February 13, 1942 – February 21, 2019
Katie Courtice Basquin
Long before Peter Tork became a Monkee, he was living in NYC at a grotty little place on Macdougal Street, and playing in a “pass-the-hat” café on West 3rd Street. I think it was called the West Wind; in any case, it was just east of 6th Avenue. It was our habit to go down to the Village from our Upper West Side digs, usually on Thursday night, to hear at least one set and give him moral support. Frequently, when we walked into the place, we doubled the size of the audience by our arrival. It was easy for Peter to see who had come in. He had a wonderful and varied set of pieces, some blue-grass, some even Broadway (I remember with particular pleasure hearing his “Who Will Buy?” from Oliver.) He also did a magical arrangement of “Full Fathom Five” from The Tempest. Whatever he was singing, at that particular point in his act, he would gracefully finish it, and then launch into “If I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate” for me. It was a swingin’ version and I always appreciated it.
While my Peter (Peter J. in the group that included Peter H., Peter B. (Bornstein), Peter M. (Peter MacPherson Brown and Peter S. (Schwenger, of course)) was in graduate school, and Peter H. was newly famous as a Monkee, Peter H. came to Peter J’s solo graduate recital at Manhattan School of Music. That led to an item in a fan magazine, about a Peter H.’s trip to NYC, in which he described going to his friend Peter Basquin’s recital. That item, in turn, led to a “stakeout” by Peter’s fans, who stood outside our apartment building and called us up to find out if we “really knew Peter Tork.” One young lady begged, “Please wave your hand out the window so we know it’s really you, and that you really are a friend of Peter Tork’s.” Of course, we did. Funny.
A year or two later, while still part of the Monkees, he came back to NYC. Somehow, we managed to arrange a dinner for several of us at Billy Wingate’s parents’ apartment in NYC–so we were Peter H., Bill, Ann, Peter and me. You will remember that Bill and Tork shared a love of banjo playing. (Don’t remember if anyone else was there—if so, speak up!) Somewhere in the course of the evening, I admired Peter’s colorful shirt extravagantly, whereon, he took it off and offered it to me. Regrettably, I was embarrassed and didn’t take it. I’ve always been sorry about that.
Many years later, when he was in the Monkee’s revival phase, I wrote to him on behalf of Beverly Brown’s dance company, which was staging a benefit for which I was the chair.
He astonished all of us by sending Bev a very generous check, even though, so far as I knew, he’d never paid attention to her choreography or seen her after Carleton.
He was just an incredibly sweet and generous person, whenever you were with him.
Fast forward several years from Monkees’ original fame: Tork had done his jail time, and was now teaching music in the Santa Monica high school, as has been reported elsewhere. He came back to NYC to see old friends, and stayed with us on West 78th Street. We were basically a crash pad, although there was one wonderful evening of chatting and catching up in our studio, with Peter, us, and –if I remember correctly—Gary & Beth Crittenden Schwarzman, who happened to be in town, and Dale Fuller, all of whom were part of Players and the hootenanny scene when all of us were at Carleton. (Again, if anyone who reads this was there, and I’ve forgotten, please speak up….there was always a lot of wine and bourbon involved, so my memory may not be perfect.) A night or two later, he went down to the Village to hobnob with some of his music buddies still in the scene. A lot of grass was smoked. I’m not sure when he got back to our place, but it was something past 3 AM. Peter and I were thoroughly asleep, as we were both working stiffs who had obligations the next morning. About 3:30 AM, still dead asleep, I smelled smoke. Having already lived through one kitchen fire, I landed on my feet instantly, still ¾ asleep, and charged into the kitchen in my night shirt. There was Peter Tork, calmly scrambling a couple of eggs, but thanks to the pot he’d consumed—which, as we all know, makes one really hungry!—he wasn’t paying close attention, and consequently burned the butter. That smell of burning butter was all it took to galvanize me. He apologized. I gave him a hug, left him to his scrambled eggs and went back to bed.
We wrote to each other at Christmastime most years thereafter, until this past one…probably my fault, as we were consumed with the business of moving house, and I missed the correspondence. He was a wonderful, funny, companionable, creative, enthusiastic and dedicated man.
Dear Tork, thanks for the memories, Katie
Comments
I was a year behind Peter, and didn’t know him; I wasn’t in any classes with him. But I remember him sitting on the floor of Willis’s First Floor, with his back against the wall, strumming his guitar.