Ah...yes, mid-December 1970, I remember it just like yesterday, although yesterday is not always clear...hmmm. I was just a young laddie-buck of nineteen, fresh from my first semester at Michigan State University. My brother Bill was thinking about transferring from Central Michigan soz we could be roommates and hunker in against a mindless academia that seemed so unlike the free thinking, sexually revolutionalized versions of college life we had heard so much about from friends and the ever-reactionary media. I didn't do so well on my SAT's nor my entrance exam. I was assigned an academic advisor who told me I'd never "make it", that such low scores suggested I wouldn't pass the mustard. He predicted, amongst other things, that I wouldn't make it through my first year of college and that I would have to go back to my hometown and find a more appropriate job in the "unskilled sector". And he went on to say that racial quotas had destroyed the integrity of higher education by allowing unqualified non-whites to lower academic expectations, and that universities all across the country were "dunbing down" just to accomodate the onslaught of minority enrollment. I thought, "My God, I just might have a chance! And though I feared my advisor, I went back to him each term, as required, to suffer the outrageous fortune of one too young and naive to tell an elder to "fuck off". Instead, I transformed my fear into something just this side of outright plucky hostility, I made fun of him. I would assume a different dialect each time we would meet, about every 16 weeks. Sometimes I spoke in deep-south cowboy, other times I did a cheeky "Nu Yahk" accent, but my coup 'd grace was when I mimmicked his voice...his haughty cadence, that deep, heavy inflection and his oh-so-mock-serious tonality that seemed to say, "You are a worthless fleck of paw dung". But he never seemed to notice.
But that was the last thing on my mind when my brother arrived at The MSU campus on a cold and snowy mid-December night. I had talked him about the show and that this "oldies" band The Kinks had just released an album that was real cool.
Lola VS The Powerman. We had some time so I played him several tracks: "Top Of The Pops" with that familiar chunk-chunk-chunk Louie Louie riff that Ray Davies lifted for You Really Got Me and All Day & the Night;Davie Davie's beautiful tome of Walden/socialist reflection, Strangers and, of course, the exquisite Lola with those elusive lyrics and incredible falsetto harmonies. I also played this rare promo album I had just snagged, Then Now & Inbetween , that contained full songs as well as snippets of unheard of Kinky treasures culled from unheard Kink albums, such as:
Something Else by the Kinks, 1967
The Village Green Preservation Society, 1968
Arthur…or the Decline and Fall Of The British Empire, 1969
This body of music reveals Ray Davies’ quirky British sensibilities and his keen observational narrative-based anthems about social class and pastoral longing. Arthur shifted Davies’ focus to the horrors of WWII yet managed to convey a sentimental and loving look as his semi-autobiographical family struggled with the devastating affects of war. All in all, these wondrous Kinks albums (roundly ignored in America) revealed Ray Davies to be one phenomenal cat indeed. So by the time Bill and I set off for the Easttown Theater, we had a glimpse of the true genius of Ray Davies and the Kinks. Those “lost” songs from the late 60’s sure were different from the way I remembered the Kinks. I loved all the early rockers and I absolutely re-grooved the vinyl of the Kinks Greatest Hits on my Gerard modular phonograph. But we were not ready for, nor could we have ever imagined, what lay in store for us that fateful frigid night.
The Easttown is located on the corner of Harper and Van Dyke in a run down, seedy part of town, the end result of urban renewal. All kinda folks, hung out on the street corners and around the block, I thought to myself, “I don’t think they are Kinks fans”. Well, Bill parked the car across the street, it was dark and the street was only dimly lit, giving off a vaguely menacing vibe. The only illumination came from a silvery winter moon and the marquee that announced The Kinks and Rita Coolidge. We were more than excited for visions of the Kinks evoked visions of all those great British Invasion groups, the Beatles, Stones, Who and Dave Clark 5…Dave Clark 5?
…HELL YEAH, THE DAVE CLARK 5!!!!
So, we get into line and slowly make our way into this old dilapidated movie theater cum rock palace. Before we can enter, security frisks us; we gotta open our coats and take off our hats and scarves. I wondered why and once we were seated I asked a fellow Kink-fanatic. Seems they are lookin’ for weapons since a rash of violence caught the attention of the local polezi. What they didn’t look for was drugs, ‘cos there was all sorta gettin’ high and buzzin’ goin’ on around me. I didn’t do too many drugs at the time so I just took deep breaths, sucked in the fumes and held ‘em-in for about 15 seconds or so...didn’t work. Damn. Or maybe it did. I started wanderin’ around the theater, sucking in all the excitement and anticipation like a Hoover in cat lady’s house when I start to notice something funny, all these big big women, lotsa makeup and deep voices and stubble on their chin...My God - TRANSVESTITES. I’d never seen a transvestite before, so I start talking with one. She thinks I’m sweet and innocent and when I ask why there are so many men dressed like women at the show, she laughs her ass off and walks away. I get plenty of looks and a few comments from the crowd as I stumble back to my chair. I may be 18 but with my hairless baby face, I look more like 12, an easy mark.
Rita Coolidge opens the show and she looks like the most beautiful, sexy woman I’ve ever scene, with that dark ethnic look and long, jet black hair. She possessed an earthy soulful voice and her band played it tough and tight. I thought she was a rockin’ blues goddess. And this was several years before she had any hits. She earned her dues.
But what I really wanted was the Kinks
Tension mounted as we waited, and waited, and waited some more. Seemed like an eternity but it was probably no more than 45 minutes between sets. When suddenly the recorded music stopped, the lights went out and a disembodied voice announced, “Mick Avory on drums”. And ol Mick comes running out on stage , gets behind his kit and starts to lay down the beat; “John Dalton on bass”; “Dave Davies on guitar”; “And Ray Davies on vocals and guitar”; each member, in turn, picks up his guitar and begins to play. It seemed a bit corny like something we’ve seen on Shindig or Hullabaloo. But corny has its charm and this whole shtick segued neatly into Top of the Pops. It’s a great rockin’ number with a tough Louie Louie riff and some bitter lyrics aimed straight at the recording industry...a fully realized performance and a return a heavy guitar style. It was a good start, but the band started to lose direction with a misguided rock ‘n roll medley with Dave screeching off-key through much of the discordant racket, in fact, this may have been the sloppiest, most under-rehearsed performance I’ve ever seen. And their performance of their big hit, Lola was astonishingly repugnant, an embarrassment of epic proportions. I’ve never before or since witnessed a band so hell bent on destroying its reputation through a perfectly dreadful performance.
Neither Ray nor Dave could stay on key and the band limped-on at break-neck speed, as each instrument seemed to struggle with tempo and tonality, to finish this farce. Ray smiled weakly and said he had some grass and then pulled out some weeds he yanked from out back of the Easttown. The crowd groaned; I was mesmerized.
Davies’ understated British charm gradually won me over. He performed Harry Rag with all the good humor of a cockney master and the song itself with its marching band beat and rhyming slang (for cigarettes) was unlike anything I’ve ever heard before…
Tom was young and Tom was bold
Tom was as bold as the knights of old
But whenever he’d get in a bit of a jam
There’s nothing he won’t do to get a Harry Rag
Tom’s old ma was a dying lass
Soon they all reckon she’ll be pushing up the grass
And her bones might take and her skin might sag
But still she’s got the strength for a Harry Rag
Ah yes, Davies was a humble self-deprecating genius. Before jumping into the next song, Davies said, “Now we’re gonna embarrass some old friends”. The band lovingly presented Dedicated Follower of Fashion, You’re Looking Fine, Dandy and Sunny Afternoon. Newer songs included a choppy Arthur and a rockin’ Brainwashed. Dave performed an acoustic version of Strangers that was absolutely stunning. This cat can really sing when he tries. But before he launched into the song Dave started to piss and moan, “I don’t wanna play a fuckin’ acoustic”. Ray gave him a stern look... sibling rivalry. I was intrigued; after all, I have a brother-thing goin’ too. They did a powerful version of Ray’s anti-religion ode to spirituality, Big Sky, another stone masterpiece; the poignant anti-union hymn Get Back In the Line; and the Train Kept a Rollin’ rip off, Last of the Steam Powered Trains
Before the night was over they did a great version of Louie Louie (with the original “clean” lyrics) – Ray prefaced the song by saying it was the greatest rock ‘n roll song ever written! – and perfunctory versions of Till the End of the Day and You Really Got Me.
Bill and I walked out to his car quietly. Neither one of us could quite find the words to describe our reactions. The show was so terrible in so many ways, even offensive, in the Kinks total disregard for quality and effort. Was it simply a matter of poor musicianship? But my gut told me there is something more to a musical performance than virtuosity, something like soul or thoughtfulness and humor. The Kinks had all that and more. Davies had a knack good natured satire and self-effacing humility and just a touch of vulnerability
Ray Davies genius is in his ability to transform human foibles into something kinder. He can look unflinchingly at the other side of life and find something pure and substantive. But this was only temporary as Ray Davies’ most creative impulses became co-opted by the “Americanization” of the Kinks just a few years later. And Davies’ humble genius, the spark that created such masterpieces as Days, Waterloo Sunset and The Village Green Preservation Society, now produced such hook laden arena rock as Low Budget and Superman. By 1980, The Kinks sure sounded better or more professional, but I can’t quite explain it, the "why" is so elusive, how the bigger sound seemed so empty. But way back in December of 1970 I soaked in all their boozy, unpretentious good humor, and I’ll never forget it.
Bo White
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