It was one of those rare afternoons where everything was calm at the Monkees’ pad. The sun filtered through the windows, casting golden streaks across the room as you lounged on the couch, a book in your lap. Peter sat cross-legged on the floor, strumming absentmindedly on his bass, humming a tune to himself. Every so often, he’d look up at you with a shy smile before returning his attention to the strings.

Micky, however, was anything but calm. He was sprawled out on the rug, surrounded by random knick-knacks he’d dug out of who-knows-where. He was using them to construct some sort of elaborate contraption, muttering to himself as he worked. “Okay, so if I hook this wire here… and maybe add the banana peel for extra flair—”

“What are you doing, mate?” Davy asked without looking up from the magazine he was flipping through.

“This?” Micky replied, holding up a strange mess of wires and duct tape. “This is the future of musical innovation!”

“Looks more like the future of blowing a fuse,” Mike said from the kitchen table, where he was scribbling down lyrics in a notebook. He shot Micky a bemused glance, then went back to his writing.

“I’ll have you know,” Micky began, pointing dramatically at Mike, “that this device is going to change the world of music forever. Picture it: a harmonica that plays itself!”

Mike, raised an eyebrow. “And you’re the reason people think we don’t play our own instruments.”