Hey, hey, hear the fun, kids

Svengalied by television producers, ghosted instrumentally by session pros and almost devoid of original material, the Monkees entered the post-”Rubber Soul” rock world missing even the slightest link to hip creative cachet. While the Beatles were “Revolver”-ing toward ever more experimental and thought-provoking realms, the Prefab Four were born recycling screen antics a la “A Hard Day’s Night.”

Yes, you can let yourself be stymied by the Monkees’ dubious pedigree. Or you can simply bask in a song catalog that’s at least 40 keepers deep. Start with the miracle of Micky Dolenz’s singing. He shines, shouts and guffaws, insinuates and caresses.

Davy Jones dodges the treacly quicksand that typically swallows pop’s designated objects of puppy love. When Mike Nesmith, the Monkees’ ablest all-around musician, takes the lead, he steers the band toward pioneering country-rock. Not even Peter Tork, the lovable stumblebum on screen, is merely along for the ride, as the comic method behind his madness on the manic “Your Auntie Grizelda” will attest.

Then there’s the 1968 film “Head,” a plotless, weirdly self-lacerating and sometimes angry piece of arty surrealism they conceived with Jack Nicholson in an apparent attempt to kill whatever remained of their popularity. With “Head,” the Monkees got a quarter-century jump on Nirvana-esque anticommercial self-loathing. Anticipating the dead-end attitude of postmodern rock is no great accomplishment. But the music -- especially the grand, graceful “Porpoise Song” -- sounds like a victory lap.

-- Mike Boehm