King’s Theatre, Glasgow
Five stars
“Four scruffy working class oiks?” says one of the the posh twits who have just accidentally ended up managing one of the most incendiary musical forces of the 1960s. “It’s the new thing.” So it goes with the history of British pop since some of those oiks first strapped on a guitar. The story of The Kinks is a quintessential part of that history. It is also one that should be required reading at all music industry teach-ins lest a younger generation of wannabe rock stars get caught up in a similar mire. In the case of the Kinks, preternatural talent and working class ambition are put through an industry wringer of success, exploitation, burnout and a residue of cynicism that sits alongside a brilliant and era defining back catalogue.
This is hardly the stuff of dancing in the aisles jukebox musicals, perhaps, but as Edward Hall’s production of Joe Penhall’s script has shown since it was first seen more than a decade ago, it has made something triumphant out of the real life story gifted to them by Ray Davies. Davies, of course, is the songwriting genius and both chronicler and critic of the swinging London he and the Kinks soundtracked so evocatively and so knowingly.
It begins with Davies, his wild child kid brother Dave and their Muswell Hill mates Pete and Mick playing backing band as the Ravens for well-heeled toffs. This immediately shows the inspiration for some of Davies’ thumbnail sketches of those around him such as Well Respected Man and Dedicated Follower of Fashion, both given a low key airing as the songs evolve in Ray’s head from frontline experience. The newly christened Kinks are already a competent beat group before they stumble on what becomes the liberating thrash of You Really Got Me. Watching a re-enactment of how Davies and co found their musical voice is a thrill.
The rollercoaster ride of rock and roll excess and strung-out ennui that follows is delivered in a glorious array of quick fire set-pieces as the band negotiate with parents, managers, unions, loved ones and Americans. This is punctuated by the lead players of Hall’s all singing, all dancing ensemble picking up guitars to become a perfectly observed tribute act, with all the laddish swagger and musical chops required.
As Davies, Danny Horn capture the effete and the self-absorbed sides of his character’s mercurial personality as well as his musical and lyrical drive. This is offset by Oliver Hoare as the more flamboyant Dave, with Harry Curley’s bassist Pete Quaife and Zakarie Stokes as drummer Mick Avery adding plenty of incident and colour. Lisa Wright plays Ray’s first wife Rasa with a mix of toughness and sweetness as one of the major feminine influences on Davies who offset the role call of company men surrounding him.
Penhall’s dialogue leans towards the epigrammatic flourishes of Joe Orton and early Harold Pinter. This is especially so in the set-to’s between band and ever-expanding management of one form or another. Penhall’s script could easily stand alone without the music, but then, without Davies’ songbook there would be very little point.
Surrounded by designer Miriam Buether’s wood panelled wall of speakers, the band play with a clarity that probably wasn’t there in the sixties, while retaining the volume and raw power that gives the music its edge. Horn captures Davies’ vocal mannerisms without ever forcing it, with the songs used at points to drive the play’s action. Using the show’s deliciously cynical title track as a backdrop to England winning the 1966 World Cup while the record tops the charts encapsulates its era’s fleeting optimism, while a barbershop rendition of Days is spine-tingling.
Set between 1962 and 1966, what is remarkable about this almost three-hour show is not only how young the band were, but that it only makes it through the first four years of the band’s professional chartbusting experience. Sunny Afternoon, then, might be regarded as the first act of a musical life that went on to even greater if at times more wayward glories beyond the point where the play ends.
The grand finale comes with a invigorating singalong rendition of what is arguably one of the most subversive songs ever written, as well one of the catchiest. Given that Lola comes from a few years beyond the play’s parameters, it might be getting ahead of things in terms of the rest of the Kinks story. As an exuberant pointer towards the shape of things to come, however, it remains one of rock history’s greatest pieces of myth-making as much as the show it fanfares out towards the future.
The Herald, October 30th 2025
Ends
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