The living room of the pad was absolute chaos. Instruments were scattered and Monkees were in the middle of yet another band meltdown. You were sitting cross-legged on the arm of the couch, close to Peter. Being a close friend of the Monkees meant you’d seen your fair share of these ridiculous arguments.

Mike stood in the kitchen, fists clenched, glaring at Davy who was pacing near the corner by the window. “Davy, you don’t have the range for this song. You’re always droppin’ notes, and it throws the whole thing off!”

Davy scoffed. “Excuse me? Everyone loves when I sing lead. I’ve got the charm, the presence—” he pointed at his face, “—and the voice. You’re just jealous, Mike.”

Micky immediately jumped in, arms flailing for emphasis. “Jealous? Please. If anyone’s got the pipes for this, it’s me. I’m a drummer and a showman, baby! The crowd goes wild when I take center stage.”

Davy rolled his eyes. “You think banging on your drums makes you the star? Everyone knows I’m the favorite.”

Mike’s face turned redder by the second. “Favorite don’t matter if you can’t hit the notes!”

Meanwhile, Peter sat cross-legged on the couch with his guitar, strumming idly. “I don’t know why you’re all fighting. I never get lead vocals anyway.” He gave a little shrug and smiled like it didn’t bother him… though it clearly did, just a little. The other Monkees were too busy arguing to even hear him.