Ray Davies - Americana

The Guardian 80

(Legacy)

Americana presents itself as Ray Davies’ late-flowering masterwork, exploring his lifelong love-hate relationship with the US, with the Jayhawks as his backing band. Strip away this biography, though, and these songs shrivel like raisins. The Deal is a young man’s fantasy of groovy hotels and suntans that lumbers like a first-timer’s attempt. The weedy Good Time Gals sees a wife kindly shrugging away her husband’s Stateside shagabouts. Sha-la-las and bluesy riffs, shoehorned in to sound reflective, just sound naff. There are a few moving moments: The Great Highway’s girl with “bright eyes like wishing wells” reminding you of Davies’ lyrical delicacy, plus Silent Movie’s spoken-word eulogy to Big Star’s Alex Chilton (Chilton told Davies a good song “cheats time and makes you feel safe”). The general mood, though, is one of an Alan Partridge-presented country happy hour, unsuitable all of the day and all of the night.

The Guardian 80

(Sony/Legacy)

The Kinks frontman’s first album of new material in a decade draws on his 2013 memoir, taking as its theme the huge part the United States has played in his life. It’s no sentimental journey. The opening title track may be bathed in a warm country glow, but The Invaders recalls the hostile reception the band drew there in the mid-60s (they were banned from performing by the American Federation of Musicians for four years); and if The Deal is wide-eyed at the outset, it’s cynical by the end. In Poetry – which borrows back from Steve Harley some of what he in part purloined from Davies – the American dream is exposed in all its emptiness. There’s love and awe too, and a great deal of musing about touring and the trouble it causes. Country-rocking backing band the Jayhawks are on top form, and the duet with Karen Grotberg, A Place in Your Heart, is affecting. The cod-Native American field holler of Change for Change and the shuffling, jazzy I’ve Heard That Beat Before are highlights.

Pitchfork 73

As suggested by the title Americana, the former Kinks frontman is a cultural and musical paradox. The most emphatically English of all the British Invasion bandleaders, Britpop’s beloved father argues throughout his new album (and new autobiography by the same name) that he spent much of his band’s 32-year career chasing the American Dream.

Even so, many of the Kinks’ most enduring hits—from 1965’s “A Well Respected Man” to 1977’s “Father Christmas”—drew explicitly from England’s class system, customs, and culture. While nearly every major UK act downplayed their Englishness once psychedelic pop morphed into acid rock, the Kinks defiantly celebrated it with Anglo-specific artistic peaks so out of step with the times they doubled as commercial failures, like ’68’s The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society.

But back in 1964, when Sir Ray and baby brother Dave practically invented heavy metal with “You Really Got Me” and “All Day and All of the Night,” the Kinks were imitating black American bluesmen. Then, when they partnered with master mogul Clive Davis and toured America almost nonstop through the late ’70s and early ’80s, much of their output so aped U.S. arena rock that nearly all of it bombed back home. Principally played by Ray Davies and the Jayhawks, the rowdiest chunks of Americana echo the wild riffs that animated those fist-pumping anthems.

Quoted at length in Americana the book, “The Great Highway” and “Wings of Fantasy” both lyrically and musically recall those road-hog years when Davies aimed to reclaim the mass audience (and dollars) the U.S. establishment denied him during the British Invasion’s reign. Flaunting soupy arrangements of straightforward power chords, these cuts aren’t Americana as the rootsy genre is now defined, but they sure sound American–nearly a Coors ‘n’ tailgate reference away from bro-country.

Yet most of Americana avoids the hammy growling that marred earlier Davies solo records like 2006’s Other People’s Lives and 2007’s Working Man's Café, even though, as the book reveals, some of its songs predate those albums. On the opening title track, Davies so abandons his usual music hall delivery and near-Cockney accent that he’s barely recognizable. Having finally achieved West End success with 2014’s still-running jukebox musical Sunny Afternoon, Davies redirects his theatricality into Americana’s narrative. Like the book, it forgoes chronology as it zigzags from childhood dreams of Wild West buckaroos to delusional Hollywood aspirations; back to the Kinks’ maiden voyage to America, when their long hair and pervy moniker initially marked them more threatening than the Stones; and forward to being shot in 2004 by a mugger nearby his adopted New Orleans home.

No matter where he dwells, Davies remains an outsider, and that alienation unites Americana’s jumble of eras and places. On “Poetry,” he kneels in gratitude at the local KFC for the abundance that corporations bestow upon us. This is Davies in Dylan mode, hyperbolic but as dazzling with prosaic details as his student Jarvis Cocker. And unlike his previous post-Kinks cohorts, the Jayhawks steer clear of Nashville gloss while conjuring the appropriate C&W-tinged folk-rock fare. Keyboardist Karen Grotberg even duets with Davies on “Message from the Road,” evoking the tumbleweed kitsch of Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazelwood while still pulling heartstrings.

Preceded by a quote from the book about his New Orleans neighbor, the late Alex Chilton, “Rock ‘N’ Roll Cowboys” provides the other poignant highlight. It’s a eulogy for rock’s rebels as well the music itself that’s delivered as a bittersweet bluegrass waltz, and it extends a metaphor of the formerly outlaw genre as a vanquished frontier. “Your time’s passed, now everyone asks for your version of history,” he mournfully croons. “Do you live in a dream, or do you live in reality?” He poses the question without answering it himself; there’s no need.