the kinks on arthur and finding shangri-la

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by — Posted in The Sixties

AS WE BE­GIN OUR STORY some time in late 1970, the Kinks were in a bit of a bad way. De­spite be­ing one of the pre­mier groups of the British In­va­sion of 1964, they had not reached the Top 40 in the US since mid 1966. Even in their homeland—their own Vil­lage Green, filled with Arthur and mil­lions like him—it had been more than a year since they'd had a hit!

Not that they were mak­ing out as new-fangled "al­bum artists": their LP sales had plum­meted and that they were banned from per­form­ing in the US, hence in­come had be­come an is­sue. Some­thing was needed, some­thing like an­other hit sin­gle and a best-selling al­bum . . .

But first, this ar­ti­cle was orig­i­nally pub­lished as a two-parter ti­tled “now that you've found your shangri-la” in 2013. Here I have re­vised the text (con­ser­v­a­tively) while adding im­ages, some­thing that I did not know how to do two years ago. For record col­lec­tors, please refer to a follow-up ar­ti­cle, "A Discog­ra­phy And Price Guide to the Kinks' Arthur Al­bum And Re­lated Sin­gles."

Arthur: photo of the Kinks 1969.

A village green for the students

My first year of col­lege be­gan in the last quar­ter of 1969—Nixon and Ag­new and Halde­man and Er­lich­man and G. Gor­don und so weiter were just start­ing their reign of error/terror. I was at­tend­ing Wilkes Col­lege in sunny funny Wilkes-Barre, Penn­syl­va­nia, to ring up the ba­sic two years worth of cred­its re­quired for a Bach­e­lor of Arts de­gree. The plan was to then find an ap­pro­pri­ate art school and fin­ish a de­gree in Fine Arts, al­though what I would have done with such a de­gree es­capes me to­day.

Long ago, life was clean—sex was bad and ob­scene, and the rich were so mean. Though I am poor, I am free. For this land, I shall die.

Step for­ward a few months, prob­a­bly June 1970. The lo­ca­tion was some room in one of the smaller build­ings at Wilkes. The “cam­pus” was a pot­pourri of mod­ern, mostly un­at­trac­tive but util­i­tar­ian struc­tures in­ter­spersed with sev­eral lovely old houses/mansions—many built in the 19th century—that had been do­nated to the pur­suit of higher ed­u­ca­tion by lo­cal fam­i­lies of wealth back when uni­ver­sal higher ed­u­ca­tion mat­tered to some Amer­i­can fam­i­lies of wealth.

I went to Wilkes in­stead of straight to art school—which could be among the biggest of the now count­less mis­takes I have made in this life-cycle—because my mother was sec­re­tary to one of the higher-ups in the col­lege. Hence, my tu­ition was free.

So, I took Eng­lish, math, and sci­ence along with the other req­ui­site courses. One of my elec­tives was a pub­lic speak­ing course with a teacher who also taught drama. Un­for­tu­nately, I don't re­call the name of this de­light­ful teacher, ex­cept that she was very cheer­ful and en­cour­ag­ing to all of her students—regardless of the de­gree of their abil­i­ties to wow an au­di­ence.

Wilkes it­self was an odd cam­pus: the col­lege grounds were built on sev­eral city blocks fac­ing one of the world's finest dike systems—constructed with great pride by the US Army Corps of En­gi­neers in 1948. These dykes hold back the Susque­hanna River (most of the time). It was named by the conquerors—er, the settlers—after the Susque­han­nocks, a lo­cal tribe of the Iro­quois peo­ple. 1

There was a stretch of grass and trees be­tween River Street—once the place for the élite to build their mansions—and the dike that runs for sev­eral blocks. The top of the dikes are more than 40 feet above the river's bed and wide enough for a large truck to drive along! The grassy area is quite lovely and a pop­u­lar place for stu­dents to sit in the nice weather and study or take a break from study­ing. In a way, it was our own vil­lage green for the stu­dents and fac­ulty.

Arthur: photo of Weiss Hall at Wilkes College in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.

This is Weiss Hall, do­nated to Wilkes by the Weiss fam­ily decades ago, is used by Wilkes Col­lege to house fe­male stu­dents. It is one of many such struc­tures that make tour­ing Wilkes a pleas­ant ex­pe­ri­ence, even if you are not a stu­dent.

A bummer on the grass

This area holds some in­ter­est­ing mem­o­ries for me: I had my first bum­mer (then hip term for a non-groovy acid ex­pe­ri­ence) on the grass while await­ing a con­cert fea­tur­ing John Sebastian—riding his wave of pop­u­lar­ity due to Wood­stock the movie and still wear­ing that groovy jean vest—and Dave Ma­son, who was less than a house­hold word in the US.

My room­mates Jack and Judy were mov­ing out (and guys, think twice about shar­ing liv­ing quar­ters with a newly mar­ried cou­ple, es­pe­cially when the young bride is sexually/personally in­se­cure) sur­rounded by all these bad vibes and Roach was mov­ing in.

He and I split a hit of bar­rel Or­ange Sun­shine back when the shit on the street was so f*cking po­tent (400 mics? 800? more? who knew!) that we thought it was cut with speed and some said even strych­nine but what­ever it was it could be wicked, man.

Read­ing and sup­pos­edly de­claim­ing Hall­mark greet­ing card verse that made Rod McKuen's po­etry seem down­right dada-esque!

And we were, like, y’know, swap­ping bad en­ergy, pulling grass out of the ground for no rea­son we could ex­plain and when John stopped I started and we were pick­ing up each other's loose ends con­ver­sa­tion­ally, fin­ish­ing each other’s sen­tences and not in non-sequiturs and mak­ing Elaine cry—his Elaine, mine was a few years in the future—because she was so scared by the bad vibes that we were putting off but not un­der­stand­ing we were putting off.

She had never seen John like this and we had to split up to douse the neg­a­tive en­ergy, man, and Roach and Elaine palmed me off on my brother Charles who likes to be called Char­lie but he's al­ways been Charles to me and he took me off their hands and I said to him, “No mat­ter what hap­pens do not let me go home with some hip­py­chick that night of nights no mat­ter how beau­ti­ful she might be!” and mein Gott but they were every­where that night and all so and ready will­ing able but that's an­other story . . .

At the time that the events in this es­say took place, I was in a small room in one of the smaller houses—still a man­sion by most people's standards—and I was there for that speech class.

Arthur: photo of a sheet of blotter acid with Rick Griffin art.

While we East Coast heads were stuck with your nor­mal every­day pills or oc­ca­sion­ally some 'bar­rel' Or­ange Sun­shine, on the West Coast the Broth­er­hood of Eter­nal Love was dis­trib­ut­ing acid on sheets of pa­per. Called blot­ter acid, the il­lus­tra­tion above is a more re­cent ex­am­ple. As much as we would have loved to have had hits of acid with Rick Griffin art, the tech­nol­ogy to do so was not af­ford­able at the time. Most blot­ter acid of the '60s and '70s was plain white or gray pieces of pa­per.

Blasted for final exams

The pub­lic speak­ing class was mostly un­event­ful, un­til the fi­nal two classes for the se­mes­ter, which were oral ex­ams (of course). For the penul­ti­mate class, we were to se­lect works from a printed source au­thored by some­one other than our­selves and present it to the class dra­mat­i­cally.

It was an evening class and so many of the stu­dents were older and had day jobs. These part-time stu­dents were more ma­ture and more se­ri­ous than the full-time co-eds, but they were rather unin­spired if not ac­tu­ally life­less pub­lic speak­ers.

While Berke­ley and UCLA and other schools in large ur­ban ar­eas may have been tin­der boxes for cre­ativ­ity, at Wilkes many of my fel­low pub­lic speak­ing stu­dents be­lieved that an earnest read­ing of the most pur­ple of prose—without in­flec­tion, with­out eye con­tact, with­out hand or arm movement—was good pub­lic speak­ing. It was of­ten like watch­ing a ro­bot at­tempt­ing drama.

An "every­man" oc­cu­pies the role of pro­tag­o­nist with­out be­ing a hero and with­out nec­es­sar­ily be­ing a round or a dy­namic char­ac­ter.

(And I do not mean this to sound as harsh s it prob­a­bly does: stand­ing up in front of an au­di­ence and speak­ing is not easy. That is why most of my fel­low stu­dents were tak­ing the class. But that doesn't mean they were not ro­botic or funny . . .)

And what sev­eral stu­dents chose for that class was a fa­vorite Hall­mark greet­ing card-like bit of verse. As po­etry, this made Rod McK­uen seem down­right dada-esque! 2

I of­ten felt a sort of em­pa­thetic em­bar­rass­ment for the per­son in front of the class un­wit­tingly mak­ing his or her sim­ple read­ing a bit of an ordeal—usually for those of us who had to lis­ten and pre­tend to pay at­ten­tion. I would sneak a peek at the teacher and would see her main­tain­ing the stiffest of up­per lips with an oc­ca­sional cringe.

Not for me. Nosireebob—not when I took cen­ter stage!

By May of '69, I had turned on (but hadn't ex­actly tuned in yet) and found that a cou­ple of hits of good old Mex­i­can weed re­leased the clos­eted Thes­pian within. So, for this class, I brought the in­sert from the re­cently re­leased Kinks al­bum ARTHUR, which fea­tured the spec­tac­u­larly witty lyrics of Ray­mond Dou­glas Davies. 3

Front cover art for the Kinks ARTHUR album.

This is the front cover of ARTHUR, sub­ti­tled "The De­cline And Fall Of The British Em­pire." The nos­tal­gic art­work is by British artist Bob Lawrie.  The jacket is a gate­fold af­fair that folds open into a 12 x 24 inch for­mat with some rather col­or­ful art on the in­ner pan­els (see be­low).

A decline and a fall

So, while my fel­low stu­dents were recit­ing Hall­markian verse-makers, I pre­pared for my per­for­mance by puff­ing on a joint be­fore. The teacher had learned to save me for last, as I was usu­ally dif­fi­cult for the oth­ers to fol­low. This time was no ex­cep­tion. I saun­tered up to the podium and held up a copy of the Kinks' al­bum for every­one to see the album's cover paint­ing, a de­cid­edly Six­ties British piece of pop art by Bob Lawrie.

Davies had scripted a tele­play with nov­el­ist Ju­lian Mitchell for broad­cast on tele­vi­sion in Eng­land. Davies also wrote twelve songs re­lated lyri­cally, mu­si­cally, and con­cep­tu­ally as the sound­track to the play. The tracks worked as an al­bum and prob­a­bly should have been con­sid­ered a song-cycle or as a con­cept al­bum but was called a rock-opera as it fol­lowed Pete Townsend and the Who’s bloated TOMMY by sev­eral month.

The plot re­volves around a not par­tic­u­larly bright Eng­lish­man every­man named Arthur Mor­gan and at­tempts to give a Cliff Notes ver­sion of British his­tory in the 20th cen­tury.

"In lit­er­a­ture and drama, the term every­man has come to mean an or­di­nary in­di­vid­ual, with whom the au­di­ence or reader is sup­posed to be able to iden­tify eas­ily, and who is of­ten placed in ex­tra­or­di­nary cir­cum­stances.

The every­man char­ac­ter is con­structed so that the au­di­ence can imag­ine it­self in the same sit­u­a­tion with­out hav­ing to pos­sess knowl­edge, skills, or abil­i­ties that tran­scend hu­man po­ten­tial. Such char­ac­ters re­act re­al­is­ti­cally in sit­u­a­tions that are of­ten taken for granted with tra­di­tional he­roes.

Al­ter­na­tively, an every­man oc­cu­pies the role of pro­tag­o­nist with­out be­ing a hero and with­out nec­es­sar­ily be­ing a round char­ac­ter or a dy­namic char­ac­ter. In this sce­nario, the every­man is de­vel­oped like a sec­ondary char­ac­ter, but the character's near om­nipres­ence within the nar­ra­tive shifts the fo­cus from char­ac­ter de­vel­op­ment to events and story lines sur­round­ing the char­ac­ter." (Wikipedia)

That Davies uses the idea of Shangri-La iron­i­cally is hope­fully ev­i­dent even to Amer­i­can lis­ten­ers. The term it­self has lit­tle mean­ing to many mem­bers of the post-Boomer gen­er­a­tions. Here is a cap­sule ex­pla­na­tion:

"Shangri-La is a fic­tional place de­scribed in the 1933 novel Lost Hori­zon by James Hilton. He de­scribes Shangri-La as a mys­ti­cal, har­mo­nious val­ley en­closed in the west­ern end of the Kun­lun Moun­tains. Shangri-La has be­come syn­ony­mous with any earthly par­adise, a per­ma­nently happy land, iso­lated from the out­side world." (Wikipedia)

Davies uses Shangri-La metaphor­i­cally and iron­i­cally in the song (see the YouTube video and the lyrics be­low). 4

Interior art on the gatefold jacket for the Kinks ARTHUR album.

On the in­side is an­other Bob Lawrie paint­ing of the fat­test, goofi­est kan­ga­roo that ever hopped this planet—and he's wear­ing box­ing gloves! (An­other ex­am­ple of the Kinks’ rather ob­vi­ous re­jec­tion of so many things swirling psy­che­del­i­cally about them in 1969.)

The cancellation of Arthur

Ac­cord­ing to Davies, “Arthur had a most un­happy his­tory. It was orig­i­nally meant to be a sort of rock op­era, and we got as far as cast­ing (ex­cel­lent di­rec­tor and ac­tors) and find­ing lo­ca­tions and were about to go when the pro­ducer went to a pro­duc­tion meet­ing with­out a proper bud­get, tried to flan­nel his way through it, was im­me­di­ately sussed and the pro­duc­tion pulled. I have never been able to for­give the man.”

Davies was one of the most dis­tinc­tive vo­cal styl­ists of the '60s, play­ing up his British ac­cent and never at­tempt­ing to sound like an ag­ing black Amer­i­can blues­man. On ARTHUR he uses more voices than one can count on the first few lis­ten­ings, many of them with ex­ag­ger­ated ac­cents or com­pletely hammed up. He mixes them with a droll sense of hu­mor and an acute wit.

Victoria loved them all

Back to speech class: es­chew­ing the mi­cro­phone, I stood in front of the podium and be­gan recit­ing the first song on the first side, Vic­to­ria. I was a bit of a ham my­self, and was rather good at em­u­lat­ing others—especially British ac­cents. And the more ex­treme the ac­cent or af­fec­ta­tion, the bet­ter!

In this case, I had Davies down as though I was his Amer­i­can dop­pel­gänger. With­out glanc­ing at the lyric sheet and in an ab­surd British accent—and re­mem­ber that I was quite stoned by this time—I oh so po­litely be­gan: “I was born—lucky me!—in the land that I love . . .” and then re­al­ized I had the sec­ond and first verses mixed up. (No one ever found out.)

Long ago, life was clean,
Sex was bad and ob­scene,
And the rich were so mean.
Stately homes for the lords.
Cro­quet lawns, vil­lage greens.
Vic­to­ria was my queen!

I was born, lucky me, in a land that I love.
Though I am poor, I am free.
When I grow, I shall fight.
For this land I shall die.
Let her sun never set!

Canada to In­dia,
Aus­tralia to Corn­wall,
Sin­ga­pore to Hong Kong.
From the West to the East,
From the rich to the poor,
Vic­to­ria loved them all.

I es­pe­cially loved the sec­ond verse: that be­gins “I was born, lucky me.” It sums up the gung-ho, ju­bi­lantly jin­go­is­tic at­ti­tude of the so-called pa­triot.

Where do I go, sir?

I fol­lowed this with Yes Sir, No Sir, a song about a dimwit­ted re­cruit in the British mil­i­tary. As far as I can tell, the lyrics rep­re­sent three dif­fer­ent speak­ers (two of­fi­cers and a sub­or­di­nate), each with a dif­fer­ent tone and in­to­na­tion to his voice, each with a slightly dif­fer­ent British ac­cent.

Yes, sir—no, sir.
Where do I go, sir?
What do I do, sir?
What do I say?

Yes, sir—no, sir.
Where do I go, Sir?
What do I do, sir?
How do I be­have?

Yes, sir—no, sir.
Per­mis­sion to speak, sir?
Per­mis­sion to breathe, sir?
What do I say?
How do I be­have?
What do I say?

So you think that you've got an am­bi­tion.
Stop your dream­ing and your idle wish­ing.
You're out­side and there ain't no ad­mis­sion to our play.
Pack up your am­bi­tion in your old kit bag.
Soon you’ll be happy with a packet of fags.
Chest out, stom­ach in!
Do what I say!
Do what I say!
Yes, right away!

Yes, sir—no, sir.
Where do I go, sir?
What do I do, sir?
What do I say?

Yes, sir—no, sir.
Per­mis­sion to speak, sir?
Per­mis­sion to breathe, sir?
What do I say?
How do I be­have?
What do I say?

Doesn't mat­ter who you are,
You're there and there you are.
Every­thing is in its place,
Au­thor­ity must be main­tained.
And then we know ex­actly where we are.

Let them feel that they're im­por­tant to the cause.
But let them know that they are fight­ing for their homes.
Just be sure that they're con­tribut­ing their all.
Give the scum a gun and make the bug­ger fight!
And be sure to have de­sert­ers shot on sight!
If he dies we'll send a medal to his wife.

Yes, sir—no, sir.
Please let me die, sir.
I think this life is af­fect­ing my brain.
Yes, sir. No, sir.
Three bags full, sir.
What do I do, sir?
What do I say?
What do I say?
How do I be­have?
What do I say? 

Ray Davies is bril­liant in all three roles—especially the con­de­scend­ing, ef­fete se­nior officer—and I did a more than pass­ing job at im­i­tat­ing him. (And those read­ers fa­mil­iar this track will ap­pre­ci­ate the ef­forts that Davies put into the recita­tion and that I had to fol­low.)

This is your kingdom to command

The teacher gave me a stand­ing ova­tion and re­quested an en­core! I se­lected Some Mother's Son, one of the most mov­ing anti-war lyrics that I had ever heard—and so ap­pro­pri­ate given that Johnson's “quag­mire” in Viet­nam was about to be­come Nixon's fi­asco in Cam­bo­dia, Laos, and Thai­land!

Some mother's son lies in a field.
Some­one has killed some mother's son to­day.
Head blown up by some soldier's gun,
While all the moth­ers stand and wait.
Some mother's son ain't com­ing home to­day.
Some mother's son ain't got no grave.

Two sol­diers fight­ing in a trench:
One sol­dier glances up to see the sun,
And dreams of games he played when he was young.
And then his friend calls out his name;
It stops his dream and as he turns his head,
A sec­ond later he is dead.

Some mother's son lies in a field.
Back home they put his pic­ture in a frame.
But all dead sol­diers look the same.
While all the par­ents stand and wait
To meet their chil­dren com­ing home from school.
Some mother’s son is ly­ing dead.

Some­where, some­one is cry­ing,
Some­one is try­ing to be so brave.
But still the world keeps turn­ing,
Though all the chil­dren have gone away.

Some mother’s son lies in a field.
But in his mother's eyes he looks the same
As on the day he went away.
They put his pic­ture on the wall.
They put flow­ers in the pic­ture frame.
Some mother's mem­ory re­mains . . .

While the other stu­dents had all read their lines from printed ma­te­ri­als, I had the en­tire al­bum mem­o­rized. So where their hands had been en­cum­bered by the pa­pers or books that they had to hold be­fore them, my hands were free to ges­tic­u­late, to un­der­line, to punc­tu­ate. And ges­tic­u­late I did . . .


Arthur: aging hippie cartoon by David Horsey.

Ag­ing hip­pies as seen through the eyes of David Horsey of The Los An­ge­les Times. For­tu­nately, due to be­ing pick­led in acid, I still look like the im­age in the mir­ror . . . sorta.

And the gung-ho jingoistic bullies

I should tell you, I sup­pose, that this was the time in which not only was the in­ner Thes­pian com­ing out, but so was my hid­den hip­pie. My fel­lows in that class were dressed in a man­ner that would not have been out of place in an episode of Leave To Beaver or Ozzie And Har­riet.

Stan­dard gear for me at the time was boot-cut Lee jeans ($3.99 at the Army & Navy Store back when those stores sold mil­i­tary sur­plus and hard-wearing gear for hard-working men and women) over a pair of Frye boots in their nat­u­ral, neu­tral color that I had rubbed oxblood color into them by hand.

My shirts var­ied with what­ever was avail­able but were al­ways open-necked with a neck­lace of multi-colored beads—handmade by me (the neck­lace, not the beads). The top­per was that I had my Un­cle Bill's US Navy lieutenant's dress jacket from the 1950s. As 1969 was also the be­gin­ning of the Nixon ad­min­is­tra­tion and the con­tin­ued es­ca­la­tion of the Viet­nam War into the South­east Asian War.

In protest of the on­go­ing and es­ca­lat­ing war, I tied a black arm­band around the up­per left sleeve of the mil­i­tary dress jacket. This gesture—along with my longish hair—brought me no small amount of grief from the gung-ho jin­go­is­tic bul­lies with their “Love it or leave it” men­tal­ity. Be­ing in­sulted, jeered, chal­lenged, spit upon, and phys­i­cally bul­lied be­came part of my daily life. (I was a wuss back then.)

So, in the out­fit de­scribed above, I stood in front of my class. Stoned. Hav­ing a ball, be­ing Kinky—Hell's Belles!—being Ray­mond Dou­glas Davies for an hour!

White label promo of Reprise pressing of ARTHUR album.

Reprise pressing of ARTHUR album with promotional title strip on front cover..

In the US, Reprise shipped white la­bel promo copies of the al­bum to ra­dio sta­tions around the country—including the few un­der­ground sta­tions in ex­is­tence and the grow­ing num­bers of col­lege ra­dio sta­tions play­ing hip mu­sic for hip stu­dents. Per­haps it worked: Vic­to­ria was the first Kinks sin­gle to make Billboard's Hot 100 since Mr Pleas­ant more than two years be­fore.

Fi­nally, lest I do an in­jus­tice to the other Kinks—they also ex­cel on this al­bum. Af­ter sev­eral years of rather luke­warm rock and roll—don't get me wrong: great songs and great per­for­mances but most of them didn't rock like their pre­vi­ous hits!—the group re­ally swings on every track. In a year filled with fine albums—and an ar­gu­ment could be made that 1969 was the best year ever for rock and pop al­bums—ARTHUR was a stand­out!

Also, while peo­ple tend to prefer lead gui­tarists with out­stand­ing solo­ing styles, I tend to fa­vor the rhythm gui­tarists and ARTHUR is chock­ablock full of strummed gui­tars in both chan­nels. Davies is the lead guitar-player while Ray is cred­ited as rhythm gui­tarist but it seems there are sev­eral lay­ers of Dave over­dubbed on sev­eral tracks. The other two mem­bers were the ever-underrated rhythm sec­tion of John Dal­ton on bass and Mick Avory on drums. 

Cropped image of kangaroo from the interior artwork on the ARTHUR album.

FEA­TURED IM­AGE: The im­age at the top of this page was cropped from the in­ner pan­els of the ARTHUR al­bum. For con­trast in mak­ing the white let­ters of this article's ti­tle stand out, I dark­ened the art of Bob Lawrie.



1   The term Susque­han­nock ap­pears to be Al­go­nquin and means (ap­prox­i­mately) "peo­ple of the Muddy River." This tribe was of­ten re­ferred to as the Con­estoga by Eng­lish set­tlers, al­though I don’t know why.

2   I spend hours won­der­ing about things like how many of the dada artists and po­ets think of dada as dada and how many as Dada? And would Tris­tan Tzara or Hugo Ball have con­nip­tions about me de­scrib­ing some­thing as dada-esque? I know I’ll never know but still I won­der . . .

3   The ti­tle ARTHUR was bad enough for any rock and roll al­bum then or now, but this one was also bur­dened with the cum­ber­some and pos­si­bly off-putting sub-title: THE DE­CLINE AND FALL OF THE BRITISH EM­PIRE.

4   The con­de­scen­sion of the lyrics of Shangri-La was ev­i­dent and agree­able to me at age 18. Now, at 63, I live in a "man­u­fac­tured house" in an "over 55" com­mu­nity and my wife and I think of our forty year old mo­bile as our Shangri-La . . .


2 thoughts on “the kinks on arthur and finding shangri-la

  1. Neal, thanks for your mem­o­ries on Arthur. Went dig­ging & found 24 Kinks LP's with Arthur be­ing one. It is dbl. fold still in shrink wrap but on Cana­dian PYE. The in­sert is of Queen Vic­to­ria with all lyrics on back when you pull record out. In­tro­duced to Kinks on car ra­dio while in HS on way to Moose meat party. It was a Univ. crowd & I was in­ter­ested in the girls, meat was ex­cel­lent. Knocked out by "Dri­ving on Bald Moun­tain" in the car while in a hilly wooded area go­ing to a log cabin..

    1. Glad you en­joyed the ar­ti­cle. The Kinks 1964–1971 are among my fav­er­avest groups ever, but af­ter that it's pretty hit or miss (with more of the lat­ter than I care for). Hop­ing you have an al­bum with DAYS, one of their finest tracks.

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