As if anyone required further proof of just how great the Kinks were...
Showing posts with label Kinks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kinks. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
Time Song
I'm trying to wrap my head around having this song, this recording, in your vault and thinking, "nah...not quite good enough."
As if anyone required further proof of just how great the Kinks were...
As if anyone required further proof of just how great the Kinks were...
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Bittersweet Symphony/Waterloo Sunset
This freakin' guy.
There are some who think the secret to Brad Mehldau's greatness is that he went to high school about half a mile from where DT and I went to school, and at the same time, no less. These people are (mainly) wrong.
What they're not wrong about is that he's great. 'cuz he is great.
There are some who think the secret to Brad Mehldau's greatness is that he went to high school about half a mile from where DT and I went to school, and at the same time, no less. These people are (mainly) wrong.
What they're not wrong about is that he's great. 'cuz he is great.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Favorite Song Friday: Do It Again
One of the first things I remember learning about the Kinks was that Ray Davies was an extraordinary songwriter, one of the all-time greats, with an unsurpassed eye for detail and a penchant for looking at unusual subjects with incisive delicacy, or standard subjects from unusual points of view.
Since at the time, the only Kinks songs I knew I knew were "You Really Got Me" and "Lola," I simply took it on faith.
Turns out, for once, I was right to. All those things were true, and more. The Kinks are one of those bands that most rock fans know a good half-dozen or more songs, and that's enough for them. But, in my experience, the deeper you dig into their discography, the bigger a fan you tend to become...to a point. Delve into their 60s output, going all the way back to their blues heavy debut, and you're likely in for life. Gaze too deeply into the abyss of their early 70s RCA concept albums and you risk overload and burnout, although for some it's entirely possible it'll be their favorite section of the oeuvre. Grow up in middle America in the 70s as a fan of classic rock, and it's their Arista LPs from the second half of the decade that might resonate most fully.
I like pretty much all of it. (Preservation Acts I-IX were a bit too much for me, to my shame.) But over the years, maybe my single favorite Kinks song is this 1984 semi-hit.
I liked their previous few hits, "Come Dancing" and "Don't Forget to Dance" quite a bit. If nothing else, it was a hoot seeing these British Invasion vets on MTV right next to the likes of Duran Duran and Adam Ant, especially given how defiantly retro those dancehall tunes were. But "Do It Again," now...that was rock and roll. Nothing wrong with genres that aren't rock, once you've accepted they aren't rock and are therefore inferior. (I kid, I kid...mostly.) But still and all, to see one of the main godfathers of punk kicking ass again 20 years on? Even as a teenager, I thought that was pretty badass.
But it took me another decade to realize that this wasn't just Ray Davies slumming with his take on the Rolling Stones pump-'em-up anthem "Start Me Up." It was something like that, sure. But it's hard to believe (a post-1965, at least) Davies would be capable of writing something as one-dimensional and ham-handed as that Stones gem, even if he tried. (More likely, he'd find himself exploring a protagonist whose lack of impulse control leads him into sordid adventures worthy of the Marquis de Sade...or perhaps a pipe-fitter whose wandering eye and love of alcohol led to the implosion of his marriage and alienation from his beloved children.)
So with "Do It Again." It is the kinda of get stoked song beloved by those who program time-out music for the NBA. But it's more than that. It's hard to believe it's not at least partially autobiographical, especially given that original Kinks drummer Mick Avory—the last non-Davies member of the band to have been there from the beginning—was fired after 20 years during the making of the album. Not to mention the simple fact that Davies was now 40 and looking around at his compadres—the Who had broken up, John Lennon was dead, the Stones were...whatever they were by that point (A: massive and rich and shitty)—he must have felt the impending, inexorable doom of time.
But it's so much wider in scope than that. "Do It Again" manages to be straightforward anthem, pointed analysis of the never-ending work cycle and matter-of-fact character study, all at the same time.
Since at the time, the only Kinks songs I knew I knew were "You Really Got Me" and "Lola," I simply took it on faith.
Turns out, for once, I was right to. All those things were true, and more. The Kinks are one of those bands that most rock fans know a good half-dozen or more songs, and that's enough for them. But, in my experience, the deeper you dig into their discography, the bigger a fan you tend to become...to a point. Delve into their 60s output, going all the way back to their blues heavy debut, and you're likely in for life. Gaze too deeply into the abyss of their early 70s RCA concept albums and you risk overload and burnout, although for some it's entirely possible it'll be their favorite section of the oeuvre. Grow up in middle America in the 70s as a fan of classic rock, and it's their Arista LPs from the second half of the decade that might resonate most fully.
I like pretty much all of it. (Preservation Acts I-IX were a bit too much for me, to my shame.) But over the years, maybe my single favorite Kinks song is this 1984 semi-hit.
ensemble dance in videos has really come quite the long way, hasn't it
But it took me another decade to realize that this wasn't just Ray Davies slumming with his take on the Rolling Stones pump-'em-up anthem "Start Me Up." It was something like that, sure. But it's hard to believe (a post-1965, at least) Davies would be capable of writing something as one-dimensional and ham-handed as that Stones gem, even if he tried. (More likely, he'd find himself exploring a protagonist whose lack of impulse control leads him into sordid adventures worthy of the Marquis de Sade...or perhaps a pipe-fitter whose wandering eye and love of alcohol led to the implosion of his marriage and alienation from his beloved children.)
So with "Do It Again." It is the kinda of get stoked song beloved by those who program time-out music for the NBA. But it's more than that. It's hard to believe it's not at least partially autobiographical, especially given that original Kinks drummer Mick Avory—the last non-Davies member of the band to have been there from the beginning—was fired after 20 years during the making of the album. Not to mention the simple fact that Davies was now 40 and looking around at his compadres—the Who had broken up, John Lennon was dead, the Stones were...whatever they were by that point (A: massive and rich and shitty)—he must have felt the impending, inexorable doom of time.
But it's so much wider in scope than that. "Do It Again" manages to be straightforward anthem, pointed analysis of the never-ending work cycle and matter-of-fact character study, all at the same time.
Standing in the middle of nowhere
Wondering how to begin
Lost between tomorrow and yesterday
Between now and then
And now we're back where we startedSo far, it would seem to be largely autobiographical, a still popular but possibly fading rock star facing band turmoil and the need for more product, exhorting himself to yet again gird his loins and do what once upon a time came so easily.
Here we go round again
Day after day I get up and I say
I better do it again
Where are all the people going
Round and round till we reach the end
One day leading to another
Get up go out do it again
Then it's back where you startedThis sounds more like a worker bee of some sort—perhaps in a factory, maybe in a cubicle—looking at the meaningless, faceless, endless nature of so many jobs in modern society, the pointlessness of this utter necessity.
Here we go round again
Back where you started
Come on do it again
And you think today is going to be betterHere the tone shifts and it's easy to imagine the singer is addressing a more youthful listener, perhaps someone just past the apex of optimism, or someone who's always just about to go to the gym, stop smoking, finally finish That Thing. You know, That Thing you really want to finish and are going to. Any. Day. Now.
Change the world and do it again
Give it all up and start all over
You say you will but you don't know when
Then it's back where you started
Here we go round again
Day after day I get up and I say
Come on better do it again
The days go by and you wish you were a different guyOnce again, the focus changes, and it closes inward, gets more personal, less socio-economic. And while it's extremely unlikely Davies had that year's earlier mega-hit, "Dancing in the Dark," in mind when writing this verse, the similarities are striking.
Different friends and a new set of clothes
You make alterations and affect a new post
A new house a new car a new job a new nose
But it's superficial and it's only skin deep
Cause the voices in your head keep shouting in your sleep
Get back, get back
Back where you started, here we go round again
Back where you started, come on do it again
Back where you started, here we go round againAnd we're out, ending on the somewhat precarious subtonic, rather than resolving to the more common tonic, with its sense of stability. And what we're left with is a general sense of unease, all pounded into us through the scalpel of one of Davies's catchiest melodies, and powered by the never surpassed and rarely even close to equalled assault of Dave Davies guitar playing, here in all its stabbing, distorted glory.
Day after day I get up and I say, do it again
Do it again
Day after day I get up and I say, do it again
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
1968: it was a very good year
On the other hand, you run across information like just some of the albums released in the final few months of 1968 and it kinda staggers.
September 1968
The Who—Magic Bus
Miles Davis—Miles in the Sky
October 1968
The Jimi Hendrix Experience—Electric Ladyland
Traffic—Traffic
November 1968
Neil Young—Neil Young
The Beatles—The Beatles (The White Album)
The Kinks—The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society
Van Morrison—Astral Weeks
Elvis Presley—Elvis (soundtrack to his comeback special)
December 1968
The Rolling Stones—Beggars Banquet
...okay. Okay, sure. BUT.
Yeah, I got nothin', except maybe to point out that just November alone would have made 1968 a damn good year. When you can list five out of the dozen plus major releases and Neil Young's solo debut is the weak spot by far? That's, uh...that's a pretty list. And, again, that's just from the final third of the year, so not even talking about, say, The Notorious Byrd Brothers, White Light/White Heat or Lady Soul, all of which came out in the month of January 1968. Crazy.
Sing us out, Raymond.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Misfits/Sixteen Blue
DT and I were speaking recently of the various ties between bands, influences of older artists on younger, as well as contemporaneous artists sometimes symbiotic relationships.
I've been in a Kinks mood recently, and I'm always in a Replacements mood, which may be why, upon hearing this song for the first time in 20+ years, it sounded so clearly proto-'Mats.
Tell me that doesn't sound like the blueprint for this.
From the lyrical thrust to the arrangement down to the melody to even the playing, with its pop elegance juxtaposed against a country background; I mean, even the first few seconds of each sound like, at most, first cousins—appropriate, given the genetic bonds at the heart of each bands' genesis.
It's no coincidence that the Replacements would bear more than a few similarities to the Kinks: both were fronted by amazing lyricists but massively aided and abetted by a sometimes unheralded group of musicians with whom they grew up. Both had aspirations far beyond "mere" rock and roll, but Cole Porter be damned, neither could help but return to balls to the wall rock again and again.
Paul Westerberg once talked about how maybe some bands had done the ballads better, and maybe some had done the hard rock better, but that no band had ever done them both as well as the Replacements. As a diehard fan, I find it hard to entirely disagree...but when listening to the Kinks it's hard to entirely buy in, either.
I've been in a Kinks mood recently, and I'm always in a Replacements mood, which may be why, upon hearing this song for the first time in 20+ years, it sounded so clearly proto-'Mats.
Tell me that doesn't sound like the blueprint for this.
From the lyrical thrust to the arrangement down to the melody to even the playing, with its pop elegance juxtaposed against a country background; I mean, even the first few seconds of each sound like, at most, first cousins—appropriate, given the genetic bonds at the heart of each bands' genesis.
It's no coincidence that the Replacements would bear more than a few similarities to the Kinks: both were fronted by amazing lyricists but massively aided and abetted by a sometimes unheralded group of musicians with whom they grew up. Both had aspirations far beyond "mere" rock and roll, but Cole Porter be damned, neither could help but return to balls to the wall rock again and again.
Paul Westerberg once talked about how maybe some bands had done the ballads better, and maybe some had done the hard rock better, but that no band had ever done them both as well as the Replacements. As a diehard fan, I find it hard to entirely disagree...but when listening to the Kinks it's hard to entirely buy in, either.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
You Really Got Me/Destroyer
Well, this is kinda fascinating. Here's one of the all-time great bands, during their 2nd or 3rd or perhaps 4th, depending upon how you're counting, career renaissance playing a talk show in Australia. Think about that: they were doing well, commercially, at this point in time, and yet they were playing a talk show at about the same time the Rolling Stones and the Who were playing outdoor stadiums for around 75,000 people a pop. This from the band that no less an authority than Pete Townshend said was the third member of the Holy Trinity of British Rock, along with the Beatles and the Stones, and not the Who.
And yet. Here they are playing a talk show (which would be cancelled just a year later). And damn if they don't give it their all.
Watch Ray Davies shimmy and shake at the beginning like a young Roger Daltrey tying to be James Brown. Check out Dave Davies with his angelic high harmonies and his effortless mastery of the fretboard, showing later imitators from arena rock bands like REO Speedwagon just how it's done, from the originator of the proto-punk riff, one of the most impressive transitions in rock. Note Mick Avory dressed like he's auditioning for an AC/DC tribute band and observe as he seems to be having trouble keeping up with the tempo.
And then there's the song itself, utilizing the riff of "All Day and All of the Night"—itself a rewrite of "You Really Got Me," a lesson Townshend learned well when he himself then brilliantly rewrote it for "Can't Explain"—and adding lyrics that are either a sequel to "Lola" or at least a continuation of the story from a slightly varied point of view and brought up to date, going from the beginning of the anything goes in the Me Decade to the frantic stress of the 80s, one of the more interesting deconstruction of a famous rock band's own mythology by the very rock band in question.
And, of course, it kicks.
And yet. Here they are playing a talk show (which would be cancelled just a year later). And damn if they don't give it their all.
Watch Ray Davies shimmy and shake at the beginning like a young Roger Daltrey tying to be James Brown. Check out Dave Davies with his angelic high harmonies and his effortless mastery of the fretboard, showing later imitators from arena rock bands like REO Speedwagon just how it's done, from the originator of the proto-punk riff, one of the most impressive transitions in rock. Note Mick Avory dressed like he's auditioning for an AC/DC tribute band and observe as he seems to be having trouble keeping up with the tempo.
And then there's the song itself, utilizing the riff of "All Day and All of the Night"—itself a rewrite of "You Really Got Me," a lesson Townshend learned well when he himself then brilliantly rewrote it for "Can't Explain"—and adding lyrics that are either a sequel to "Lola" or at least a continuation of the story from a slightly varied point of view and brought up to date, going from the beginning of the anything goes in the Me Decade to the frantic stress of the 80s, one of the more interesting deconstruction of a famous rock band's own mythology by the very rock band in question.
And, of course, it kicks.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Waterloo Sunset
Nothing revelatory in this cover, at least, not in the sense that it sheds light on the composition. But it is revelatory in how much it would seem to indicate Jackson Browne learned from Ray Davies. Other than the fact that so much of the song—which is to say any of the song—focuses on external characters, this sounds like it could have been written by Browne, down to the melody.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Favorite Song Friday: Young and Innocent Days
Last night was class night for my son's 8th grade class. Kids got all dolled up and gathered on the town green for the traditional taking of pictures with family and friends, and then trekked down the road to the middle school (sans parents) for a dinner dance that invariably signaled the end of their middle school years and the beginning of high school. There's one final day today, sure, but middle school really ended for these kids last night, wrapped up in a bright and pretty bow that gives this latest final chapter a happy ending indeed.
I'm elated to see my kid grow up and grow up well. So the fact that I am practically in the fetal position right now wondering where these past 14 years went...well...that has nothing to do with anything. Why would you even say that?! Stop it! Shut up, OK? Just shut up!!!
(pause)
And we're back.
So. We all miss the past. At least some of the times. Don't we?
That summer at the beach? That girl in high school, the one we now know how we could said the right things to make it work? That college pal who made us feel so alive but who we sadly lost touch with? A few more moments with a Dad or a Mom, or grandfather or grandmother, or a husband or a wife who's no longer here?
Sometimes it's easy to miss the things we once had, the person we once were, the people we once knew. Even as we appreciate everything we now have, all these years later.
Lest this get too maudlin, let's get down to the music. After all, it's Friday! First day of summer! Time to rev up the wayback machine and take a journey on this newest installment of Favorite Song Friday!
Favorite Song Friday - The Kinks - "Young and Innocent Days"
Ray Davies got nostalgia, and all the good and bad it connotes, as well as any rocker ever did, I think. He got the fact that when you put on the rose-colored glasses, lovely as it makes things appear, the picture changes. And when the picture changes, you're not exactly looking at the thing you thought you were looking at.
Some of Ray and the Kinks' best songs examined the sweet and sour nature of looking back. Certainly "Waterloo Sunset" did. "Sunny Afternoon" and "Celluloid Heroes" too. Later in their career "Come Dancing" painted a lovely picture of a simpler time now tinged with sadness. And heck, the entire brilliant Muswell Hillbillies album examined the notion from every angle imaginable; looking back, longing for something simpler, afraid to move too far ahead but just as afraid not to. The Kinks got it, no question.
1969's Arthur: Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire was arguably the high point in their string of brilliant records that began with Face to Face and ran through the aforementioned Muswell Hiillbillies. It employed a frequently light touch to deal with some very heavy issues; it was an anti-war record that took a very close look at the British Empire's legacy and wondered just what it was they were fighting for, striving for.
A songs like "Victoria" looked at it under the ironic guise of revved up celebration, whereas "Shangri-La" removed the veneer and faced the cold reality. "Yes Sir No Sir" and the wrenching "Some Mother's Son" are as strong a Vietnam-era statement of war fatigue as any of the time. The marvelous title track admited yep, you were right, we should have known better, but we didn't. And now, as John Lennon once remarked, it's all this.
Then there is today's choice. A lovely, lilting little harpsichord-driven ballad that is exactly what the title indicates: a lookback to those so-called young and innocent days. It's as deep a deep-track as it gets, maybe the least known song on this whole glorious album. But it's as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. It's the simplest song on Arthur, but Lord does it pack a wallop.
I look back on the way I used to look at life
Soft white dreams and sugarcoated outside
It was great, so great
Young and innocent days
I wish my eyes could only see
Everything exactly as it used to be
It's too late, so late
Young and innocent days
I see the lines across your face
Time has done and nothing ever can replace
Those great, so great
Young and innocent days
Young and innocent days
That's it. That's all of it. A gentle little bit of guitar picking to open it up, some unceasingly delicate lead vocals from Ray Davies and (in my opinion) the finest harmonies his brother Dave ever offered. All put in motion by that regal harpsichord that lends an air of high royalty to it all.
And the words. At first it's sweet, as in literally. Ray uses images of candy coating to look back on those great days or yore. "So great" he sings with enough emotion to tell you really means it.
But then...a little bit of reality. By the second verse he realizes he can't go back, no matter how much he wants to. Employing the same rhyme scheme the way great songwriters can, "So great" becomes "Too late." The candy is gone. A hard, real present is all that's here.
And finally, we're old. The dreams have given way to lines across the face, time has stolen away and left us with nothing but memories of, once again, those great young and innocent days. They still look great, "So great," but now they are decidedly of a time that is long, long gone.
Yet despite the simplicity, something in the writing lets us know that yes, Ray gets it. No, they weren't all young and innocent days. But it's nice to think for a moment that maybe they were. Just because the past wasn't as perfect as we'd like to think it was, there was still plenty to recall fondly. And can't that fondness be at the forefront, rather than regret or loss? As Hemingway famously once wrote, "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
It is indeed.
I'm elated to see my kid grow up and grow up well. So the fact that I am practically in the fetal position right now wondering where these past 14 years went...well...that has nothing to do with anything. Why would you even say that?! Stop it! Shut up, OK? Just shut up!!!
(pause)
And we're back.
So. We all miss the past. At least some of the times. Don't we?
That summer at the beach? That girl in high school, the one we now know how we could said the right things to make it work? That college pal who made us feel so alive but who we sadly lost touch with? A few more moments with a Dad or a Mom, or grandfather or grandmother, or a husband or a wife who's no longer here?
Sometimes it's easy to miss the things we once had, the person we once were, the people we once knew. Even as we appreciate everything we now have, all these years later.
Lest this get too maudlin, let's get down to the music. After all, it's Friday! First day of summer! Time to rev up the wayback machine and take a journey on this newest installment of Favorite Song Friday!
Favorite Song Friday - The Kinks - "Young and Innocent Days"
Ray Davies got nostalgia, and all the good and bad it connotes, as well as any rocker ever did, I think. He got the fact that when you put on the rose-colored glasses, lovely as it makes things appear, the picture changes. And when the picture changes, you're not exactly looking at the thing you thought you were looking at.
Some of Ray and the Kinks' best songs examined the sweet and sour nature of looking back. Certainly "Waterloo Sunset" did. "Sunny Afternoon" and "Celluloid Heroes" too. Later in their career "Come Dancing" painted a lovely picture of a simpler time now tinged with sadness. And heck, the entire brilliant Muswell Hillbillies album examined the notion from every angle imaginable; looking back, longing for something simpler, afraid to move too far ahead but just as afraid not to. The Kinks got it, no question.
1969's Arthur: Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire was arguably the high point in their string of brilliant records that began with Face to Face and ran through the aforementioned Muswell Hiillbillies. It employed a frequently light touch to deal with some very heavy issues; it was an anti-war record that took a very close look at the British Empire's legacy and wondered just what it was they were fighting for, striving for.
A songs like "Victoria" looked at it under the ironic guise of revved up celebration, whereas "Shangri-La" removed the veneer and faced the cold reality. "Yes Sir No Sir" and the wrenching "Some Mother's Son" are as strong a Vietnam-era statement of war fatigue as any of the time. The marvelous title track admited yep, you were right, we should have known better, but we didn't. And now, as John Lennon once remarked, it's all this.
Then there is today's choice. A lovely, lilting little harpsichord-driven ballad that is exactly what the title indicates: a lookback to those so-called young and innocent days. It's as deep a deep-track as it gets, maybe the least known song on this whole glorious album. But it's as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. It's the simplest song on Arthur, but Lord does it pack a wallop.
I look back on the way I used to look at life
Soft white dreams and sugarcoated outside
It was great, so great
Young and innocent days
I wish my eyes could only see
Everything exactly as it used to be
It's too late, so late
Young and innocent days
I see the lines across your face
Time has done and nothing ever can replace
Those great, so great
Young and innocent days
Young and innocent days
That's it. That's all of it. A gentle little bit of guitar picking to open it up, some unceasingly delicate lead vocals from Ray Davies and (in my opinion) the finest harmonies his brother Dave ever offered. All put in motion by that regal harpsichord that lends an air of high royalty to it all.
And the words. At first it's sweet, as in literally. Ray uses images of candy coating to look back on those great days or yore. "So great" he sings with enough emotion to tell you really means it.
But then...a little bit of reality. By the second verse he realizes he can't go back, no matter how much he wants to. Employing the same rhyme scheme the way great songwriters can, "So great" becomes "Too late." The candy is gone. A hard, real present is all that's here.
And finally, we're old. The dreams have given way to lines across the face, time has stolen away and left us with nothing but memories of, once again, those great young and innocent days. They still look great, "So great," but now they are decidedly of a time that is long, long gone.
Yet despite the simplicity, something in the writing lets us know that yes, Ray gets it. No, they weren't all young and innocent days. But it's nice to think for a moment that maybe they were. Just because the past wasn't as perfect as we'd like to think it was, there was still plenty to recall fondly. And can't that fondness be at the forefront, rather than regret or loss? As Hemingway famously once wrote, "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
It is indeed.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
The Genius of the Kinks
Remember the 1980s TV show thirtysomething? It was one of the first and the most successful of those early “dramedies,” and a precursor to the many shows that would follow more in the 90s – comedies and dramedies both – that focused more on character and less on plot. From Friends to Ally McBeal to many others, thirtysomething played a role in spawning many popular TV shows that were more about the talk and less about the action.
This isn’t a post about thirtysomething. (For the record, the show could be incredibly whiny and infuriatingly tried too hard to be hip, though it did make for some great television when it was done right.) But this post is more based on one line that came from the show.
The “single” character, Melissa, wants a baby, yet she has no one at the moment to give her one. She complains about this for awhile and a friend suggests a sperm bank. “Even better,” one friend says, “there’s that one in Califorinia that produces all those genius babies!”
“Yeah, but my definition of genius might be different than theirs,” Melissa counters. “What if I wind up with Neil Diamond’s baby?”
(No, this post isn’t about Neil Diamond either. You think I’d do that to you?)
It’s about genius, and the pliable, mercurial definition that can be applied to it. Especially in music. I’ve heard people call Axl Rose a genius and I’ve had to bite my tongue. I have heard Paul McCartney, Brian Wilson, Stevie Wonder and Prince labeled as such and I haven’t argued. I’ve heard Jonathan Richman called one, I’ve even heard Weird Al Yankovic called one. I’ve offered no response to such claims.
Many of my favorite artists, yes, I do believe have achieved a level of musical genius, at least at times. Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, R.E.M., The Who, certainly the Beatles, probably many others could have that argument made for at least portions of their careers.
But here’s one more, not usually brought up right away when talking about musical genius. The Kinks.
This was a brilliant band when at its best, and it had a brilliant and quirky and wholly unique individdle, Ray Davies, leading them. And Ray without question was someone indeed touched by madcap genius at least a few times in his life.
The Kinks burst onto the scene during the first British Invasion in the mid-60s with a sound all their own. Harder, crunchier, more dangerous than anything else coming from the U.K. – not even the Rolling Stones could get nastier in those early years than “You Really Got Me” or “All Day and All of the Night.” The writing was bare and deliberate, and the music was intoxicating. It could also be ridiculously sweet, evocative and funny – “Waterloo Sunset,” “Sunny Afternoon,” “Death of a Clown” and “Til the End of the Day” were just a few examples of what they could do. By 1967 their two most recent albums, Face to Face and Something Else, showed the band firing on all cylinders.
But then they tried something new, and entered into a six-year period where there were few bands, if any, operating with as much consistent innovation and daring as they were. (The Beatles did, sure, until they broke up, and the Rolling Stones did until 1972. But that may be about it.) The Kinks went the way of the concept album.
The Kinks are the Village Green Preservation Society
Arthur (or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire)
Lola versus Powerman and the Moneygoround Part One
Muswell Hillbillies
Everybody’s In Show-Biz
Preservation Acts I and II.
Yes, those were actual album titles. And they all came in a row from 1968 to 1974. And yes, to varying degrees they all worked. And the ones that worked the best (the first four, which along with Face to Face and Something Else stand as the best the band ever did) created some of the era’s greatest music.
They were also all "concept albums," built around common themes that drove the music. Meaning there was a higher degree of difficulty and that the chance of failure—of the concept not working and therefore the project falling apart—was that much greater.
Now, the Kinks didn’t invent the concept album, or even do it the best. The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds is a decent candidate, as is The Beatles Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. But what the Kinks did more than anyone, even The Who (who became known for the concept album with their triple-shot offering of The Who Sell Out, Tommy, and Quadrophenia—and, ironically, Who's Next was the eventual result of an abandoned concept), was refine the idea. They viewed is as an actual means to producing music, rather than just a novel attempt to frame it in a different way. To wit, the Kinks did not simply create a concept and pop in songs that loosely fit it, but rather created great music and built a conceptual skin around it.
And yes, the concepts were at times loose in nature. Village Green is sort of about nostalgia for yesteryear England. Lola is sort of a nasty look at the industry. Muswell Hillbillies is sort of about technology and plasticity getting us away from who we really are. The best concept albums aren’t just, “Here’s 14 songs about why the Vietnam War was wrong.” Rather they have themes that hint at certain points, that drives the listening mind to certain edges and into certain neighborhoods to direct their focus.
(As a matter of fact, on their best-known album, The Who actually showed the danger of wrapping an entire album into one "concept." Tommy's theme boxed them into a corner on good-sized chunks of he music, because they found themselves having to advance a very specific plot about a deaf, dumb and blind boy rather than make the music come first. )
After all, it was the overall feel of the album that mattered the most. As Jon Landau wrote about Bob Dylan’s John Wesley Harding in 1967, there wasn’t one song there specifically about the Vietnam War, “but an awareness of the Vietnam War could be felt all through.”
That’s what the Kinks did on their series of concept albums, and that’s what they did on what I consider their greatest achievement, 1969’s Arthur (or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire).
Arthur is an anti-war album in concept, though no, not every song is about the Vietnam War, which at the time was at its height. Nor is every song about post-World War II England, though that period plays a rol as well. In fact, none of them spefically are. What we have instead are tales of nationalistic reverence (“Victoria”), battlefield dreams (“Some Mother’s Son”), blind faith in our leaders (“Yes Sir No Sir,” “Brainwashed,” “Mr. Churchill Says,” and, yes, "Victoria" too) and longing for days of peace (“Young and Innocent Days,” “Shangri-La”). It all adds up to a meditation on the waste and disillusionment that war of any kind can cause.
Best yet, at least to me, is the closing and title track, “Arthur.”
The song was written for Ray and Dave Davies’ much-older brother-in-law, or at least with him in mind. A great rock-n-roll number with a slight country hint and some of Dave Davies’ finest guitar work, “Arthur” tells the story of a man who has seen a lifetime of war and struggle without the fruits of personal victory once promised, whose life got away from him just as the world he knew got away from him. And what’s worse, he saw this coming and yet could do nothing about it. (“Arthur, it seems you were right all along, don’t you know it?”)
Again, there is nothing in this song about any war specifically, or about anyone dying or being killed for a political or governmental cause. But the personal level of destruction one can feel from a war that won’t end, and from the idea that the world cannot promise you what you once thought it can promise, is everywhere. It’s embodied in a little man named Arthur, a “plain simple man in a plain simple working class position.” Who the world has now passed by. Who once had dreams, but for whom all “hope and glory” are now gone.
Arthur is the genius of Ray Davies and The Kinks operating full throttle, a dissertation on the very nature of destruction and the lessening of those who once believed. The album may fade out amidst rocking, celebratory whoops and hollers, but it’s the empty shell left behind that really tells the story.
This isn’t a post about thirtysomething. (For the record, the show could be incredibly whiny and infuriatingly tried too hard to be hip, though it did make for some great television when it was done right.) But this post is more based on one line that came from the show.
The “single” character, Melissa, wants a baby, yet she has no one at the moment to give her one. She complains about this for awhile and a friend suggests a sperm bank. “Even better,” one friend says, “there’s that one in Califorinia that produces all those genius babies!”
“Yeah, but my definition of genius might be different than theirs,” Melissa counters. “What if I wind up with Neil Diamond’s baby?”
(No, this post isn’t about Neil Diamond either. You think I’d do that to you?)
It’s about genius, and the pliable, mercurial definition that can be applied to it. Especially in music. I’ve heard people call Axl Rose a genius and I’ve had to bite my tongue. I have heard Paul McCartney, Brian Wilson, Stevie Wonder and Prince labeled as such and I haven’t argued. I’ve heard Jonathan Richman called one, I’ve even heard Weird Al Yankovic called one. I’ve offered no response to such claims.
Many of my favorite artists, yes, I do believe have achieved a level of musical genius, at least at times. Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, R.E.M., The Who, certainly the Beatles, probably many others could have that argument made for at least portions of their careers.
But here’s one more, not usually brought up right away when talking about musical genius. The Kinks.
This was a brilliant band when at its best, and it had a brilliant and quirky and wholly unique individdle, Ray Davies, leading them. And Ray without question was someone indeed touched by madcap genius at least a few times in his life.
The Kinks burst onto the scene during the first British Invasion in the mid-60s with a sound all their own. Harder, crunchier, more dangerous than anything else coming from the U.K. – not even the Rolling Stones could get nastier in those early years than “You Really Got Me” or “All Day and All of the Night.” The writing was bare and deliberate, and the music was intoxicating. It could also be ridiculously sweet, evocative and funny – “Waterloo Sunset,” “Sunny Afternoon,” “Death of a Clown” and “Til the End of the Day” were just a few examples of what they could do. By 1967 their two most recent albums, Face to Face and Something Else, showed the band firing on all cylinders.
But then they tried something new, and entered into a six-year period where there were few bands, if any, operating with as much consistent innovation and daring as they were. (The Beatles did, sure, until they broke up, and the Rolling Stones did until 1972. But that may be about it.) The Kinks went the way of the concept album.
The Kinks are the Village Green Preservation Society
Arthur (or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire)
Lola versus Powerman and the Moneygoround Part One
Muswell Hillbillies
Everybody’s In Show-Biz
Preservation Acts I and II.
Yes, those were actual album titles. And they all came in a row from 1968 to 1974. And yes, to varying degrees they all worked. And the ones that worked the best (the first four, which along with Face to Face and Something Else stand as the best the band ever did) created some of the era’s greatest music.
They were also all "concept albums," built around common themes that drove the music. Meaning there was a higher degree of difficulty and that the chance of failure—of the concept not working and therefore the project falling apart—was that much greater.
Now, the Kinks didn’t invent the concept album, or even do it the best. The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds is a decent candidate, as is The Beatles Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. But what the Kinks did more than anyone, even The Who (who became known for the concept album with their triple-shot offering of The Who Sell Out, Tommy, and Quadrophenia—and, ironically, Who's Next was the eventual result of an abandoned concept), was refine the idea. They viewed is as an actual means to producing music, rather than just a novel attempt to frame it in a different way. To wit, the Kinks did not simply create a concept and pop in songs that loosely fit it, but rather created great music and built a conceptual skin around it.
And yes, the concepts were at times loose in nature. Village Green is sort of about nostalgia for yesteryear England. Lola is sort of a nasty look at the industry. Muswell Hillbillies is sort of about technology and plasticity getting us away from who we really are. The best concept albums aren’t just, “Here’s 14 songs about why the Vietnam War was wrong.” Rather they have themes that hint at certain points, that drives the listening mind to certain edges and into certain neighborhoods to direct their focus.
(As a matter of fact, on their best-known album, The Who actually showed the danger of wrapping an entire album into one "concept." Tommy's theme boxed them into a corner on good-sized chunks of he music, because they found themselves having to advance a very specific plot about a deaf, dumb and blind boy rather than make the music come first. )
After all, it was the overall feel of the album that mattered the most. As Jon Landau wrote about Bob Dylan’s John Wesley Harding in 1967, there wasn’t one song there specifically about the Vietnam War, “but an awareness of the Vietnam War could be felt all through.”
That’s what the Kinks did on their series of concept albums, and that’s what they did on what I consider their greatest achievement, 1969’s Arthur (or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire).
Arthur is an anti-war album in concept, though no, not every song is about the Vietnam War, which at the time was at its height. Nor is every song about post-World War II England, though that period plays a rol as well. In fact, none of them spefically are. What we have instead are tales of nationalistic reverence (“Victoria”), battlefield dreams (“Some Mother’s Son”), blind faith in our leaders (“Yes Sir No Sir,” “Brainwashed,” “Mr. Churchill Says,” and, yes, "Victoria" too) and longing for days of peace (“Young and Innocent Days,” “Shangri-La”). It all adds up to a meditation on the waste and disillusionment that war of any kind can cause.
Best yet, at least to me, is the closing and title track, “Arthur.”
The song was written for Ray and Dave Davies’ much-older brother-in-law, or at least with him in mind. A great rock-n-roll number with a slight country hint and some of Dave Davies’ finest guitar work, “Arthur” tells the story of a man who has seen a lifetime of war and struggle without the fruits of personal victory once promised, whose life got away from him just as the world he knew got away from him. And what’s worse, he saw this coming and yet could do nothing about it. (“Arthur, it seems you were right all along, don’t you know it?”)
Again, there is nothing in this song about any war specifically, or about anyone dying or being killed for a political or governmental cause. But the personal level of destruction one can feel from a war that won’t end, and from the idea that the world cannot promise you what you once thought it can promise, is everywhere. It’s embodied in a little man named Arthur, a “plain simple man in a plain simple working class position.” Who the world has now passed by. Who once had dreams, but for whom all “hope and glory” are now gone.
Arthur is the genius of Ray Davies and The Kinks operating full throttle, a dissertation on the very nature of destruction and the lessening of those who once believed. The album may fade out amidst rocking, celebratory whoops and hollers, but it’s the empty shell left behind that really tells the story.
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