Six years ago, I needed a newer car. My old reliable wasn't so reliable anymore (indeed, soon after making the last payment on the loan I took out to purchase it, the old reliable became a combustible collection of auto parts that, once I'd sold it off in exchange for my new car, promptly died on me). I needed a loan to get this newer car, the car I currently have now. The people at the bank were more than happy to help me set it up, assuring me that in my current employed position (two jobs at the time), I could handle the $289.89 a month (I never figured out why no one ever just rounded it up to 290 even, but hey, what did I know about international banking and finance). Yep, no worries on the making-payments-on-time front.
If you can tell where this is going, kudos: In the interim between then and now, I've gone through a few more jobs, a few months of financial sub-existence (barely getting by on some occasions were it not for family and friends generously excusing my inability to cover my half of any dinner bill or whatnot), and some epic highs around tax return time (followed by epic lows when my car or other things made demands on money that had come back to me from the government). I've been dirt poor and filthy rich (well, not rich, but able to afford more than a pizza slice for lunch, perhaps). I've literally gotten gray hairs over this (well, actually the gray hairs started cropping up when I turned twenty, but still. Gray hairs). And this week, it all came to an end...assuming my calculations are correct.
In the mail this Wednesday, I received a letter from my bank (they're so big, they're all over America. You could call them "Bank of...the United States," perhaps) informing me that what I owed left on my car loan was merely $207 dollars and something sense (again, why not round up?). This letter was post-dated prior to last Friday, when I'd contributed a hundred to the "Please Don't Think I Don't Want to Pay More and On Time, I Just Can't" Fund at the bank. So by my keen reasoning and eager grasp of the financial ways and means of the world, plus counting on my fingers, I deduced that what I owed was around 108 all told. You see how I rounded up?
Yesterday, putting in an extra two dollars for good measure, I paid off my car loan. Or at least the loan; no telling what the interest will be, but still. For all intents and purposes, my car is mine. I can do with it as I please. Hookers and blow will now divert all my funds, of course.
In all seriousness, the exhaustion of this particular stress level on my life is a blessing, be it from God, Allah, Buddha, or Tom Cruise. I have struggled mightily with the payments in the last three years, years that saw me lose the job I loved doing the most because of my own incompetence and propensity to blog about work stuff online (see, now I only do personal stuff. No down side there). There have been times when I was happy for a measly little check because it meant that most of it, but not all, could keep the proverbial Bank Police from coming to my house and taking my car because of late or no payment (then I realized, thanks to a conversation with a loan officer who didn't realize what he'd done, that as long as I made some kind of payment during the month, be it one hundred dollars or one, that the bank really couldn't do more than call me a lot and harass me. Thus the era of staggered payments began). It has been an albatross around my neck, or a weight that while not dead certainly isn't contributing to my overall progress through this bizarre love triangle called life.
Now I can start thinking about grad school, about writing more often (amazing how blocked you can be when you're more worried about money than "Money (That's What I Want)" as covered by the Beatles or "Money" by Pink Floyd). I can look forward to the start of student loan payments should grad school take a while (mercifully only two hundred a month, which I hope and pray I can manage until such time as I can get a seat at the table). Now I can listen to carefree songs about not having a care in the world and know that, while they're bullshit (there will *always* be something or someone to worry you and cause you some grief), sometimes they work out for the best. Now I can embrace my inner hippie (though I despise the notion of hippie-dom for its abandonment of society, as well as the lack of bathing) and enjoy the Grateful Dead, albeit in "greatest hits" album form (not for me the prolonged jams and live recordings that you really do have to be stoned for to enjoy, at least in my opinion). "A Touch of Grey" was the Dead's sole solitary charting hit song, if I remember my pop-music history correctly, and it got to be that way because it was the Eighties and anyone could have a hit song at this point (don't believe me? Two words: Don Johnson. Two other words: Eddie Murphy). But it's a nice, laid-back tune, perfect for driving from the bank after making (what I hope is) my last car payment, on a car that took me to New Orleans and back, a car that I carried my niece around in that time my sister had to go to Six Mile to meet her grandfather on her dad's side for some family business before he postponed and made us feel like we'd rode all that way for naught, and a car that has taken me to look for jobs and to go to jobs that I have enjoyed or hated to varying degrees. It is a part of who I am, this car, and while I don't have a Christine-level obsession with (nor a propensity to fuck it, as in a memorable SNL commercial parody from the past), I do love what it's done for me. And now, barring a miscalculation, it is mine. Now the fun part: shit is going to break down on it, for sure.
But hey, that's when I get a new car, am I right? ;-)
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Saturday, September 14, 2013
The Kinks, "The Village Green Preservation Society"
I am a small-town boy at heart, no matter what my pretensions to worldliness would suggest (and trust me, I have them). This realization occurred to me last year when, on a Sunday afternoon in New Orleans, I stumbled around Bourbon Street not drunk but bewildered by all the plastic penises hanging from souvenir-store windows. Yes, that's right: plastic penises are apparently for sale in New Orleans, even on a Sunday, which is the Lord's day.
That's when I knew I wasn't in Walhalla anymore...
But small-town living has its advantages, to be sure: everyone you meet can't possibly be a stranger, unless you're an unfriendly bastard who lives at home and rarely ventures out to see anything besides the library or the local fast-food place for cheap-ass dinner. I fear that I may have become that unfriendly bastard at various times in my existence in my small corner of the world, but every now and then I take the time to try and expand my small-town horizons.
A small town can be a drag when you're an ambitious kid with dreams of unrealized potential in the arts, a desire to write and be recognized for all your brilliant insights or your grasp of the human condition. Then again, it's a great sample for what ails the world around you, the crush of modernity threatening the core values that you are assured from early on have always been there and always will be, despite the fact (as you learn later) that things sometimes were worse, sometimes better, but always in flux. "Tradition" is a hollow word to me, as it should be to every Southern white person who has any sense about them and knows the real history of this region (and not the version taught in our public schools). I actually know of someone in one of my college-level classes saying that blacks were better off on the plantations, or at least happier there. Because her parents told her that.
But coming from a small town doesn't mean you're doomed to repeat the prejudices and hatreds of that small little place. It can actually be a catalyst for trying to do better in life, aiming to be something more than just the sum of your parts. And when you're from a small town, you have a sense of awe at the wider world around you that (I hope) never really leaves, no matter how long you might end up in a big city or just traveling around, seeing what's out there. I know that, for my sister and brother-in-law and I, we stayed pretty much on Canal Street in the Big Easy in terms of where we went sight-seeing, and while we saw a lot I'm sure we didn't see everything there is to see in New Orleans. When I went to New York in 1997, my high-school drama club got to see the big skyscrapers of Manhattan, but we steered clear of Brooklyn (not yet a hipster paradise). Brooklyn is where one of my idols, Woody Allen, was born, and in Eric Lax's brilliant biography he writes about how Allen (the quintesential New York film-maker) first encountered Manhattan from the relative distance of his neighborhood and how, even though he lived in Manhattan for several decades, he was always in awe of all that it had to offer. I hope, if I ever get to live in a big city (or even a moderate-sized one), that I never get so used to it that I lose that newcomer's sense of awe.
But if I'm to remain a small-towner (like John Mellancamp, perhaps, though with less ex-supermodel wives), I could always get active in local activities such as "teach kids to read!" and "keep the Muslims out!" There is something to the notion that small towns, far from being Andy Taylor-supervised Mayberrys of civic restraint and respect, are actually hotbeds for the sort of intolerance that fuels the figures Ray Davies pokes fun at (or does he?) in this song. The Village Green Preservation Society is shorthand for keeping the past alive at the cost of the present and future. It's a town that has a Civil War monument (believe me, every town in the South has one) and a Hardee's or two. It's a town that begrudgingly welcomes outsiders to do the jobs we don't want to do, but will be damned if those same outsiders can mingle with us in our houses of worship or date our daughters. In the case of the song, the things that the society opposes (Mickey Mouse, among other things) are comical, but the point isn't: small towns can be stultifying and toxic to anyone who dares to be different, even if that difference is simply the desire to get the hell out.
Sometimes, in my darker moods, I feel a little like Jimmy Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life, stuck in Bedford Falls despite every effort to get out (and I don't get Donna Reed as a consolation prize, either). But I have been too harsh on my fellow Walhallians in the past, and Lord knows I ain't walking on water myself. I think that the small-town mentality (be wary of strangers, keep a sharp eye on what's yours, never compromise what's right) can be beneficial, if it's not used maliciously. I could be full of hot air, of course, but I think that I'm lucky to come from a small town, and equally lucky to have seen something of the outside world (even if it's plastic penises). If I ever get to live in a big city, I'll have to discard some of the things that make me a small-town boy. But I hope I retain that sense of awe, even if it's just for a trip to the Big Easy with a return to sleepy Hogwaller awaiting me when it's over.
That's when I knew I wasn't in Walhalla anymore...
But small-town living has its advantages, to be sure: everyone you meet can't possibly be a stranger, unless you're an unfriendly bastard who lives at home and rarely ventures out to see anything besides the library or the local fast-food place for cheap-ass dinner. I fear that I may have become that unfriendly bastard at various times in my existence in my small corner of the world, but every now and then I take the time to try and expand my small-town horizons.
A small town can be a drag when you're an ambitious kid with dreams of unrealized potential in the arts, a desire to write and be recognized for all your brilliant insights or your grasp of the human condition. Then again, it's a great sample for what ails the world around you, the crush of modernity threatening the core values that you are assured from early on have always been there and always will be, despite the fact (as you learn later) that things sometimes were worse, sometimes better, but always in flux. "Tradition" is a hollow word to me, as it should be to every Southern white person who has any sense about them and knows the real history of this region (and not the version taught in our public schools). I actually know of someone in one of my college-level classes saying that blacks were better off on the plantations, or at least happier there. Because her parents told her that.
But coming from a small town doesn't mean you're doomed to repeat the prejudices and hatreds of that small little place. It can actually be a catalyst for trying to do better in life, aiming to be something more than just the sum of your parts. And when you're from a small town, you have a sense of awe at the wider world around you that (I hope) never really leaves, no matter how long you might end up in a big city or just traveling around, seeing what's out there. I know that, for my sister and brother-in-law and I, we stayed pretty much on Canal Street in the Big Easy in terms of where we went sight-seeing, and while we saw a lot I'm sure we didn't see everything there is to see in New Orleans. When I went to New York in 1997, my high-school drama club got to see the big skyscrapers of Manhattan, but we steered clear of Brooklyn (not yet a hipster paradise). Brooklyn is where one of my idols, Woody Allen, was born, and in Eric Lax's brilliant biography he writes about how Allen (the quintesential New York film-maker) first encountered Manhattan from the relative distance of his neighborhood and how, even though he lived in Manhattan for several decades, he was always in awe of all that it had to offer. I hope, if I ever get to live in a big city (or even a moderate-sized one), that I never get so used to it that I lose that newcomer's sense of awe.
But if I'm to remain a small-towner (like John Mellancamp, perhaps, though with less ex-supermodel wives), I could always get active in local activities such as "teach kids to read!" and "keep the Muslims out!" There is something to the notion that small towns, far from being Andy Taylor-supervised Mayberrys of civic restraint and respect, are actually hotbeds for the sort of intolerance that fuels the figures Ray Davies pokes fun at (or does he?) in this song. The Village Green Preservation Society is shorthand for keeping the past alive at the cost of the present and future. It's a town that has a Civil War monument (believe me, every town in the South has one) and a Hardee's or two. It's a town that begrudgingly welcomes outsiders to do the jobs we don't want to do, but will be damned if those same outsiders can mingle with us in our houses of worship or date our daughters. In the case of the song, the things that the society opposes (Mickey Mouse, among other things) are comical, but the point isn't: small towns can be stultifying and toxic to anyone who dares to be different, even if that difference is simply the desire to get the hell out.
Sometimes, in my darker moods, I feel a little like Jimmy Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life, stuck in Bedford Falls despite every effort to get out (and I don't get Donna Reed as a consolation prize, either). But I have been too harsh on my fellow Walhallians in the past, and Lord knows I ain't walking on water myself. I think that the small-town mentality (be wary of strangers, keep a sharp eye on what's yours, never compromise what's right) can be beneficial, if it's not used maliciously. I could be full of hot air, of course, but I think that I'm lucky to come from a small town, and equally lucky to have seen something of the outside world (even if it's plastic penises). If I ever get to live in a big city, I'll have to discard some of the things that make me a small-town boy. But I hope I retain that sense of awe, even if it's just for a trip to the Big Easy with a return to sleepy Hogwaller awaiting me when it's over.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
The Kinks, "Victoria"
First rule of writing exclusively about a particular music artist for more than one blog entry at a time: don't listen to their best-of day in and day out to get the creative juices flowing. I had the "Singles" CD in my car the better part of this past week, and I got tired of the Kinks as far as listening to them for a while. This happens with just about any artist that you overplay, though, so don't doubt my Kinks fandom. I'm just saying I'll be using my mental iPod from now on, at least for a few weeks.
Anyways, I wanted to tackle "Victoria" next because it was actually the genesis of my idea to write about the Kinks in general. Back when the royal baby was on his way (and back before anyone know the sex of the little tot), I began to think of the song "Victoria" as perhaps endemic of the world's seeming obsession with all things royal this past summer. After all, I kept screaming at the TV (and trust me, I didn't seek out wall-to-wall coverage of Will and Kate's bundle of joy; every network or cable news outlet was more than happy to oblige), everyone knows (or should know) that the idea of a monarchy in post-1776 times is just batshit stupid, and besides the Brits have a constitutional monarchy, which is basically there for the sake of tourism. The royal family has about as much real power as George W. Bush did during his "presidency" (zing! Got you again, heartless bastard Dick Cheney!). Imagine if your family was paid to simply appear at places, looking ridiculously decked out, and people took pictures or followed you around with cameras. That's right, the Windsors are Kardashians with less body hair.
But deep down, in a part of me that doesn't come to the surface often (because I am of course opposed to the idea of any kind of hierarchial system which promotes people over others simply by matter of birth), I have to admit that I'm a little interested in the idea of people being born to rule, even if I don't agree with the principle. Back when I was a wee lad, reading encycolopedias for fun, I'd often stumble across the entries for kings, emperors, Roman guys who ruled for maybe a month and a half, anyone who ever found themselves not democratically elected to office (basically every dictator ever) and become fixated on the birth- and death-dates, the time they came to power and the circumstances under which they lost it (natural causes or a jealous son who was eager to get control so that he could hold gladiatorial contests and punish Russell Crowe? The world has to know). I've always retained that sort of interest (I wouldn't call it "morbid fascination," though you might), whether it's kings and queens or rock stars who OD'ed early into the reunion tour that they were hesitant about in the first place. I like figuring out if someone who died in 2013 died before or after their birthday during that year (I like figuring out exactly how old they were, maybe not down to the hour but at least to the day or month). I'm enough of an immature person sometimes that I can't help but snicker when someone dies at the age of sixty-nine. Perhaps I'm just a terrible person.
But I do not "like" the royals of any country, because I don't like the idea of anyone giving themselves carte blanche to rule over people without being held accountable (though of course, you could always have a French Revolution or two to settle the balance). I come from the middle class, or at least the lower rung of that, and certainly some of my dislike is based on the inherent mendacity that comes with seeing someone better off than yourself (or perceiving them to be carefree, though rich people have their problems too; they're just easier to buy off) and envying them. But there's that whole notion, first proposed in Grendel, that basically says kings are the guys who, in a contest over a field or piece of land, have either the cash to buy off the other person or the stones to simply murder them, then claim "divine right of kings." That doesn't sit well with me, as an American and a punk-rock fan. Hatred of wealth and privilege can be corrosive, of course, and I wouldn't suggest a Romanov-style farewell to the Windsors. But maybe we could tone down on the number of royal correspondents (i.e., people who dress really extravagently to be interviewed in their posh country homes) who come out of the woodworks every time Kate Middleton has a contraction.
Like I said, though, I have been known to be a "people in power behaving badly" junkie, and I find it hard to trump the ancient Romans (basically, everyone after Commodus is either bloodthirsty, idiotic, or delusional. What's amazing is that the empire survived Joaquin Phoenix in the first place and stuck around for at least two hundred more years to boot). But the Windsors (real name: something German and hard to pronounce) aren't far off the crazy mark. For every George VI who was an inspiring leader during WWII (and played to perfection by Colin Firth), there's your Edward VII (I think that's the number, anyway the one before George) who abdicates to be with an American woman and oh yeah might have been a Nazi sympathizer. George III went batshit crazy sometime after losing the Colonies in America, and Victoria gave her name to an era in which no one apparently had sex or thought bad things (people did die of tuberculosis, of course, mostly female novelists and entire ships' crews of Arctic explorers). Like Elvis Costello with "Veronica," the Kinks recall this bygone era with tongue-in-cheek, but not at anyone's particular expense. While Costello is the one punk forefather who continues to make significant music and thus unlikely to be on Elizabeth II's knighthood list (no doubt because of the one time Johnny Rotten made that whole song about her being a heartless bitch, or the fact that the Smiths envisioned an England in which the Queen is dead), Ray Davies might get by if he hasn't already. Elizabeth will hear his quaint tales of provincial life, and she'll enjoy the genuine toe-tapping rhythm of this song. But while she's about to bestow the title of Lord upon him, she won't notice the wry smile of Ray Davies pulling another one on the English upper class. That's my hope, anyway; can you imagine anyone in pop music actually *liking* the royal family?
Oh wait, I forgot about the twat everyone now calls "Sir Paul" ;-)
Anyways, I wanted to tackle "Victoria" next because it was actually the genesis of my idea to write about the Kinks in general. Back when the royal baby was on his way (and back before anyone know the sex of the little tot), I began to think of the song "Victoria" as perhaps endemic of the world's seeming obsession with all things royal this past summer. After all, I kept screaming at the TV (and trust me, I didn't seek out wall-to-wall coverage of Will and Kate's bundle of joy; every network or cable news outlet was more than happy to oblige), everyone knows (or should know) that the idea of a monarchy in post-1776 times is just batshit stupid, and besides the Brits have a constitutional monarchy, which is basically there for the sake of tourism. The royal family has about as much real power as George W. Bush did during his "presidency" (zing! Got you again, heartless bastard Dick Cheney!). Imagine if your family was paid to simply appear at places, looking ridiculously decked out, and people took pictures or followed you around with cameras. That's right, the Windsors are Kardashians with less body hair.
But deep down, in a part of me that doesn't come to the surface often (because I am of course opposed to the idea of any kind of hierarchial system which promotes people over others simply by matter of birth), I have to admit that I'm a little interested in the idea of people being born to rule, even if I don't agree with the principle. Back when I was a wee lad, reading encycolopedias for fun, I'd often stumble across the entries for kings, emperors, Roman guys who ruled for maybe a month and a half, anyone who ever found themselves not democratically elected to office (basically every dictator ever) and become fixated on the birth- and death-dates, the time they came to power and the circumstances under which they lost it (natural causes or a jealous son who was eager to get control so that he could hold gladiatorial contests and punish Russell Crowe? The world has to know). I've always retained that sort of interest (I wouldn't call it "morbid fascination," though you might), whether it's kings and queens or rock stars who OD'ed early into the reunion tour that they were hesitant about in the first place. I like figuring out if someone who died in 2013 died before or after their birthday during that year (I like figuring out exactly how old they were, maybe not down to the hour but at least to the day or month). I'm enough of an immature person sometimes that I can't help but snicker when someone dies at the age of sixty-nine. Perhaps I'm just a terrible person.
But I do not "like" the royals of any country, because I don't like the idea of anyone giving themselves carte blanche to rule over people without being held accountable (though of course, you could always have a French Revolution or two to settle the balance). I come from the middle class, or at least the lower rung of that, and certainly some of my dislike is based on the inherent mendacity that comes with seeing someone better off than yourself (or perceiving them to be carefree, though rich people have their problems too; they're just easier to buy off) and envying them. But there's that whole notion, first proposed in Grendel, that basically says kings are the guys who, in a contest over a field or piece of land, have either the cash to buy off the other person or the stones to simply murder them, then claim "divine right of kings." That doesn't sit well with me, as an American and a punk-rock fan. Hatred of wealth and privilege can be corrosive, of course, and I wouldn't suggest a Romanov-style farewell to the Windsors. But maybe we could tone down on the number of royal correspondents (i.e., people who dress really extravagently to be interviewed in their posh country homes) who come out of the woodworks every time Kate Middleton has a contraction.
Like I said, though, I have been known to be a "people in power behaving badly" junkie, and I find it hard to trump the ancient Romans (basically, everyone after Commodus is either bloodthirsty, idiotic, or delusional. What's amazing is that the empire survived Joaquin Phoenix in the first place and stuck around for at least two hundred more years to boot). But the Windsors (real name: something German and hard to pronounce) aren't far off the crazy mark. For every George VI who was an inspiring leader during WWII (and played to perfection by Colin Firth), there's your Edward VII (I think that's the number, anyway the one before George) who abdicates to be with an American woman and oh yeah might have been a Nazi sympathizer. George III went batshit crazy sometime after losing the Colonies in America, and Victoria gave her name to an era in which no one apparently had sex or thought bad things (people did die of tuberculosis, of course, mostly female novelists and entire ships' crews of Arctic explorers). Like Elvis Costello with "Veronica," the Kinks recall this bygone era with tongue-in-cheek, but not at anyone's particular expense. While Costello is the one punk forefather who continues to make significant music and thus unlikely to be on Elizabeth II's knighthood list (no doubt because of the one time Johnny Rotten made that whole song about her being a heartless bitch, or the fact that the Smiths envisioned an England in which the Queen is dead), Ray Davies might get by if he hasn't already. Elizabeth will hear his quaint tales of provincial life, and she'll enjoy the genuine toe-tapping rhythm of this song. But while she's about to bestow the title of Lord upon him, she won't notice the wry smile of Ray Davies pulling another one on the English upper class. That's my hope, anyway; can you imagine anyone in pop music actually *liking* the royal family?
Oh wait, I forgot about the twat everyone now calls "Sir Paul" ;-)
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
The Kinks, "A Well Respected Man"
It's hard for me to pick just one Kinks song to write about for this blog, and I'm toying with the idea of devoting more posts to individual songs because Ray Davies is just so freaking brilliant that you can't just talk about one of his songs. But assuming that the "Kinks-a-palooza" runs out of steam before it gets out of the station, I think I've got a good one here to sum up why the Kinks rock.
There's quite a few things that I consider distinctly English: Shakespeare, Jane Austen, those novels of Graham Greene's that are set in England (though the expat novels do a good job in carrying Englishness around the world), and the songwriting career of Ray Davies. When the Kinks started in 1964, they came over to America as part of the "British Invasion," but an issue with their travel visas kept them from touring the States between 1965 and 1968. And while you could easily see an American blues/R&B influence in most British rock acts (with an acknowledgement of many of those band's members' Irish heritage mixed in as well), the Kinks never really seemed anything other than English kids, talking about life in England, with a respect for the fact that America was "the tops" in terms of pop culture but not really embracing the idea that they had to forsake their Englishness for success. Let the Yardbirds and the Stones eulogize dead bluesmen; the Kinks would rather sing about Queen Victoria and tea with the parents.
Of course, a mere surface reading of the Kinks' most famous songs would seem to yield the notion that they were fuddy-duddys, adults in a kid's world who distrusted "fun" and "illegal narcotics" because that got in the way of football or fashion. Then again, you should be clued in by Ray's playful vocals that he's in on a joke at the central figure's expense, especially in "A Well Respected Man." If the lyrics don't give it away, the very brilliant opening riff by Ray's brother Dave is a tip-off that some well-intentioned satire is about to be underway.
When I was first getting into British rock of the 1960s, the Kinks were sorta like the odd men out; they went to art school like the Who, but there was nothing "maximum R&B" about their sound (apart from the first song that got them noticed, "You Really Got Me"). If they had Irish blood in them like the Beatles or the Stones, they didn't advertise it much. Their very image, of dandy Edwardian-types lost in the melee of pop-music-crazy Britain and its fashion-conscious "mods," wasn't likely to inspire hero worship from red-blooded American males. But there was something just a little off about them that appealed to me. I loved the Beatles and the Who, but the Kinks were kind of a guilty pleasure, as English as English rock and roll could get.
"A Well Respected Man" may well be the highpoint of their Sixties career (they carried on, off and on, through the Seventies and Eighties before the Davies brothers couldn't stand one another anymore and called it a day in the Nineties). Other candidates might come to mind amongst Kinks-krazies, but for me everything that makes the Kinks so frustratingly fun to love (their refusal to abandon what they know, which was English provincial life and the class structure that dominated it, while tweaking their nose at the well-respected man who sounds like a mama's boy and a basket case of unacknowledged lust: "He adores the girl next door/'cause he's dying to get at her"). Their gift is in crafting lovingly amusing portraits of small-town people whose lives revolve around the telly or whatever social clubs they belong to, with nary a thought for the tumult in the world around them. Maybe that's the key to their timelessness, the lack of timeliness in their most well-known songs. Mick and the boys might be street-fightin' men, but Ray would prefer to thumb through his autumn almanac and take a holiday.
I might just have to return to the Kinks again at some point, violating the now somewhat arbitrary rules of the premise that Jonathan Garren established sometime last year (back then, of course, I had a working iPod and iTunes library, so a lot has changed about how the songs get picked anyway. Why not repeat an artist or two?). I don't have much in my record collection beyond the BBC Sessions CDs and their "Singles" release, but those really have plenty that I can cover, from "Waterloo Sunset" to "Lola." Yep, I'm not done with the Kinks yet, so expect something else by Ray Davies to crop up in the next update which I know you are all breathlessly awaiting...
There's quite a few things that I consider distinctly English: Shakespeare, Jane Austen, those novels of Graham Greene's that are set in England (though the expat novels do a good job in carrying Englishness around the world), and the songwriting career of Ray Davies. When the Kinks started in 1964, they came over to America as part of the "British Invasion," but an issue with their travel visas kept them from touring the States between 1965 and 1968. And while you could easily see an American blues/R&B influence in most British rock acts (with an acknowledgement of many of those band's members' Irish heritage mixed in as well), the Kinks never really seemed anything other than English kids, talking about life in England, with a respect for the fact that America was "the tops" in terms of pop culture but not really embracing the idea that they had to forsake their Englishness for success. Let the Yardbirds and the Stones eulogize dead bluesmen; the Kinks would rather sing about Queen Victoria and tea with the parents.
Of course, a mere surface reading of the Kinks' most famous songs would seem to yield the notion that they were fuddy-duddys, adults in a kid's world who distrusted "fun" and "illegal narcotics" because that got in the way of football or fashion. Then again, you should be clued in by Ray's playful vocals that he's in on a joke at the central figure's expense, especially in "A Well Respected Man." If the lyrics don't give it away, the very brilliant opening riff by Ray's brother Dave is a tip-off that some well-intentioned satire is about to be underway.
When I was first getting into British rock of the 1960s, the Kinks were sorta like the odd men out; they went to art school like the Who, but there was nothing "maximum R&B" about their sound (apart from the first song that got them noticed, "You Really Got Me"). If they had Irish blood in them like the Beatles or the Stones, they didn't advertise it much. Their very image, of dandy Edwardian-types lost in the melee of pop-music-crazy Britain and its fashion-conscious "mods," wasn't likely to inspire hero worship from red-blooded American males. But there was something just a little off about them that appealed to me. I loved the Beatles and the Who, but the Kinks were kind of a guilty pleasure, as English as English rock and roll could get.
"A Well Respected Man" may well be the highpoint of their Sixties career (they carried on, off and on, through the Seventies and Eighties before the Davies brothers couldn't stand one another anymore and called it a day in the Nineties). Other candidates might come to mind amongst Kinks-krazies, but for me everything that makes the Kinks so frustratingly fun to love (their refusal to abandon what they know, which was English provincial life and the class structure that dominated it, while tweaking their nose at the well-respected man who sounds like a mama's boy and a basket case of unacknowledged lust: "He adores the girl next door/'cause he's dying to get at her"). Their gift is in crafting lovingly amusing portraits of small-town people whose lives revolve around the telly or whatever social clubs they belong to, with nary a thought for the tumult in the world around them. Maybe that's the key to their timelessness, the lack of timeliness in their most well-known songs. Mick and the boys might be street-fightin' men, but Ray would prefer to thumb through his autumn almanac and take a holiday.
I might just have to return to the Kinks again at some point, violating the now somewhat arbitrary rules of the premise that Jonathan Garren established sometime last year (back then, of course, I had a working iPod and iTunes library, so a lot has changed about how the songs get picked anyway. Why not repeat an artist or two?). I don't have much in my record collection beyond the BBC Sessions CDs and their "Singles" release, but those really have plenty that I can cover, from "Waterloo Sunset" to "Lola." Yep, I'm not done with the Kinks yet, so expect something else by Ray Davies to crop up in the next update which I know you are all breathlessly awaiting...
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