R.D. leaned forward again and, watching my reactions, continued in that now familiar, fatherly tone.
‘I was in the situation where I had written five major hit singles that had been successful around the world and I’d had two very successful albums, but apart from a salary of £40 a week, I had no real money. There was certainly not enough to purchase what at the time I considered to be my ideal home in Fortis Green, N2. I quizzed Robert and Grenville about money; they tried to reassure me by saying that I should be a millionaire by now. Probably I should have been; but that was neither here nor there. The unfortunate reality was that this was not reflected in my bank account.
We were all sitting in Boscobel’s office just behind Carnaby Street. Grenville got up from behind his desk and declared: ‘You must become a corporation. A company director. Own all the shares. We’ll find you an accountant.’
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘Then we’ll have to ask your distinguished publisher if he can advance you some money.’
‘But all I want is enough to buy the house!’
Grenville and Robert would hear no more. It was decided that I was fated to become a corporate entity. You see, in the old days, and I guess those could be considered the old days, a publisher signed you, let’s say for the UK territory, then he did deals with the overseas publishers to promote the copyright of the song and collect royalty revenue. It was the general rule that most of the revenue from overseas territories was six to twelve months behind the UK royalties, and even the UK royalties were never released by the record companies until another six to twelve months had elapsed, so even though I had sold substantial amounts of records, hardly any money at all had filtered through the various account departments. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, we must have sold between 5 and 10 million records worldwide, counting singles as well as albums and EPs.
I was told I should take an advance of £9,000 to enable me to purchase the property in Fortis Green and have it deducted from my royalties when they came in. Kassner kept mentioning that he wanted a long-term contract with me. Until now, all my songs had been assigned to his company as they were written and, as I understood it, that’s as far as my commitment to him went. I also assumed that Larry’s disappearance in LA had made Kassner insecure about the position of Denmark Productions, the management company he and Larry owned jointly, but in which he was the majority shareholder. Being the majority shareholder meant that Kassner was entitled not just to the publishing, but to at least 51 per cent of Denmark Productions’ share of all other earnings from the Kinks’ touring and recording income. Nice deal. It was all becoming baffling and unclear to me. I was confused and told Robert and Grenville so. Boscobel knew that they had to make me feel a secure and contented artist.
Robert had been to see a solicitor, Michael Simkins, who was known to be an expert on such intricate contractual matters. After consulting with legal counsel, Simkins concluded that as far as my publishing went, I was a free agent and could sign with any publisher I wished, provided Boscobel waived their rights and gave their consent. Simkins looked in his late twenties, but was already an experienced music lawyer and seasoned campaigner who had probably drafted many such contracts himself. This time, thankfully, he was on my side.
Years later I confronted Wace as to why he had not advised the Kinks to seek a solicitor’s advice before signing the Boscobel contract, Wace said that he had thought there was ‘no need’. No need? Dave was fifteen fucking years old when he signed that contract! I was eighteen and so were Quaife and Avory! No need?
It had been decided that in order to accommodate such vast revenues, if they should ever materialize, I would become a corporation. Wace’s father had used a firm of accountants in the City called MacNair, Mason and Evans. Mr Wace Senior had been particularly impressed by a young chartered accountant, who according to Wace had a dazzling future ahead of him, so on his advice Robert Ransom, this new rising star, became my accountant. Although the sixties had been revolutionary in lots of ways, resulting in many class barriers being broken down, there was still a dividing line between the City, where all the ‘old’ money was handled by established stockbrokers and merchant bankers, and the West End, where the ‘new’ money was being made, mainly through the entertainment and fashion industries, the standard bearers for the new pop culture. Robert Ransom was firmly ensconced in the values of the City whereas Kassner, Page, Pye Records and possibly even Simkins were definitely regarded as West End.
It was decided that a meeting should take place between Ransom, Page and Kassner, with Robert and Grenville in attendance. Ransom sat in Kassner’s office looking unimpressed, listening to the publisher explain how the money would eventually be channelled into my account. From that day forward, I entered the hallowed halls of the corporate world and was re-christened by Corporation House, Ray Davies (Limited). As Ray Davies (Limited) walked away from Denmark Street, accompanied by Mr Ransom and Robert Wace, questions were already being asked by the pin-striped advisor about Kassner’s company. I watched Ransom as he strolled confidently along swinging his hefty leather briefcase, and I listened to his assessment of the financial situation. I felt fortunate indeed to be represented by such a well-respected man.
It was also obvious that I was becoming physically run down, and Rasa was involved in the awesome duties of motherhood, interspersed with bouts of post-natal depression. The management therefore decided that a short holiday would be in order, a chance for me to recharge my batteries after the arduous and controversial American trip, which had resulted in a temporary ban on the Kinks in the USA, pending an investigation by the American Federation of Musicians. It was an opportunity for me and the other members of the band to take a break. For the first time in nearly two years the group would be out of one another’s company.
Rasa and I were booked into the Imperial Hotel in Torquay, a palatial remnant from the heyday of the grand seaside hotel, with palm-court orchestras, health spas, a large residents’ lounge serving cucumber sandwiches, tea and crumpets, cocktails and a golf-course (just in case the beach was considered to be too vulgar). It was as if the young Davies family had been transported back to the golden Victorian age of high tea, servants and chambermaids. My young family stayed in our room for the entire week, only venturing out occasionally to walk down to the seaside promenade where, unrecognized, we could enjoy a plate of fish and chips followed by a large Knickerbocker Glory. One afternoon I was recognized by an upper-class army-officer type and cordially invited to make up a four for a round of golf the following morning. The Davies family promptly checked out of the hotel that night and took the next train back to London.
Soon after this aborted holiday, we moved into the white Regency semi, accompanied by our baby daughter, Louisa. Heaven was a cheque for £1,000 to cover the cost of an upright piano, newly fitted gas central heating, a television set and a three-piece suite. Heaven was Louisa trying to crawl on the Thames-green Wilton carpet as I played my Spanish guitar. Heaven was Louisa in a pram with Rasa pushing it up the shingled driveway. Heaven was to see Rasa smile again. Reality showed how during pregnancy and childbirth a woman loses something from her skin and hair, as if the child has drawn the energy out of her. Heaven is to see some of that coming back: breasts back to normal, if somewhat softer, waist trim, calves bulging.
And while I watched Louisa playing on the Wilton carpet, I started to write ‘A Well-Respected Man’.
Although I had found a safe haven in my little semi in north London, controversy still centred around the Kinks. In particular, Mick’s assault on Dave during the concert in Cardiff earlier that summer; also, rumours had got back through the musical press that the American tour had been an unhappy one, and an indefinite ban was to be imposed on the Kinks (even though the reasons were vague to say the least); and matters were made worse by the fact that Robert and Grenville’s relationship with Larry Page seemed to be deteriorating. The Kinks felt uncomfortable about Page after he had mysteriously disappeared on the US tour. I had still not been forgiven for some remarks I had made in the press, and for my behaviour at the New Musical Express poll-winners’ concert. There were yet further rumours that I had ‘dried up’ as a songwriter, and become a ‘suburbanite’. Robert and Grenville had always known that I was somewhat suburban, but what concerned them now was that my songwriting well may have indeed run dry. Rumours abounded. Even relatives called round to the white semi and inquired whether I had ‘written any songs lately?’
Robert Wace solicited the aid of the famous American songwriter Mort Shuman, thinking that Shuman would inspire me to write more songs. Shuman, along with Doc Pomus, had written many early rock and roll classics for Elvis Presley and for the Drifters, and Robert knew that I was an admirer of his work. After he had visited the Davies household, Shuman, in the manner of a Harley Street specialist crossed with Groucho Marx, gave his assessment. The genial New York songwriter’s professional opinion was that ‘The kid’s just going through a bad patch. He just needs to loosen up and get laid. And the little wife isn’t much of a help, either.’
I had formed my own impressions during the brief visit: there was a distinct feeling of animosity between Rasa and Mort. It was clear that Mort considered that I would work better if the wife and child were not around, and that a suburban house was no place for one of the newly emerging talents in rock and roll. But Mort had completely misread the situation: suburbia was and would always be a major influence in my writing.
The usual record company panic started, and a new album was called for immediately, to dispel all the rumours. The Kinks Kontroversy was recorded and released that autumn, and the first single, ‘Till the End of the Day’, with ‘Where Have All the Good Times Gone’ on the B-side, put the Kinks back on Top of the Pops.
Kontroversy, as it transpired, was an apt name for the album. I took the advice of Michael Simkins and decided to place the new songs with a different publisher. Robert and Grenville were no longer directly involved in my publishing at this stage, but none the less they attended a meeting arranged by Simkins between myself and Freddie Beinstock. Beinstock worked with Belinda Music, the publishing company that controlled and administered Elvis Presley’s publishing, and Talma Motown, among many others. Simkins had done several successful publishing deals with Beinstock, and he thought he would be a suitable person to handle my publishing and who at the same time could appreciate the intricacies of the legal situation I was in. Robert and Grenville were attracted to the offices of Belinda Music because they were located in a grand building in Savile Row. Robert not only considered this a step up from the slightly tawdry surroundings of Denmark Street, but it also meant that he was in easy striking distance of his tailor, situated across the road. The building at 17 Savile Row was also used by the Alberbach family, who were art collectors and related to Freddie Beinstock. They used part of the building to exhibit their paintings. Beinstock’s wife, Miriam, had helped the Ertegun brothers, Ahmet and Nesuhi, form Atlantic Records, which in the early days operated from an apartment in New York, and she was a formidable businesswoman in her own right.
The whole arrangement suited Robert and Grenville’s luxurious standards. The interior of the building, particularly Freddie’s office, was drenched with the trappings of the nouvelle aristocracy: a vast chandelier hung from the ceiling, complementing the Regency furniture and paintings by Francis Bacon alongside sketches by Picasso. Beinstock himself cut a dashing figure with his smartly tailored suit and well-groomed hair. His voice was deep American, with a very heavy European influence, which some of the impressionable secretaries who buzzed in and out of his office found quite sexy. He sounded like Henry Kissinger, and the only indication that he might have come from humble beginnings was the way he played with his cuff-links and continually adjusted his tie as he spoke. His face was long and elegant and his lower lip drooped into a good-humoured grin as he started each conversation with a joke, usually about one of his competitors. All in all I found Beinstock to be a thoroughly attractive man. My first meeting with him was also attended by Simkins. Deals were discussed, legalities were considered, conclusions were drawn and compliments were given on my songwriting abilities. The reputations of other publishers were discussed and it was concluded that Belinda Music would be the ideal publisher for me. It was also proposed by Beinstock, as part of the inducement to sign, that I should receive a slightly higher royalty than Kassner had paid, in the form of a publishing company that I would own. Beinstock sat back in his chair and pondered over a name for the new company.
‘How about Davray in the United Kingdom and the rest of the world and Mondvies in the United States and Canada?’
I sat impassively as Grenville, Robert and Michael Simkins acknowledged Beinstock’s witty word play on my name. All I could think about was the possibility of being not just Ray Davies Limited, but now two further identities.
At the end of the conversation, Beinstock turned to me and asked if I would like an advance. I was astonished that anybody would pay money for work that had not yet been written, and I was thoroughly embarrassed by the situation.
‘How does one put a price on it?’ I mused.
‘How much do you think you are worth?’ inquired Beinstock in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, like a doctor asking a patient the name of his next of kin before telling him he is going to have major surgery.
‘I’m not sure yet, but perhaps if you allow me to take that picture.’ The room fell silent as I pointed to a large painting by Francis Bacon. After a long pause Beinstock regained his composure and said that he would talk to the Aberbachs about that, as they dealt in art; he added apologetically that he only dealt with money.
Grenville and Robert were amazed that I had not asked for an advance; it was quite clear to them that I could have named almost any figure and Beinstock would have paid it. They later put it down to my ‘working-class honesty’.
Concerned that the Kinks’ career was on a definite wane, Pye Records came up with an idea to put out an EP with ‘A Well-Respected Man’ as the main track. I had already assigned the four songs on the album to Kassner Music earlier in the year, before Simkins had advised me that I was under no obligation to do so. The EP was made so quickly that nearly all the songs were recorded in the first take, with the vocal put on at the same time as the back track. This experiment proved to be a successful gamble, and the record Kwiet Kinks not only went to Number 1 in the EP charts, but became one of the largest selling EPs of the time. ‘Well-Respected Man’ was released in America, and to everybody’s surprise got into the American Top 10.
Its success astonished us all, as the lyric was particularly English, and I had abandoned any attempt to Americanize my accent. Perhaps this was the effect the disastrous American tour had had on me. But what I had unwittingly done was put the Kinks into favour with the Ivy League set in America, as well as retaining the normal pop-record-buying audience. The ban imposed on us in the US gave us even more mystique to American audiences. One line in particular both gave ammunition to the critics and set up what was already becoming a loyal and varied audience: ‘And he likes his fags the best’. I had naïvely meant a fag to be either slang for cigarette or, at worst, that the well-respected man had been at public school, where a fag was a boy who was designated to perform the most menial and humiliating tasks, anything from cleaning shoes to warming the toilet seat. But in America at this time, fag meant homosexual. Perhaps I had picked up the word fag during the American tour, and it had remained in my subconscious, but when I referred to fag in ‘A Well-Respected Man’, it was a distinct reference to the never-ending trail of dog ends from the roll-ups that my dad used to leave around the house.
As soon as news broke that I had signed a five-year deal with Belinda Music, a writ was issued by Kassner Music, claiming breach of contract on my part and inducement to cause a breach on the part of Boscobel. It was decided by my advisers and by counsel acting for all parties that until the dispute was resolved, publishing and writing royalties from the sale of any works under the Davies/Belinda deal were to be put in escrow and administered by the law firm of Rubenstein and Nash. In other words, I would receive no money until the law-suit had been resolved. My only source of income which was not affected was the performing-rights income, which comprised royalties from radio and television performances.
But for the moment I was enjoying life in my suburban semi, in between tours of Germany, Holland and Belgium, where the Kinks were particularly popular. The Dutch had taken a liking to the more lyrical songs, such as ‘A Well-Respected Man’, and pirate radio stations like Caroline and Veronica played the Kinks material heavily. We appeared on Ready Steady Go! on the New Year’s Eve special and we performed ‘A Well-Respected Man’ at one minute to midnight. By the time we finished miming the song, it was 1966.
An age of blind, reckless innocence was coming to an end, and an era fraught with litigation, emotional turmoil and paranoia was about to begin. Louisa Davies was seven months old.’