Wednesday 18 January 2012

X-Raying 'X-Ray' by Ray Davies: Part One

Had to divide this up as it became longer, evolving from an essay into a dissertation. Please excuse the length.

Ray Davies’s decision to write an autobiography seems a peculiar one when it is almost immediately apparent that he just wants to confuse the issue. Which issue? Every issue. The title itself is an enigma.




It’s typical of his sense of humour that he’s called this an ‘Unauthorized Autobiography’, suggesting the following:

1. An acknowledgement that there can be no completely accurate version of events, as everything is subjective; if even his version is not authorized or authoritative, what hope is there for anyone else’s attempt?
2. That the book has not been authorized by the powers that be (the people in grey), the mysterious ‘them’, referred to so often in the text and is therefore more likely to be true.
3. That he is poking fun at the biography industry itself and perhaps other unauthorized biographies of the Kinks.
4. That he recognizes that he isn’t always entirely honest. Or, at least, that there might be some truth in the book but probably not the whole truth. It’s certainly not a straightforward read but we would expect nothing less or more of Ray. Or
5. He’s simply playing with the words because he can.

The main title, 'X-Ray', is also open to interpretation:

1. It implies something that he mentions more than once in the book – that he is no longer the Ray from these stories, that that is an ex-Ray, inevitably changed and alien to the Ray now speaking. After all, ‘the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there’.
2. It gives the impression that he is going beneath the surface of the story, under the skin, like an X-ray, to reveal what is usually hidden. He brings this to the fore again in the final few pages when he has an X-ray of his back fall out of a folder. The problem with this approach is that it sometimes wilfully ignores what is on the surface. I don't think this is a deliberate obfuscation. I think it’s how Ray’s mind works.


Identity crisis or 'Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues'
In his songs, Ray Davies often adopts a persona to present a situation from a particular character’s perspective or writes about a specific character he’s created from his (Ray’s) own perspective and in this book he attempts something similar except that this time he takes on two aspects of his own personality or himself at different stages in life, at least that is what is implied in the Foreword, also called an Introduction. So, he’s the unnamed reporter interviewing the elderly RD as well as RD himself. (For the purpose of this review and to avoid confusion, when I talk about Ray Davies, the author of the book and the frontman of the Kinks, I’ll call him Ray, to distinguish him from the ‘characters’ in the book.) Of course, he’s hiding behind these creations – we can't trust them as each has their own agenda (although naturally we mustn’t forget that, in fact, they’re all Ray’s, that he has a conflicting set of agendas) and admits that what he says/remembers may or may not be true. It’s not so much that the line between fact and fiction is blurred, it’s more that the distinction doesn’t exist. Just as Ray’s songs take up residence in our heads, when the young man listens to his music, this allows RD to enter his subconscious via his dreams and even, in their first meeting, to possess him, as if the only way he can convey to the writer the visceral nature of his experience is to have him go through it (like the fellatio from the groupie or a particularly vicious physical fight with Dave).

And so he’s a detached presence, an observer (as he is in his songs) even in his own life, as if just being himself, telling us about himself, would not be enough. Perhaps this signifies a germ of insecurity. You get the idea that everything he says is considered and his reactions measured.

This use of characters invests the text with a degree of mystery and uncertainty. The reader has to weave a way through the dream sequences and fantasy sections in a quest for the truth of what really happened.

It also allows the reporter to comment on RD’s character (an obsession with breasts, for instance), his opinions wavering between admiring (‘he was still a handsome old boy’) and damning (‘degenerate, sexist weirdo’). We must remember that this is actually Ray passing judgement on himself, which he also does a few pages later, when he declares ‘even as a child, I was a dirty old man’, demonstrating a degree of self-awareness; Ray realises that people might well disapprove of these traits but he doesn’t try to hide or excuse them. Other comments include the way that RD switches accents, one minute ‘pantomime Cockney’, the next well-spoken, Ray perhaps acknowledging that he was the original Mockney. This is particularly apparent in performances from around the punk explosion of 1977, when Ray says ‘I suppose’ after everything and his accent becomes more common, for instance, the way he introduces the next song after this version of ‘Get Back in the Line’ (rather endearing, sort of, I suppose). He has shown a fondness for Cockney rhyming slang in his lyrics – ‘chauffeur-driven jamjar’; ‘two-tone daisy roots’ (‘Sitting in My Hotel’); ‘soaking up that currant bun’ (‘Sitting in the Midday Sun’).

Because of all this, the book poses more questions than it answers. When the reporter ignores some issues and concentrates on others, you get frustrated before realising that these are the matters that Ray wants us to focus on. He’s the puppet master here. But do we really want to know about ‘the girl’ (and whether she is Julie Finkle, although he claims she’s an assimilation of many: ‘Truly, Julie, you're only a name/You could be a Molly or a Sarah-Jane/But if I should never see you again/I'll never forget you, truly’) or would we rather learn about his relationships with the rest of the band, his wife, his family or satisfy more prurient curiosity?

It’s like an Impressionist painting. You’re not given an exact representation of his life, which would probably be impossible but a general impression. That’s all Ray wants you to have. For instance, he leaves you with the idea that he was usually faithful to Rasa, resisting temptation until … he didn’t. But was this the only time? That’s the implication.

Importance of events
So it’s a complex, deliberate form of subterfuge, with the timeline all mixed up so events are hard to follow; more a series of stories related as they occur to him bearing little relation to the actual order in which they happened. I would like to think that the reason for this circumspection is the need for discretion; names might be changed to protect the innocent, as they say, or at least to ensure that the guilty are not easily identifiable.

Some aspects and incidents are covered exhaustively (meetings with lawyers, his confused mental state) or seem to be, like certain characters, representative of what we presume were many similar; others are merely glanced upon. I suppose we have to accept that these are what Ray considers to be the crucial factors in his life, character-building or psyche-forming (the accident that affects his sister Peg, the tragic tale of Rene). What’s worrying about this is where the book ends – 1973 – is this where the original Ray ends?

Dave
This arbitrariness is most apparent in regard to his brother, Dave. We learn a lot about Ray’s state of mind but not much about what Dave is up to, being left with the idea that what Dave did had little effect on Ray (apart from the initial insult of having been born of course) and that occasions when Dave was emotionally desperate did not impinge on Ray’s consciousness although Dave probably did not confide in Ray anyway. This tactic relegates him to a bit-part player in ‘The Ray Davies Show’, a walk-on role with a few lines of dialogue. He’s incredibly vague on Dave’s shenanigans (there is no speculation about why Dave is always in trouble, it just seems to ‘happen’, neither is there any sense that Ray feels at all responsible for his younger sibling bar the line at the beginning ‘I knew that I would always have to protect this interloper’ although I do get the idea that Dave was probably more experienced in the ways of the world than his brother and sexually precocious). Events that have affected and inspired Dave for years are glossed over, with a deal of possibly intentional inaccuracy. So, although Ray seems self-aware (as RD in retrospect), he shows little awareness of others and their problems. We hear more about how Pete Quaife holds a cigarette than we do about Dave’s lost love, Sue, who isn’t even named although RD does recall Nicola, sole arbiter of what was and wasn’t cool in the early days of the Kinks. But it might be that Ray feels he’s mythologised Dave (and their relationship) in song already so why repeat it here? He might expect us to listen to ‘Two Sisters’, ‘Dandy’, ‘Long Way from Home’, ‘All Night Stand’, etc. instead.

I wonder how deliberate this is though, this minimising of other people’s roles in the story. I’ve noticed it with other musicians with inflated egos, how they have a tendency to ignore the contribution of another band member, and once the band has broken up, pretend that they no longer have any interest in what their ex-band mates are doing (Bob Mould of Grant Hart). In refusing to discuss Dave in any concentrated way, Ray denies his importance and downplays his role to ‘other band member’, not acknowledging how integral and to forgive the pun, instrumental, Dave was to the sound of the Kinks. But then again, an autobiography is by its very nature an egocentric proposition so he can't be blamed for that. It’s about him, not Dave. Dave does evince compassion for Ray in 'Kink' though, when Rasa leaves Ray on his birthday, for instance, and when Ray attempts suicide although at other times, Ray can fall off the stage, knock himself out and everyone just laughs.

But perhaps I’m being too hard on Ray. It’s possible that he feels that he could not write about Dave without being overly critical, something that Dave has not been shy of in 'Kink', in which he is sometimes vituperative on the subject of his brother. Discretion might be the better part of valour.

Dave jokes that this book should have been called 'Y-Ray?' Meanwhile Ray claims not to have read 'Kink'. Hmm. He would have to be inhuman not to be curious although it might simply be self-preservation; he might read something that will lead to an even more irretrievable breakdown in their relationship.

Omissions

Perhaps Ray reveals more in the things he doesn’t say, or the incidents he describes at length while getting key details wrong. Is this because he doesn’t care enough about them to get them right? Or did he feel himself too far removed from them? Or does he just think that his rewritten version is better or more exciting and dramatic than the truth?

I get the idea that Ray wants us to believe that he was in control at all times (while Dave was frequently out of control) but this doesn’t sit well with some of the conclusions we may draw and that he seems to want us to draw – for instance, that he may have been deliberately trapped into marriage, the result of a conspiracy. We are given clues but still left with a mystery. I could choose to believe that everything that RD hints may have happened, actually did happen but still be unsure whether his wife was unfaithful, how she received a black eye, etc. (the fact: Rasa had a black eye; the clue: Ray admits he could be violent). Or in whom the possible interloper (the mysterious Barry Fantoni) in the marriage was actually interested: Ray or Rasa. Very intriguing. Like a song lyric or a poem, which we are left to interpret as we please. Much of what we learn has to be teased out of the subtext.

Part Two will follow shortly.

Sunday 1 January 2012

This is my street and I'm never gonna leave it

Took a couple of short tours round Ray and Dave’s old haunts this year, en route to other destinations (plays, gigs etc.); map here

1 September 2011
In town for a gig in the evening, decide to head in early to investigate Highgate, as a Davies-connected area and because we’ve never been there (at least not in daylight). Perhaps we’ll catch sight of Ray. Our preliminary research has been less than rigorous, mainly consisting of watching the ‘I Know Where Ray Davies Lives’ video on YouTube, which is great fun.

Owing to the opposite of forward planning (backward planning otherwise known as retrospect), we end up in Highgate just as Highgate Teas is closing. We’re the sort of people who come to a party and after a couple of hours, put the kettle on so we crave a cup but never mind. Ray has said ‘I always gravitate to where I grew up. I think it is because of the light. In Hampstead, Highgate and Muswell Hill the light is different because of the hills.’ Can't say I notice this today but there certainly are hills and it’s very green for a suburb.

And I miss you most of all
When I see Flowers in the Rain


The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made:
Men scent our fragrance on the air,
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.



Don’t let anyone tell you that Ray still lives in Muswell Hill. Highgate, though nearby, is a different story. Genteel, expensive, exclusive. A bit like Manhattan versus Brooklyn; more Downton than downtown. Even a tramp (apologies if he’s not) on a bench looks quite well-heeled. Residents have included the rich and famous (Jude Law, George Michael, Rod Stewart) so it’s not your average town. Buried at Highgate Cemetery are Karl Marx, Christina Rossetti (quoted above), Malcolm McLaren.

Decide to cross the road to Waterlow Park, supposedly where the promo for ‘Starstruck’ was filmed, in which the whole band look like they’re having a ball. If only they could have stayed that happy. It’s peaceful (I’ll resist the cliché of an oasis of calm, partly because the whole of Highgate seems to be pretty tranquil), except for a small group of teenagers gathered round a bench, smoking and hanging out, trying and failing to impress each other. It’s not your ordinary municipal park, with some disused and neglected tennis courts, some rough grass, a couple of paths and a playground. It has its own website, which tells us that it ‘“was bequeathed to the public by Sir Sidney Waterlow in 1889 as a ‘garden for the gardenless”’. It boasts events, a café, a historic house, exhibitions and ‘supports a number of important ecological habitats and a rich variety of wildlife’ (well I would put has plenty of ponds and plants but still). These are not simply delusions of grandeur. It’s actually grand.

Then we duck into the Duke’s Head and are greeted by the sort of looks the tourists attract when they go into a pub in An American Werewolf in London. Suspicion turns to disbelief when we ask if they do tea. Beat a hasty retreat. Imagine they’re saying in a generic country accent ‘ They bain’t be from roun’ these parts’. So that’s why they call it a village.

That’s all we had time for, before heading back to Camden Town via Archway tube. One day we’ll get to the Archway Tavern although apparently it’s changed a lot since they shot the 'Muswell Hillbillies' cover there.

Strangers on this road we are on
We are not two we are one.



19 December 2011
I’ve made a resolution to look on the bright side of life – nothing to do with Monty Python.

So, it’s December, it’s raining, it’s not exactly warm, it gets dark by three pm and we decide it’s a good day to do some of the Kinks London tour as we’re off to the theatre in the evening.

If you would like to look at some of the places on the tour, including many that we didn’t get to, there’s footage of them on this version of ‘Fortis Green’ by the Spivs, and it has Ray and Dave’s (and Pete's) old school, from which Dave was expelled, formerly the William Grimshaw School, now called Fortismere. Rather a romantic name.

I know that Ray doesn’t like coming South of the river and we Sarf Londoners don’t venture North without misgivings either. They’re different, North Londoners – we think of them as posh, pretentious, rich, trendy, etc. We're more to down to earth, like Mick Avory. I'm sure Mick Avory would agree. They probably think we’re all yobs. Went to a barbecue at a friend’s (North) and learnt that you couldn’t have a barbecue without haloumi. They actually refused to start the barbecue without it. Our friend (being from South London) hadn’t realised this. Someone was despatched to get some. Needless to say, it wasn’t that hard to find. I didn’t even know what haloumi was.

So it’s a train to London Bridge then the Northern Line to Turnpike Lane. Our luck starts here. Part of the ceiling has collapsed in the underground. The luck bit? We weren’t underneath it.

Then, on the train, a man offers me a seat – I must look pregnant or old, unsteady (but this is before the mulled wine) or plain bolshy. No, bright side, remember – he’s just a gentleman.

‘GILLESPIE ROAD’ was the orginal name of Arsenal station when it opened in 1906, later changed to Arsenal (Highbury Hill) before it was renamed after the football ground. 
So I saved all my money
And packed up my clothes,
And I said good-bye to my friends
And my folks back home



Well I know the tube’s expensive but it’s only seven stops or so – perhaps, Ray, the saving, packing and goodbyes were a little on the melodramatic side. Got to love Ray’s imagination. Also when you’re a child, these places do seem to be almost mythical or simply destinations on the Monopoly board, out of reach, no matter how close in reality.

There's gotta be a place for us to meet
I'll call you when I've found it


Then a bus to Tottenham Lane where we’re handily dropped off by the police station and the Lane Café, mooted to be the one on the cover of ‘Working Man’s Café’. This should be the end of the tour (going by the internet) but, like a lot of things in our lives, we decided to do it backwards. Why start at the beginning when you can start at the end? Plus we haven’t had lunch yet. Didn’t expect the place to be so small but anywhere with an all-day, all-in breakfast is fine by me.

I'm the kid with the greasy spoon
Firmly held in my hand


Or anywhere that does vegetable moussaka with chips It takes a while to arrive but we can

Have a cuppa tea

while we wait. Even this tiny caff has haloumi although I think because it’s a Greek place rather than any nod to pretentious North London taste.

Long ago there was a working man
Don't you know we were all working men
And we'd sit and pass the time of day
At the working man's café


There definitely are working men in the café, if they can be identified by donkey jackets and/or fluorescent waistcoats – but not very hard-working men as they’re there all the time we are and we wait a while for our food. They don’t so much pass the time of day as pass the whole day.

Next stop Konk:

And I've got imitation moonlight
Standing underneath the neon sign


which is a beautiful blue one. We wait outside while we try to bully one another into being brave enough to push the buzzer. Lyn gives first but they have ‘clients in’ (am I the only one who thinks this sounds dodgy?) so can't welcome the hoi polloi but the implication is that they might let us in when they don’t – hmm. Maybe worth a try on another day then?

Midhurst Avenue. We come across like we’re casing the area for a burglary later on as we go up one side of the street and then back down the other, apprising the valuables (stopping to look at someone’s ginormous telly – ours is half the size, old and analogue, a little prehistoric by these standards) and checking for alarm systems. So, Lyn goes, ‘Look, there’s a piano’. In character, I reply ‘It’ll be a bugger to shift, though’.

They'll move me up to Muswell Hill tomorrow

Discover that no one in Muswell Hill knows where anything else is in Muswell Hill. I ask two girls what road we’re on (later discover it’s Fortis Green Rd – in fact I’m at the junction where Dave says that Ray and Rasa once had a flat) and they think it might be Muswell Hill Rd but they’re not sure; a guy with a dog asserts that the other road is Muswell Hill High Street. It isn’t. It’s Muswell Hill Broadway. Altogether seems quite affluent – lots of shops, lots of people. Something about the buildings, perhaps the scale of them, bespeaks an old-world elegance, a little gone to seed.

Almost as many charity shops as Sidcup but with North London prices and more designer-type and specialised merchandise (I’m guessing as I wouldn’t know designer gear if it moved in with me) plus a huge range of little shops. Our High Street has little else but charity shops, nail bars and hairdressers for some reason, its demise signalled by the preponderance of huge supermarkets on the outskirts of town.

God save the little shops …

The Clissold Arms is more upmarket than I expected. Hard to imagine the staff tolerating much actual drunkenness these days.
Mum would shout and scream when Dad would come home drunk/When she asked him where he'd been, he'd say ‘Up the Clissold Arms’

It’s actually rather beautiful inside with Christmas lights arranged artistically and old church chairs in the restaurant – more restaurant than pub now (moving with the times), with a garden and a heated terrace. There are huge vases of extravagant flowers on the bar. As we come in, in our soggy Parkas, a Sloane-ish-looking couple, the only people in the Kinks room, talking very loudly, look askance at us. How do they know we’re from South London? Is it that obvious? Must be the Parkas. They make me feel embarrassed when I stop to look at old 45s on pillars, or flyers and articles inlaid in a tabletop.

Of course, it’s right opposite Denmark Terrace. The Davies family could probably have stayed at home and still heard the boys play. No. 6 is a cute little cottage, a much more modest affair than anything in Midhurst Avenue. Resist the temptation to peer into the famous Front Room.

I love the couch with a picture of the band on it. Pete, Dave and Mick are along the back and Ray is on the seat. It seems a little forward (not to mention rude) to sit on Ray’s face (before even being introduced) and churlish to sit with our backs to Dave. I dare Lyn to snog Dave ‘on the couch’ before we leave but two large glasses of mulled wine won't swing it though I am a little unsteady now.

Who thought I would fall, a slave to demon alcohol

On to:

Fortis Green, memories, of days when I was young

Too dark to see much now and very wet. Looks like another rung up the property ladder. Interesting to see how reluctant the boys were to leave their territory to begin with – all their first homes are pretty close to where they grew up. Family ties were strong.

This is my street and I'm never gonna leave it,
And I'm always gonna stay here


Running out of time now so head back

To those bright city lights

One of these days,
I wanna go home,
Visit my friends,
And see all the places that I used to know


It’s not that far, babe and at least you’re on the tube.