The Kinks : after two duds the hits started. They had 13 UK top ten hits between 1964 and 1970 including 3 No 1s and 3 No 2s. A much loved band. (In America, not so much – 4 top ten hits, no number ones.) I revere the great singles acts and in the 60s The Kinks were the number three group after Beatles and Stones. (Number four was The Who, the competition was fierce in those days.) Not only were the hits almost all great, the flipsides often were too. Here is the roll call
You Really Got Me (proto-metal, definitely)
All Day and all of the Night
Tired of Waiting for You
Everybody’s Gonna be Happy
Set me Free
See my Friend (Indian drones consciously used, mid-1965)
Til the End of the Day
Dedicated Follower of Fashion (complete change of style and an extraordinarily camp vocal, George Formby crossed with Quentin Crisp)
Sunny Afternoon (skewering the rich)
Dead End Street (lamenting the poor)
Waterloo Sunset (often turns up as Britain’s favourite ever single, and I can see why, it is nearly mine)
Death of a Clown (Dave Davies solo single but written by Ray and a Kinks single in all but name – I love this one – actually, I love all of these)
Autumn Almanac (celebrating the opposite of rock and roll, the ordinary)
Wonderboy
Days
Victoria
Lola (all together now : "boys will be girls and girls will be boys, it's a mixed up muddled up shook up world")
Plus these delicious flips :
Sittin’ on my Sofa
I’m not like everybody else
Big Black Smoke
Act Nice and Gentle
Mister Pleasant
Pretty Polly
The internet is awash with music fans who yell out inappropriately “The Kinks were better than the Beatles – yah!” and then dash from the room, wagging their bare bottoms at you as they speed by. Well, that’s just crazy talk, the Kinks couldn’t put a great album together if their lives depended on it, and when they tried they came up with painful cringemaking titles like “Lola vs Powerman and the Moneygoround” ooh, ouch, such trenchant satire. The album did Ray Davies a disservice by exposing him as a writer who could not get out from under his thin and uninteresting obsessions. But that’s as may be. Fans like to argue. I know I do.
This book is a peculiar cup of tea. I was interested in it because a) I want to hear the story of the above glory years and all the stuff about making these great records from the horse’s mouth; and b) I heard this horse writes pretty well. So I skipped over the early stuff and looked for You Really Got Me which doesn’t get mentioned until page 140. That’s a lot of pre-fame days to get through. The whole thing is written as if by a journalist interviewing Raymond Douglas, as he is referred to, so it’s very-slightly-fictionalised. And the book does trail away quickly after the 60s, and ends after 1973. So really, we are getting 200 pages of detail about 1964-1970. This is what I wanted! Great! Not so fast. It turns out that Raymond Douglas had a pretty miserable time of it. His story parallels John Lennon – both got married and had a kid just when their fame and success was exploding. Both knew after a couple of years that the marriage might have been a bit hasty. Both were pulled between the soporific pleasures of domesticity
Ray Davies : But I am so lazy, don’t want to wander, I stay at home at night
John Lennon : Keeping an eye on the world going by my window, lying there and staring at the ceiling
And the life of the wild young rocking dissidents they thought they either really were or should be
Ray Davies : And I don't want to live my life like everybody else,
And I won’t say that I feel fine like everybody else,
Cause I’m not like everybody else,
John Lennon : Living is easy with eyes closed misunderstanding all you see
Both ended up in suburbia with big houses, wife, kid, the whole bit, while their main partners in the band (Dave Davies, McCartney) lived the life they thought they should be living. RD’s story is kind of a long long downer, filled not with the joys of the particoloured 60s counterculture but with page after page of managers, promoters, court cases, accountants, pressure from within, pressure from without, all circulating round the one central question : where’s my money? He does not tell me about the stuff I was interested in – the dynamics of a successful band, working with your wild & crazy younger brother (Dave Davies, who rates a handful of anecdotes and that’s it), what happened in the 70s – indeed, what happens when the hits go away, like they did for a few 60s songwriters – John Sebastian, John Phillips, Roy Orbison, Bob Gaudio - what he thought of his contemporaries, and so on. It’s a real navel-gazer of a book. But it does have a wry, laddish verbal felicity at times – as for instance here :
On the outskirts of Manchester was a private boarding house run by a raunchy widow who must have been in her late forties. I remember her always being somewhat scantily clad, in a see-through dressing-gown under which were equally revealing undies. She must have been a trim craft in her day, and although there were lumps where there shouldn’t have been on her body, and her legs displayed a few broken blood vessels at the back, her breasts were delightfully plump and bounced about freely above her paunch.
Rock and roll ungallantly meets the saucy seaside postcard from the 1930s (who still uses the word “undies”?!)
I don’t know what to rate this book, I'm not that sure I liked it so much, so I’m copping out with a 3.
The singles get 10 stars.