The Kinks’ Autumn Almanac (1967)

May 30, 2020 davewheeler2@hotmail.com Leave a comment

When I look back at this blog’s coverage of influential British rock bands of the sixties, I see that the “big three” of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and The Who have all had their moment in the spotlight. There’s another band of the time, though, that arguably deserves to be counted in a “big four” and that is the band formed in Muswell Hill in 1964 by Ray and Dave Davies, namely The Kinks.

Unlike the aforementioned bands who unarguably achieved the status of international legends of rock, the Kinks never fully capitalised on their opportunities and talents. For example, although the band emerged during the great British rhythm and blues and Merseybeat scenes and joined those bands spearheading the so-called British Invasion of the United States, the constant fighting between the Davies brothers (a pop-cultural forerunner of the Gallagher brothers, if ever there was one) led to a touring ban in 1965.

As well as the volatile relationship between the brothers, the song-writing style of Ray Davies sometimes took the band away from the expected commercial music their contemporaries were striving for. He simply had too much wit and intelligence and eclecticism, drawing on British music hall, folk and country music to inform some of his output. Take 1968’s The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society album: released the same week as the Beatles’ White album, it contained a collection of character studies and meditations on a disappearing English way of life, all brilliantly observed. Sadly, in a commercial world dominated by psychedelia and effects pedals and the Summer of Love, The Kinks had turned down the distortion on Dave’s guitar, and the album sunk without a trace (despite it later becoming established critically as an all-time classic).

Despite such occasional commercial failures, the band remain one of the most influential bands of all time, and you only have to look at the songs to know why. You Really Got Me and All Day and All of the Night basically introduced the idea of the three-chord riff; and did much to turn rock ‘n’ roll into rock. Gloriously melodic, storytelling songs abound: Sunny Afternoon, Waterloo Sunset, Dedicated Follower of Fashion, David Watts, Come Dancing, Lola. A host of future pop stars cited their influence and held them in high esteem (just ask Damon Albarn or Paul Weller).

A personal favourite of mine is Autumn Almanac, a charming vignette of Baroque pop released in 1967; here’s a Top of the Pops appearance to appreciate, and the lyrics below to remind us of just how English-pastoral-romantic Ray Davies could get.

From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar
When the dawn begins to crack, it’s all part of my autumn almanac
Breeze blows leaves of a musty-coloured yellow
So I sweep them in my sack, yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac

Friday evenings, people get together
Hiding from the weather, tea and toasted
Buttered currant buns, can’t compensate
For lack of sun because the summer’s all gone

La la la la, oh my poor rheumatic back
Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
La la la la, oh my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac

I like my football on a Saturday
Roast beef on Sundays, all right
I go to Blackpool for my holidays
Sit in the open sunlight

This is my street and I’m never gonna to leave it
And I’m always gonna to stay here if I live to be ninety-nine
‘Cause all the people I meet, seem to come from my street
And I can’t get away because it’s calling me, come on home
Hear it calling me, come on home

La la la la, oh my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
La la la la, oh my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes
Bop bop bop bop bop, whoa
Bop bop bop bop bop, whoa

Poetry

Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken (1916)

May 15, 2020 davewheeler2@hotmail.com 1 Comment

One positive consequence of the lockdown has been, for me and surely for many others, the re-discovery of the benefits of walking the trails near one’s home. Virtually every day throughout this period I have strode out and delved into the woods, walking wherever the mood takes me and discovering that the myriad of criss-crossing trails allow for a near-infinite choice of different routes to take. Coupled with the coincident good weather and the seasonal blooming of the bluebells, these jaunts have been a source of great pleasure.

Occasionally, I make out a quite faint trail, perhaps once used but for some reason now largely untrodden and overgrown, and I take it, putting me in mind of that famous poem The Road Not Taken by the American Robert Frost, in which he says:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by

This idea of “The Road Not Taken” has taken off in the public imagination and you can find its key lines on mugs, fridge magnets and in greeting cards, and it has an Eat-Pray-Love-style vibe about it. Of course, the first interpretation a reader is likely to leap to, reading the lines above, is one of individualism and self-assertion (“I don’t go with the mainstream, me”), but actually, when you read the poem, it’s not quite that simple: the two ways “equally lay / In leaves no step had trodden black” and “the passing there / Had worn them really about the same”, which is to say, they’re interchangeable. So it’s not really about well-trodden versus untrodden, or going with or against the crowd; it’s a subtler commentary about random choices, about freewill versus determinism. Like in the movie Sliding Doors, some split-second, this-way-or-that-way choices are bound to beget markedly different consequences, but you can never know beforehand which is right. Such is life.

Whatever its interpretation, its genesis actually sprung from a surprisingly literal source. Frost spent the years 1912-1915 in England, where he befriended English-Welsh poet Edward Thomas who, when out walking with Frost, would often regret not having taken a different path and would sigh over what they might have seen and done. Frost liked to tease Thomas: “No matter which road you take, you always sigh and wish you’d taken another!”.

So it’s ironic that Frost initially meant the poem to be somewhat light-hearted when it turned out to be anything but. It’s the hallmark of the true poet, though, to take an everyday experience and transform it into something much more. Frost certainly succeeds in imbuing his short poem with an enigmatic appeal. Here it is in full, and may the roads you choose in life’s journey be the right ones!

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Art

Théophile Steinlen’s Le Chat Noir Poster Art (1896)

May 1, 2020 davewheeler2@hotmail.com Leave a comment

Le Chat Noir (you probably don’t need that translating!) was a 19^th century nightclub in the bohemian district of Montmartre in Paris. It opened in 1881 at 84 Boulevard de Rochechouart by the impresario Rodolphe Salis, and closed, after a sixteen year glory period, in 1897, not long after Salis’ death. It is thought to be the first modern cabaret: a nightclub where the patrons sat at tables and drank alcoholic beverages whilst being entertained by a variety show on stage and a master of ceremonies.

Le Chat Noir soon became popular with poets, singers and musicians, since it offered an ideal venue and opportunity to practice their acts in front of fellow performers and guests. Famous men and women of an artistic bent began to patronise the club, including poet Paul Verlaine, can-can dancer Jane Avril, composers Claude Debussy and Erik Satie, artists Paul Signac and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and many others from the movements of symbolism and the avant garde.

The cabaret also published a weekly magazine (also called Le Chat Noir), featuring literary writings, poetry, political satire, and news from the cabaret and the local art scene. The iconic poster art, which most people will recognise (and a few may even have it in magnet form on their fridge) was by Swiss Art Nouveau artist and printmaker, Théophile Steinlen.

Steinlen was in his early twenties and still developing his skills as a painter when he was encouraged by fellow Swiss artist François Bocion to move to the artistic community of Montmartre. Once there, Steinlen was introduced to the crowd at Le Chat Noir, which led to commissions to do poster art for them and other commercial enterprises. Here’s a selection of his poster art, starting with the famous La Tournée du Chat Noir (produced for when Salis took his cabaret show on tour). All Steinlen’s posters have an enduring appeal, and I’d bet that all of them are familiar to you.