In the unpredictable world of music, writing a hit record is often like trying to catch lightning in a bottle. The legendary So-Cal band, The Mamas & The Papas, experienced this phenomenon firsthand in 1966. Known today for their timeless song “Monday, Monday,” they originally harbored deep reservations about its potential, spending countless hours in the studio bitterly debating just how much they detested what would soon become their biggest hit.
Backed by the impeccable musicianship of the renowned Wrecking Crew and distinguished by the quartet’s iconic harmonies, “Monday, Monday” quickly soared to instant success. It shockingly sold 160,000 copies on its first day alone, catapulting to the coveted No. 1 spot on the Billboard Hot 100. This achievement marked the first and last time the group would ever reach such a pinnacle on the chart.
Yet, a stunning contradiction lies beneath the song’s success. If one were to ask any band member other than John Phillips about the track’s origin or merit, the answer would be unanimous: “Monday, Monday” was viewed as a complete failure.
John Phillips penned the song during 1965 while the band was recording their debut album, If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears, at Western Studios in Hollywood under producer Lou Adler. Faced with pressure from his bandmates and Adler to produce music with commercial viability akin to their classic “California Dreamin’”, Phillips later claimed to have crafted the now-iconic tune in a mere 20 minutes.
Michelle Phillips, John’s ex-wife and former bandmate, immortalized the song’s origins in her autobiography California Dreamin’: The True Story of the Mamas and the Papas. She vividly recalled the moment John emerged with his guitar, announcing his ambition:
“I wanna write a song that has absolute international appeal.”
Despite provocation, the rest of the group responded with skepticism. When John unveiled the song’s haunting opening line,
“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day,”
Michelle and Cass Elliot quickly dismissed it as “the worst song we’ve ever heard,” branding it pretentious and uninspiring.
This brutal verdict didn’t just hang in the air; it fueled ongoing tension throughout the entire recording session. Only when producer Lou Adler intervened did the group find a way forward, with Adler resolving to separate the creation from the release phase, remarking,
“You do the singing. I’ll do the releasing.”
Denny Doherty, another band member, shared his lukewarm reaction to the tune in later interviews. He admitted admiration for the distinctive “bah-da-da-da-da-dum” opening background vocals, yet bluntly called the rest of the song a “dumb f***in’ song about a day of the week.” By the end of rehearsals, Doherty confessed relief that the ordeal was over.
Interestingly, Cass Elliot later recanted her initial harsh judgment by citing “Monday, Monday” as one of her favorite tracks during a 1968 Rolling Stone interview. However, considering she was promoting her first solo album post-band breakup, it was likely a strategic choice rather than a candid confession. The 1967 Grammy Award for Best Contemporary R&R Group Performance that the band won for the song probably also helped to balm the sting of earlier studio disagreements.
The lyrics themselves echo the ambivalence and complexity of Mondays:
“Monday, Monday, so good to me
Monday mornin’, it was all I hoped it would be
But Monday mornin’, Monday mornin’ couldn’t guarantee
That Monday evenin’ you would still be here with me”
These words capture the bittersweet essence of optimism crushed by sudden disappointment—an emotion that apparently resonated deeply with listeners worldwide, despite the band’s internal doubts.
This explosive clash behind the scenes reveals a profound truth behind music history: sometimes, the greatest hits are born from discord, reluctance, and even disdain within the very hearts who create them.
