On June 1, 1964, Chris Blackwell saw the group while on tour promoting Millie (Small). Chris had formed Island Records two years previously to promote talent from Jamaica. In some cases, where he felt a record had potential to sell beyond his one-man operation, he leased the master to a bigger company, as he had with Millie’s recording of an obscure 1956 R&B 45 by Barbie Gaye. Released on Philips Records’ Fontana imprint, “My Boy Lollipop” became a number two hit. He auditioned The Spencer Davis Group in a hair salon, signed them to Fontana, and released their first record in August 1964.
The band had a unique sound, mostly attributable to Stevie’s (as he was called then) uncanny ability to sound like Ray Charles, but also in its repertoire of country blues. The group performed covers of blues and R&B songs originally recorded by Don Covey, Muddy Waters, Rufus Thomas, Elmore James, Bobby Parker, Ike & Tina Turner, The Coasters, and, of course, Ray Charles. The problem was a number of other bands also sampled the same sources. Their first single, John Lee Hooker’s “Dimples,” had been recorded by The Animals on their first LP. Their third, Brenda Holloway’s “Every Little Bit Hurts,” had also been covered by Small Faces. The bigger problem was The Spencer Davis Group’s first four records had all flopped.
Jackie Edwards was a successful recording artist in his native Jamaica, often referred to as the “Nat King Cole of Jamaica.” Blackwell appreciated his talent, and in 1962 lured him to England to help out at Island. Jackie recorded, wrote songs for himself and other artists, and even delivered boxes of 45s by bus to London’s suburban record stores. Blackwell had him write a song for The Spencer Davis Group.
They liked Jackie’s “Keep On Running,” but didn’t think the ska beat fit their style. “We arranged it with a guitar riff inspired by The Stones’ ‘Satisfaction,’” noted Spencer. Singer Jimmy Cliff attended the recording session, and was so excited he can be heard shouting in the background. Initially rejected by Fontana, it was released in November 1965 and climbed all the way to number one. Even The Beatles sent a congratulatory message. The group was so well thought of that in January 1966 producer Joe Boyd enlisted Steve and Pete to join Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce, and Paul Jones to record three tracks for an Elektra Records multi-artist album titled What’s Shakin’. Billed as Powerhouse, Blackwood insisted Winwood use Steve Anglo as an alias.
“Somebody Help Me,” written by Edwards, followed in the spring and also hit number one. “It was sort-of Beatle-ish in approach,” said Spencer. The group’s summer 1966 single, “When I Come Home,” cowritten by Steve and Jackie, barely missed the Top 10. The band had hits throughout Europe and was especially popular in Germany. Spencer, a German language major, had attended the University of Berlin for a year, and was fluent in German.
The group were now pop stars, with photo spreads in all the music publications. Writers referred to Spencer as “the cute one,” and said he resembled Paul McCartney. Do you recall in the Manfred Mann chapter when Paul Jones talked about the type of movie scripts he and Manfred had been offered? The “sort of Robin Hood musicals with rock groups cast away on desert islands or sent to the moon, horrible stuff like that.” Well, the Spencer Davis group starred in one. In The Ghost Goes Gear the group’s manager turns his haunted house into a tourist attraction. It failed to get distribution in America.
Brooklyn-born soul-drummer-turned-producer Jimmy Miller took over from Blackwell to oversee the group’s next record, “Gimme Some Lovin’.” Spencer: “Muff came up with the riff. I had the melody, but played it in a minor key. Steve suggested we play it in a major key. He went off with a friend and wrote the lyrics.” That said, the throbbing rhythm of the song that provides much of its appeal was appropriated from “A Lot of Love,” a May 1966 45 by soul singer Homer Banks. Although Winwood’s singing rendered the lyrics mostly unintelligible, it hit number two in the UK and became the band’s first Top 10 in America. The next single, “I’m A Man,” was modeled after a descending chord pattern in the chorus of Mel Tormé’s “Comin’ Home Baby.” Steve wrote the music, Jimmy Miller the words.
Steve Winwood had been talking about leaving for months, but with hit after hit, it was easy for the rest of the band to focus on the current success and the demanding work schedule. So, in the spring of 1967, when he announced that he planned to depart following the tour the group was on with The Hollies, it was devastating. Even more so as “I’m A Man” was in the Top 10. “I’m not sure why he left,” Spencer admitted. “We never said, ‘Well, goodbye, it was great working with you.’ I would have liked to because it was great working with Steve. We didn’t even quarrel. Musically, I suppose, Steve was more advanced than me. That might have had a lot to do with it. When Steve expressed his wishes to leave, we had a meeting and the only one who wasn’t there was Steve. It was weird. Blackwell said that he needed time to think.
“He was so young coming into this big thing, maybe he wanted time to grow up or whatever. I don’t know. Muff went with him. I don’t think he relished the idea of sticking around when Steve left. Muff was only an adequate bass player, but he was a pretty good guitarist. He played bass because there wasn’t anybody else. Peter stayed with me.” Muff took a job in A&R at Island Records.
In addition to wanting to stretch musically, Steve complained about how hard he was working, and the discomfort he felt from having to travel in the back of a van for vast distances at night. Spencer referred to 1966 as “the year of minimal sleep.” More than anything else, he probably longed to play and socialize with musicians closer to his age. When he left the group, he was almost nineteen; Spencer was twenty-seven, Pete twenty-four, and Muff twenty-three.
Steve formed Traffic with musicians he met while jamming at Birmingham’s Elbow Room club. Dave Mason was twenty; Jim Capaldi and Chris Wood both twenty-two. All were also from the West Midlands. Mason roadied a bit for The Spencer Davis Group and sang backup on “Gimme Some Lovin’.” Capaldi added percussion to the recording.
Spencer got replacements, good ones, too. (Elton John, then Reg Dwight, showed up for the audition in a milkman’s outfit. According to Spencer: “We didn’t think that was cool.”) The band embarked on a Scandinavian tour in June, but it was never the same. Spencer: “I can pin the demise of The Spencer Davis Group down to a date in July 1969. We were playing in Bellefontaine, Ohio, and I just decided the group was over. Ray Fenwick, Dee Murray, and Nigel Olsen [the latter two became members of Elton John’s band] were in the group then. It came to a head between Ray and myself. I just decided to kill the group myself before it was killed by outside forces. In peoples’ minds there was only one Spencer Davis Group, and that consisted of Steve, Muff, Peter, and myself. They just didn’t allow for the possibility of another Spencer Davis Group.
“I went back to my manager, Peter Walsh, and said, ‘I want to go out on the road with two acoustic guitars and a piano player.’ My manager said, ‘No.’ He said that it wasn’t going to work and he wanted me to go back to the States with the group lineup, and I just dug my heels in. He didn’t give me any support. So I just said ‘fuck it’ and I got out.
“You have to understand one period in my life that I never want to go through again. The days when I used to get up and see the accountant, go and see the lawyer, see this man and that, were all chaotic. I wouldn’t say there was crime involved. It’s just that I hadn’t been paid. Accounts were in terrible condition. On paper I had a lot of money, in the bank I had nothing. Where was it after all those smashes?
“In the meantime, Ray and Peter Walsh decided to take over the group. They wanted my name and were going to send over a group called The Spencer Davis Group without me, and I refused to go along. They said I was ‘bitchy.’ People have been called ugly and horrible things and I didn’t want to get into that. So, the whole idea of going out with an acoustic band was an economic thing as well as an artistic one.” Later in the 1970s, Spencer became a record executive for Island, representing Chris Blackwell’s interests in Cal
ifornia.
Spencer looked back at his original group with fondness: “I loved that band. Pete York to my way of thinking is still one of the finest drummers around. Unfortunately, we never made the States with that lineup. I think it would have been great to have toured the States because, and I’m sticking my neck out, I think Steve never sounded as good with Traffic, Blind Faith, or Air Force, as he did with us. It was a great band.”
The Kinks, Ray Davies & Larry Page The
Teenage Rage
I thought it was unusual when Larry Page suggested a semi-clandestine rendezvous at the Kensington Hilton Hotel. Larry set the meeting for the afternoon, thereby avoiding the expense of hosting me for lunch. He had called me before I left for London in October 1987. He was excited. He had something for me, but he wouldn’t tell me what. Larry zipped into the small car park in his sports car and welcomed me into the passenger seat.
Starting in 1965, ABC aired a Saturday morning animated show of The Beatles as cartoon characters. The Beatles had nothing to do with The Beatles except that their records were featured. Although the series had been voiced by actors, Larry claimed the cassette he was about to play me—a copy of a tape that someone had retrieved from a trash bin—was that of The Beatles themselves reading from the script before they became bored and actors were hired.
As he drove around, with my finely honed ears as a Beatles fan, I could tell it was the actors rehearsing their lines and not John, Paul, George, or Ringo. Surely, as the manager of 1960s hit bands The Kinks and The Troggs, Larry must have crossed paths with The Beatles a number of times. At the very least, having grown up in West London, he could recognize English accents much better than I. In offering to deal the tapes, was he trying to pull one over on this Yank, or did he really believe the voices were The Beatles?
Although born Leonard Davies, he became pop singer Larry Page the Teenage Rage in the mid-1950s. He had released four singles that failed to hit, and was realistic in keeping his day job of packing records at EMI’s Hayes, Middlesex factory as they came down the conveyor belt. On one of his last days, he even prepared his own singles for shipment. Fortified from his experience as a pop performer, he became a behind-the-scenes man, first as a promoter, then as a producer and manager. As he put it, “No one was aware of rock ’n’ roll management. It was theatrical agents managing jugglers. I was aware of an artist’s feelings. I was in a position to look after them.”
Before The Troggs, Larry comanaged The Kinks. He was responsible for arranging a publishing deal with Eddie Kassner and for naming them. Initially the group was called the Ravens. Larry thought a provocative name would get them attention in the crowded pop music world. The term “kinky,” hinting at sexual perversity and outrageous behavior, was in the zeitgeist. It had recently been in the news tied to the Profumo affair, and as a description for The Avengers actress Honor Blackman’s leather outfits (created by fetish clothes designer John Sutcliff).
Unlike his comanagers, he knew his way around the business, and excelled at old-school image making and publicity stunts. He also had a good ear for hits. The Kinks were signed to Pye Records. As the company pressed and distributed Warner Brothers Records in the UK, a reciprocal arrangement was made whereby Warner label Reprise Records released The Kinks’ recordings for the States.
When The Kinks’ “You Really Got Me” blasted from radios in the fall of 1964, listeners were riveted by a unique sound: loud and raw, characterized by a distorted guitar. Although simple, The Kinks’ first hit was a powerful and rhythmically infectious record. I became a fan, and loved their follow up, “All Day and All of the Night,” even more. The sound and drive of the group’s early records caused them in later years to be referred to as “the fathers of heavy metal.”
They looked like characters out of a Charles Dickens novel when performing on such TV shows as Shindig! They were among the less attractive English hit-makers: singer/rhythm guitarist Ray Davies (pronounced Davis) had a gap between his teeth; Ray’s brother, lead guitarist Dave, had the longest hair seen on a boy; bassist Pete Quaife’s hair was short and on the verge of crinkly. Drummer Mick Avory had the good looks of a male model, but he was stuck in the back. In contrast to their facial disparity, the choice of their unhip matching ensembles was perplexing. The red hunting jackets with frilly shirts spilling over seemed from another era, but were nonetheless appealing.
Ray’s voice wasn’t technically good, but he projected a warmth and sensitivity. He had his own style in the same way Bob Dylan had his. In concert they were peculiarly unprofessional: Ray tended to let his guitar dangle rather than enhance the sound by strumming it, and Dave’s intense play was sloppy. At times they traded verbal barbs.
As savvy as Larry Page was, he wasn’t accomplished enough to control the feuding members’ unprofessional and self-destructive behavior. By feuding, I don’t mean that occasional insults were passed among them. This was a band in which fistfights were not uncommon. Shortly before leaving for the group’s US tour, on May 19, 1965, during a concert at the Capitol Theatre in Cardiff, Wales, Dave kicked Mick Avory’s bass drum across the stage. Mick’s frustration at being pushed around culminated in him heaving his high-hat pedal at Dave. Dave went down, drawing blood. Mick thought he had killed him. In fear of arrest, Mick fled the scene, ending the concert.
A month later, Larry was at the end of his rope after a draining afternoon trying to coax Ray out of his Hollywood Bowl dressing room to perform at that evening’s concert. He returned to England, leaving the group in the capable hands of their trusted road manager Sam Curtis. The group felt abandoned and fired Page. For a number of transgressions, the American musicians union banned The Kinks from returning to the States. (In The Kinks’ 1970 album Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround, Part One, their biggest selling non-hits record to that time, Ray expressed his bitterness toward Larry and the original Kinks’ comanagers, by name, in “Moneygoround.”) In April 1998 I saw Ray perform a concert featuring material from The Storyteller LP. As he delivered an account of the early days of The Kinks, he made fun of Larry, impersonating Page’s nasal “Hello Cock” greeting (British slang for “Hello Friend”). Page also surfaces as a character in Sunny Afternoon, Ray’s West End musical based on The Kinks.
As a consequence of being unable to work in America, Ray set his sights on England as a milieu, writing wonderful nostalgic and melodic songs that filled four of The Kinks’ best albums. Unfortunately, three—Face to Face, Something Else, and The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society—sold little more than ten thousand apiece in the States.
John Mendelsohn, writing initially in the UCLA Daily Bruin and later in Rolling Stone, had a lot to do with spreading the word on the magnificence of these little-heard Kinks’ recordings. Warner Brothers hired him to execute a “God Save The Kinks” campaign. In contrast to the rocking sounds and simple messages of the majority of the group’s mid-sixties material, here Ray’s writing was literate and his conception artful.
Ray did not write love songs, or frustrated-by-love songs, but portraits of British society. They contained humor, cynicism, and irony, and were wistful for previous times, going all the way back to the reign of Queen Victoria. Class consciousness was a topic, no doubt aroused by Ray’s exposure to upper-class society through the group’s first managers, Grenville Collins and Robert Wace. At the same time, those hunting jackets gave the impression that The Kinks were members of an upper-class club about to mount horses in chase of a fox. In August 1966 George Harrison got a lot of press for his diatribe against his government’s onerous tax policies directed at high earners—which included rock stars like himself and the other Beatles—in “Taxman,” the lead track from The Beatles’ Revolver. But two months earlier Ray voiced a similar resentment in “Sunny Afternoon,” which became a UK number one hit.
The Kinks were permitted to play in the States again in 1969. I saw their show in the gym at UC Irvine. The admission pric
e was a buck, and The Kinks were paid $1,000. It was exhilarating to finally see them perform, but they were the sloppiest band I had ever experienced. I saw the group nine more times in the 1970s, by which time they were presenting costumed musical plays. The material wasn’t always great, but the shows were the most fun a member of the audience could have, second to seeing Flo & Eddie.
Although The Beatles are my favorite recording act, The Kinks are much closer to my heart. When an artist has a following in the thousands such as The Kinks, one’s bond is more intimate than with an artist who has millions of fans, like The Beatles. It’s not an exclusive or snobbish attitude, but a simpatico one. Noted music writer Paul Williams said he related to each Kinks’ song as “a friend.”
Years later the impact of the early Kinks’ records held their sway. “You Really Got Me” was in my band’s set list during 1972–73. We even rehearsed a B-side, “I’m Not Like Everybody Else.” Later in the seventies, I produced a cover of a US flop, “Till the End of the Day,” with local band the Makers.
In 1965 Page produced an album of orchestrated renditions of Kinks’ songs: Kinky Music by the Larry Page Orchestra. Partly an attempt to get exposure for The Kinks’ compositions (mostly Ray’s), it also followed in the footsteps of similarly orchestrated releases of The Beatles’ and The Rolling Stones’ songs. Page’s concept was hipper, with jazz-styled arrangements. In early 1983, I contacted him to license the album to Rhino for the US market. As it was the rarest Kinks’ (associated) record, I thought that every ardent Kinks’ fan would need this to complete his/her collection. As there were no Kinks’ picture discs, I also issued the album with a striking Kinks’ color photo comprising the A-side. Sales were unimpressive; I had miscalculated the number of hardcore Kinks’ kollectors. Larry got paid, and a relationship developed.
My British Invasion Page 15