Ray Davies - Americana - The Kinks, The Road and The Perfect Riff

Contents

About the Book

As a boy in post-war England, legendary Kinks singer/songwriter Ray Davies was fascinated by America its movies, music and culture of freedom fed his imagination. Then, as part of the British Invasion, he toured the USA with the Kinks during one of the most tumultuous eras in recent American history, until the group was banned from performing there from 1965 to 69.

Many tours and trips later, Davies experienced a transformative event in New Orleans when he was shot during a botched robbery. From his quintessentially English perspective as songwriter for the Kinks, Davies explores in Americana his feelings of love, confusion and fascination towards the country that both inspires and frustrates him.

With candour, humour and wit, Davies takes us on a very personal road trip through his life and celebrated career as a rock writer/performer, and reveals what music, fame and America really mean to him.

About the Author

Iconic rock singer/songwriter Ray Davies inspired generations of musicians, from The Who, The Clash and the Ramones to Black Sabbath, as lead singer and songwriter of the Kinks. The bands string of international hits include You Really Got Me, All Day and All of the Night, Till the End of the Day, Come Dancing and, of course, Lola. In 1990, the Kinks were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Davies has also acted, directed and produced shows for theatre and television. Since the Kinks disbanded he has embarked on a solo career and continues to tour and record. Davies received a CBE in 2004, and in 2012 his performance of the Kinks song Waterloo Sunset was a highlight of the closing ceremony of the London Olympics. On his most recent album, See My Friends (2011), he collaborated with such artists as Bruce Springsteen, Metallica and Jon Bon Jovi.

For Eva and Natalie
Oliver, Jack and Lily-Rose

Special thanks to
Alma Karen Eyo, Linda McBride, Sarah Lockwood and all at
Konk Studios, Barbara Berger and all the loyal Kinks fans.

Preface

A MERICANA . I T STARTED as a flickering light sending black-and-white images through an old movie projector. Faces of cowboys and Indians, superheroes, the good guys victorious over the emissaries of evil. Then as I grew the music took over. Rock, jazz, skiffle the blues and country songs came to liberate me, a North Londoner, growing in up in the austerity of post-war Britain. The music gave me hope and a feeling that I could express myself in song through this new art form called rock and roll. Then, as I toured America with my band, I saw the place first hand and up closefrom the roadside of a dreary bus stop in the middle of nowhere to the Hollywood Bowlas we experienced both good times and bad times. My first impressions were full of romanticised images from childhood recaptured from the relative safety of a tour bus or hotel room. However the real world soon arrived like an uninvited guest and the flickering light of fantasy turned into the cold light of day.

PROLOGUE

NEW ORLEANS

AT 8:30 A.M. one morning in the autumn of 2002, a husband and wife walked out the door of their detached house, which was neatly placed on a corner of a tree-lined street in New Orleans. As they were getting into their car, two men in an old red saloon approached. One got out, walked over, and began to ask the husband, Brad, for directions before pulling out a shotgun. In a few seconds, the couple had lost control of their liberty and were at the mercy of their captors, who savoured the control the guns had given them. Bradwho worked in the computer industry and was respected by the local communitydid as he was told and stayed silent as the thief pushed him firmly but gently into the living room with the pistol pointed into the side of his face.

Meanwhile, an accomplice forced Brads wife, Peggy, into the car and made her drive to the bank to withdraw as much money as she could from the ATM. Then he brought her back to the home, where she was ordered to lie on the floor next to Brad.

The gunman aimed the shotgun at Brad, pulled the trigger, and shot him in the chest at point-blank range. He then lifted the shotgun towards Peggys face. The gun jammed, the shooter started to panic, and both the robbers did a runner.

T HE REPORT OF THIS BRUTAL KILLING in the Times-Picayune made chilling reading. It was horrific and tragic, but apart from the fact that I had been going to and from New Orleans myself at the time it happened, and apart from the fact that I was staying just a few blocks away from the murder, it was still the sort of thing that I thought happened to other people. Despite the almost blas claim that New Orleans was the murder capital of America, that one incident stayed in my mind longer than I cared to think about it.

But now I was a shooting victim myself, lying on a trolley in the trauma room at Charity Hospitala sad, derelict building in New Orleanswith plenty of time to think. Now I was pondering over my own nightmare situation, but at least I was alive, and even though some things had started to make sense, I did wonder how Ia north London fellowhad ended up in this place. It was an uncomfortable predicament to be in, but almost a fitting way to reach this point in what had been a pretty random life to date. The past seemed to come back with relentless claritythe names, dates, and places flooding back as I lay in bed while the medication flowed and the life-support system did its job. Unexpected memories that jumped in and out of my head seemed to chastise and taunt me as I lay there. You stupid bastard, what the hell are you doing here? I asked myself. I had no answer to that question, but I hoped one would eventually emerge before I died.

They were looking for the guy who shot me. A policeman with the unlikely name of Officer Derringer had brought in some smudgy photocopies of suspects, and without seeming disrespectful in any way, I told him that all the suspects looked to me like grubby smudges on the paper. Who was to blame for what happened to me? Was it just a random incident? I wouldnt know for a while. More to the pointwhy was I here in the first place? Derringer said they had a fix on who the shooter was and had even arrested the driver of the car, but the question kept going around in my mind: What made this happen? All sorts of conspiracy theories raced through my head while my system was still in shock.

A few days earlier, a drunk, angry person at a bar had threateningly said to me, Ill kill you. A common turn of phrase from an irate and emotionally out of control person, but in my present situation the words had taken a new significance. Perhaps I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time; if anyone had hired a hit man to kill me Id already be deadbut the thought did cross my mind. Maybe it was my work as a songwriter that drove me to be in this situation. I was looking for a new creative lease on life, and Id literally lost my way and ended up in this exotic but confusing place. Id finally finished recording my album in London and was in New Orleans to conclude a writing project and resolve issues in my personal life before returning to mix the record. Then I got shot. My life was in danger; for all I know I was already dead. Now the songs Id been trying to put together kept going around in my head as if to torment me, and they took me back to where this mess began.