordings – a common practice then, relying on session musicians known as The Wrecking Crew – their music still captured the spirit of the times.
Despite the controversy surrounding their manufactured image, The Monkees delivered an impressive string of hits throughout the decade. Tracks like “Last Train to Clarksville,” “I’m a Believer,” “Pleasant Valley Sunday,” and “Daydream Believer” became anthems of a generation. Yet, amongst their popular hits, my personal favorite, and perhaps a slightly less celebrated gem, is “What Am I Doing Hangin’ Round?”.
This song, penned by Michael Martin Murphey and Owen Castleman, featured on their fourth album, Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd., and was highlighted in the 1967 season two opener of their TV show, “It’s a Nice Place to Visit…”. It’s a song that almost didn’t happen; Nesmith, seeking material for the group, asked his high school friend Murphey to write something, and this song became Murphey’s breakthrough.
The Monkees album Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd cover art featuring the band members.
Though initially relegated to a B-side in Australia in 1968, “What Am I Doing Hangin’ Round?” has gained traction over the years, appearing on numerous Monkees compilations. Its appeal lies in its unexpected country-western vibe, reminiscent of Marty Robbins’ gunfighter ballads, a surprising sonic direction for a pop band like The Monkees. This blend worked remarkably well, striking an emotional chord with listeners through its narrative of regret and self-questioning.
The song features a distinctive banjo twang – a return to studio musicians after The Monkees briefly took control of their instrumentation – and Nesmith’s distinctive Houston-tinged vocals. “What Am I Doing Hangin’ Round?” stands out as an early example of country-rock, imbued with a lighthearted, almost cheeky, “loudmouth Yankee” persona. It tells a story of an American in Mexico, grappling with a fleeting romance and the looming sense of departure. This narrative, in a strange way, connects with the story my mother shared, a glimpse into her pre-married life, her Texan roots, and perhaps unspoken feelings of being caught between places and times.
To this day, I ponder if this Monkees song, with its themes of transient encounters and questioning one’s place, somehow echoed in my mother’s memories. Before her family’s move from Texas to California after the war, before marriage and motherhood, was there a resonance with the song’s sentiment? Perhaps it’s just my imagination weaving connections. Yet, it keeps bringing me back to that question prompted by the song itself: “What am I doing hangin’ round?” – a question of identity, purpose, and belonging that music so often provokes.
Just a loudmouth Yankee I went down to Mexico
I didn't have much time to spend, about a week or so
There I lightly took advantage of a girl who loved me so
But I found myself a-thinkin' when the time had come to go
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
I should be on that train and gone
I should be ridin' on that train to San Antone
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
She took me to the garden just for a little walk
I didn't know much Spanish and there was no time for talk
Then she told me that she loved me not with words but with a kiss
And like a fool I kept on thinkin' of a train I could not miss
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
I should be on that train and gone
I should be ridin' on that train to San Antone
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
Well, it's been a year or so, and I want to go back again
And if I get the money, well, I'll ride the same old train
But I guess your chances come but once and boy I sure missed mine
And still I can't stop thinkin' when I hear some whistle cryin'
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
I should be on that train and gone
I should be ridin' on that train to San Antone
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
I should be on that train and gone
I should be ridin' on that train to San Antone
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?
I should be on that train and gone
I should be ridin' on that train to San Antone
What am I doin' hangin' 'round?