"Get Back In Line" / The Kinks

Oh, I'm NOT going to write about "Lola." I am grateful to that song for resurrecting the Kinks' US popularity in 1971; and yeah, I'll sing along lustily when Ray performs it in concert. But it's been overplayed and I'm tired of it. I hate the fact it's one of the few Kinks songs that most people know.

And there are so many better songs on Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround Part One. (Crazy title, hunh?) One of the first Kinks albums I ever owned, its songs are deeply imprinted in my brain. I've already written about two of them, Strangers and Apeman. But for today's designated album, I had to write about "Get Back In Line."



A lot of Lola v Powerman's satire about the music business went right over my head as a kid -- I'd never been to "Denmark Street," had never read NME or Melody Maker or watched "Top of the Pops" on TV; I had no idea who those guys were in "The Moneygoround" (Robert? Larry? Grenville?). Not that that stopped me from loving those snappy comic gems. Nestled amidst them, however, "Get Back In Line" always stole my heart. I'd seen all those gritty black-and-white 1960s British working-class movies, like "This Sporting Life" and "Saturday Night and Sunday Morning"; just like their working-class protagonists, Ray's aspiring musician goes glumly to the labour exchange, hoping to get a job. (Okay, it's a recording gig as a session man, perhaps, not a backbreaking day in the mines, but STILL, it feels menial to him.) With its plodding melody, bucketing drums, and Salvation-Army-style organ, it's like a snapshot of workers hunched in shabby overcoats, shuffling along a sooty brick wall.

Ray Davies has never done a day's hard labor himself, but it was all around him growing up, especially in the austerity of 1950s Britain. Unemployment was on his mind five years earlier, when he wrote the jaunty but dark "Dead End Street"; on this song his empathy with the working man has become gentler, more tender. "Facing the world ain't easy / When there isn't anything going," he remarks wistfully in verse one; "Standing at the corner waiting / Watching time go by." Hopelessness, male pride, and mind-numbing boredom well up in his heart, as he wonders dully: "Will I go to work today or / Shall I bide my time?" The most touching line comes later, in verse two, when he says to his wife/sweetheart: "I don't ever want you to see me / Standing in that line." Poor emasculated guy! (Trust Ray to focus on wounded pride rather than the rumbling belly...)

With a momentous drum fill, our hero looks up and sees the ruler of his miserable little universe: The Union Man. "He's the man who decides if I live or I die, / If I starve or I eat," he declares, the line swelling with apprehension as it hangs on one anxious note. And then we get a cinematic little shot: "He walks up to me and the sun begins to shine" (cue up spangly guitars), only to dissolve into a series of sledgehammer beats as "he walks right past and I know that I've got to get / Back in the line." I love how the back-up harmonies chime in on alternate lines here; our hero's not the only person holding his breath as The Union Man struts past.

I love the slow wheezy twang of "Get Back In Line"; it's a taste of what we'd be getting on the Kinks' next album, Muswell Hillbillies. In a way, this song is the flip side of Muswell's "Uncle Son," another song about union politics; you could also match it up with Think Visual's "Working At the Factory," where Ray moans about the assembly-line drudgery of recording. (May I repeat: Ray Davies has never done a day's menial labor.) But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's just savor the sweet melancholy of "Get Back In Line." Funny how Lola v Powerman set out to be the Kinks' most satiric album -- and yet it contains some of the most wistful, affectionate songs Ray Davies ever wrote. Go figure.

TOMOTTOW: Percy and "The Way Love Used To Be"

"Victoria" / The Kinks

Talk about starting off with a bang. After the introspection and retrospection of The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society, the opening riffs of "Victoria" signaled to the world that the Kinks were ready to rock out again on Arthur, Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire. So what if Pete Townshend had beaten them to the wire, officially making The Who's Tommy the first "rock opera"? So what if the film of Arthur never made it into production? Arthur would nevertheless be the beginning of the Kinks' renaissance -- and its lead-off single, "Victoria," would blaze the way.



"Victoria," in fact, was the first Kinks single to chart higher in the US than in the UK (it hit #62 in the US, and never even charted in the UK). With the mysterious concert ban lifted, the Kinks could once again tour in the US, and "Victoria" was their re-entry key. It's pretty hard to resist the whooping energy of this track; I can't dial up this song without wanting to dance, pound my fist, and sing along. This was the first track that won my teenage son Hugh over to the Kinks, with its pulsing energy and upbeat joy. It almost doesn't matter what it's about . . . but oh, what am I saying? With Ray Davies' lyrics, it always matters what it's about.

"Victoria" has a very specific dramatic purpose. Though Ray originally conceived of Arthur as the story of his sister Rosie (as in"Rosy Won't You Please Come Home") and her husband Arthur emigrating to Australia, by the time he was finished Arthur had grown into a sweeping fable about Britain's declining luster. At the story's outset, therefore, Ray had to present the magnificence of Great Britain at its imperial height, and ever so subtly foreshadow its fall.

But plot be damned, it also had to kick off the show with a jolt of energy -- and "Victoria" does so brilliantly. Have I ever mentioned what a kick-ass guitarist Dave Davies is? The guitar motif of "Victoria" is a thing of glory indeed. It's like a trumpet flourish ringing out, yet with a hint of surf guitar twang; driven by the fierce locomotive of Mick Avory's drum beat, it charges out of the gate hellbent for whatever. Eventually Ray Davies comes in to sing, but he can barely keep up with the breakneck pace.

I used to puzzle over the half-strangled, fluttery quality of Ray's voice here, until I realized {smack to head} he's playing a character. That is crucial to remember. At first Ray -- or rather his character, Arthur -- seems to be extolling the good old days of Victorian England: "Long ago life was clean." But then he adds, "Sex was bad and obscene / And the rich were so mean." Ray can't be in favor of that, no way! But wait . . . the next couple of lines sound eerily familiar: "Stately homes for the Lords / Croquet lawns, village greens / Victoria was my queen." Isn't that Village Green Preservation territory?

And in verse two, Arthur's totally sympathetic: "I was born, lucky me / In a land that I love / Though I am poor, I am free." We have to root for that, and admire his patriotism as he adds, "When I grow I shall fight / For this land I shall die / Let her sun never set." Pride and national sentiment leak into Ray's voice as he sings lines like "Land of hope and gloria" and recites the vast holdings of the Empire. "From the rich to the poor / Victoria loved them all" -- well, if that were true, it would be a noble thing indeed.

So where does Ray really stand on all this? The obvious answer is that you have to follow the rest of the story, where the cracks in Britain's facade are revealed one by one. But irony would be fatal to this opening track -- and so Ray balances on the fence between satire and sincerity. At this point in the story, you should be on Arthur's side; plenty of time later to see his flaws.

And in the end, you must join in with Arthur on the chorus. Those repeated "Vic-TORR- ee-ahs" simply cry out for a singalong -- a LOUD singalong. I myself have ripped out my throat many nights joining in with Ray on this song. That is what it was written for. And with Ray on stage, kicking out all the jams, cajoling, seducing you -- well, how can you resist?

COMING UP NEXT: Lola V. Powerman and "Get Back In Line"

"Picture Book" / The Kinks

As a card-carrying Kinkaholic, I am honor-bound to say that today's album -- officially titled The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society, fondly known as VGPS (Kinks Kultists have to be handy with acronyms) -- is one of the greatest record albums ever made. This isn't just group-think, though; I really and truly believe it. So naturally I've already written about several songs on this landmark album, like "Starstruck" and "Phenomenal Cat" and the title track, "The Village Green Preservation Society". I've even broken with my song-a-day format to write about the entire VGPS album. But have I said all there is to say about the Village Green? Hey, I've barely scratched the surface.



For a number of reasons (the White Album, the Kinks' US ban, adolescence), I knew nothing of this album for years. The Kinks' great single of this period, "Days," wasn't even included on the album (and in the US we barely heard it anyway). So my introduction to VGPS was, oddly enough, a clever HP printer commercial a couple of years ago, which showed satisfied HP customers melting in and out of their own home-printed photos -- all to the tune of "Picture Book." The first time I saw this on TV I sat up, immediately riveted. I didn't recognize the song but by god I knew that was the Kinks -- and I had to track it down. It was all part of that curious tangle of fate, destiny, and serendipity that led me back into the Kinks fold, after years in exile. (A story for another day.)

With so many incredible songs on this album, "Picture Book" might not otherwise have ranked among my favorites, but I'm so grateful it triggered my Kinks renaissance, I still feel a rush of happiness when it comes on. It's actually half of a "picture" pair on the album, the other being the LP's last track, "People Take Pictures Of Each Other." As the album's send-off, PTPOEO finally shrugs off the nostalgia that runs throughout the album, declaring "People take pictures of each other / Just to prove that they really existed." But "Picture Book" falls earlier in the album, on track 3, and it shows Ray still fondly flipping over the pages of his memory book.

"Picture yourself when you're getting on," he sets the scene, "Sat by the fireside a-pondering on." This song is like Ray's version of the Beatles' "When I'm 64," except he isn't just projecting into the future -- he's looking back over his life from the future. And to further complicate the time scheme, that picture album's parade of images depicts not only his past but his family's past before he was born: "Pictures of your mama, taken by your papa a long time ago." There's a weird fascination to pictures like that, isn't there? how you stare at the image of those carefree youngsters, rearranging their features to find your parents in them.

I'm betting that Ray Davies had in mind a specific photograph for every picture he describes in verse two: "A picture of you in your birthday suit, / You sat in the sun on a hot afternoon . . . Your mama and your papa / And fat old Uncle Charlie out boozing with their friends. . . . A holiday in August, outside a bed and breakfast / In sunny Southend" (or South Bend, as one Kinks friend used to mishear it.) What I wouldn't give to get a look at the Davies family scrapbook, to see Fred and Annie Davies and Uncle Son boozing it up at the Clissold Arms. And as Ray looks at those images, the people flare briefly into life, just as they were.

So how does Ray feel about this? Well, come on, this is Ray Davies -- naturally he feels ambivalent. He's skeptical of the picture-snapping impulse in verse one ("Picture book, of people with each other, / To prove they loved each other / A long ago"). But as he leafs through the holiday snaps, they work their spell on him; by the end of verse two, he's sucked into the emotion ("When you were just a baby, / Those days when you were happy, / A long time ago" -- implying, of course, that happiness is a thing of the past).

The whole song is propelled by that steamroller bass/guitar line, charging up and down the scale, punctuated by fat splashes of cymbals from Mick Avory. While that marks the time, Ray's melody hopscotches all over the place, before and behind the beat; the two lines dive and cross each other over and over, in spectacular rock counterpoint, like they're weaving a tapestry of time and memory. Ray's voice sounds light-hearted, youthful, even a little campy -- no, a lot campy, goofing through the repeated chorus of "na-na-na na na na's" and tossing in a little Sinatra-esque "scooby doo be doo." In the background, Dave's falsetto echoes of "pic-ture book" are jolly and jaunty; the whole song is sung with reckless gaiety. It's simply irresistible.

Fifteen years later, on the album State of Confusion, Ray would write another song about photos and souvenirs that trace the course of a life. It's called "Property," and it's one of his most heart-breaking songs ever. "You take the photographs, the ones of you and me, / When we both posed and laughed to please the family" -- now he's at the other end of life, not sitting by his fireside but standing in the doorway with a suitcase. Yet don't let the jauntiness of "Picture Book" fool you -- the sorrow and regret of "Property" are already there, in utero. Now consider that Ray Davies was only 23 years old when he wrote this song. Humbling, ain't it?

NEXT: Arthur, or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire and "Victoria"

"Waterloo Sunset" / The Kinks

One of the loveliest benefits of this album-a-day Kinksathon is the chance to savor the album back tracks, not just the obvious "big" songs. However, today's album is Something Else By the Kinks (released 1967), and the last song on that album is so monumental, I have no choice but to write about it. "Waterloo Sunset" may be one of the Kinks best-known songs, but no matter how many times I listen to it, it always devastates me.



Although Ray Davies claims this song was written as an elegy to the end of a musical era -- at one time, he says, he considered calling it "Liverpool Sunset" -- by the time he got done it was something else entirely. Even as he was writing it, he suspected it might be his masterpiece (although for a long time he kept the lyrics a secret from the other Kinks, fearing they would think he was daft). After the Kinks' producer, Shel Talmy, had finished mixing the song, Ray stole back into the studio with the other Kinks and recorded it all over again, until it was just the way he wanted it. I love those majestic marching bass thrums of the opening, the twangy counterpointing guitar riff, the ethereal oohs in the background (Ray's wife Rasa singing an octave above Dave), the "sha-la-la's" in the bridge and the overlapping repeats of "Waterloo Sunset's fine." It's a damn near perfect recording.

Even the melody sounds like a sunset, with sets of gently descending D-A-G chords, each short phrase making an arc until the final phrase dips below the horizon. Each verse begins with a widescreen panorama -- the "dirty old river" flowing under the bridge, the lovers Terry and Julie meeting by the platform, crowds swarming "like flies" into the tube entrance. Then, in verses one and two, after the panorama Ray telescopes his view, bringing himself into the picture -- saying the busy crowds make him feel dizzy, and he's too lazy to leave home and meet friends. It's not just about London, it's really about his aching heart. The end of verse one shifts into minor chords as Ray plaintively muses, "But I don't need no friends" and protests "But I don't feel afraid." And yet, in his isolation, he still is nourished by the world outside his window, as he return to the D-A-G chords for that grand final line: "As long as I gaze on Waterloo sunset / I am in paradise."

The tension between the lonely observer and the teeming metropolis is the bittersweet heart of this song. He never gets out of that room, as he admits in the bridge (all those wistful 7th chords): "Every day I look at the world from my window," a memory drawn from Ray's childhood, when he was confined by a long illness in St. Thomas hospital near Waterloo. His perspective is tinged with a fear of death -- "Chilly, chilly is the evening time" -- but at the moment, nature uplifts him, and "Waterloo sunset's fine." Not since John Keats wrote his ode "To Autumn" has anyone quite so poignantly etched the intersection between life and death.

It's almost as if writing the song itself conquers death. By verse three, notice, he has shifted the story completely away from himself and over to Terry and Julie -- they're the ones who "don't need no friends" now. And unlike loner Ray, they don't need friends because they have each other. They're in love, and we get our happy ending. Or do we? The shadows haven't entirely been chased away -- as Terry and Julie "cross over the river," I recall old myths in which crossing a river means death (which gives the line "they are in paradise" an extra twist). Love and loss are intertwined, tragedy and comedy are two sides of the same mask.

"Waterloo Sunset" is like a great landscape painting, worthy of Turner or Monet; it's also a cinematic piece, with its wide-angle shots, dissolves, close-ups, and long tracking shot. It's a lyric poem, and it's also an epic novel. To do all this with one pop song, in the space of three minutes and seventeen seconds -- and to do it with a simple four-piece band (no added strings or horn sections, thank you) -- well, it's a wondrous achievement. If Ray Davies had done nothing else in his life, he'd be worthy of undying respect.

And of course, he has done more -- so much more....

NEXT: The Kinks Are the Village Green Appreciation Society and "Picture Book"

"Too Much On My Mind" /
The Kinks

The Kinks' first three albums were pumped out one after another, in a little over a year; it took them nearly another year to produce their fourth, Face to Face, released in late 1966. In the meantime, lead singer and songwriter Ray Davies had suffered a nervous breakdown (the Kinks had to tour Belgium and France with a stand-in); even after he returned, sporting a tentative new moustache, many concerts were cancelled and endless obsessive hours were spent in the studio. The bassist, Pete Quaife, quit; a new manager, the infamous Allen Klein, was hired. It was a rough time.

But painful as it was, that transition was necessary, for the Kinks were refusing to stay in a box. Dave wasn't going keep on playing the same stale blues riffs, and Ray was done with writing generic love songs. And amid all the smart, snappy satires and character studies of Face to Face, Ray Davies gave us one introspective song to explain what was going on inside that messed-up head of his.



Introspective? That's an understatement. "Too Much On My Mind" is practically a textbook definition of introspection. "There's too much on my mind," Ray sings wistfully, over the simple acoustic guitar of the first verse; "there's too much on my mind," he repeats, "and I can't sleep at night thinking about it." (Ray Davies has wrung more fine songs out of insomnia than any other living songwriter.) Notice that last phrase -- if this were a love song, he'd have sung, "thinking about you." I have to admit, conditioned by pop love songs as I am, I still half hear "you" at the end of that line. But Ray is not singing about a girl, he's singing about his favorite subject -- himself.

Now a tentative harpsicord tiptoes in (thank you, Nicky Hopkins!) as Ray expands his complaint to the daytime hours. "I'm thinking all the time, / There's too much on my mind." How exhausting it is to be a neurotic! (Yes, Ray does indulge in self-pity here -- but he makes it seem so charming, doesn't he?) And next comes my favorite line in the song: "It seems there's more to life than just to live it." In that one line -- he sweeps away carefree youth and trudges into adulthood, still feeling stung that life has tricked him.

Drums and back-up harmonies join in on the chorus, lending muscle to the wispy ballad as he kicks back in protest: "There's too much on my mind, / And there is nothing I can say / There's too much on my mind, / And there is nothing I can do / About it, / About it." I love how those last two words slide briefly down to a dissonant chord, groaning miserably before resolving.

Ray Davies didn't need pop psychobabble to explain the mind-body connection -- in the second verse he tells us in concrete detail how his mental state has affected his physical state: "My thoughts just weigh me down, / And drag me to the ground, / And shake my head till there's no more life in me." (Dig how he adds the extra words, "life in me," as if giving himself an extra shake.) Woefully, he projects into the future: "It's ruining my brain, / I'll never be the same, / My poor demented mind is slowly going." The telegraph monotone of that last line is especially miserable. Sunk in the blackness of melancholy, he sees no way out.

But the tempo remains just upbeat enough; the bright harpsicord, the brisk high-hats, and the rising guitar riffs buoy the song -- as if the music itself rescues him from the depths of despair.

Perhaps that is exactly what happened to Ray Davies in 1966 -- being able to write the kind of songs he wanted to did pull him through. And on bleak days, when this song creeps into my mind -- as it always does when I'm blue -- this lovely little wistful melody saves me as well. Works like a charm.

TOMORROW: Something Else and "Waterloo Sunset"

"Where Have All the Good Times Gone" / The Kinks

On The Kink Kontroversy (1965), the Kinks were still teetering between the power chord singles that had made them famous ("Till the End of the Day") and Ray Davies' growing gift for satire ("Dedicated Follower of Fashion"). How to combine the two? The answer lay on the B side of the "Till the End of the Day" single: "Where Have All the Good Times Gone." Ray Davies still hauls this one out frequently in concert; he hardly ever sings "Till the End of the Day" any more.



"Where Have All the Good Times" still offers up the rough, raw energy of brother Dave's guitar work, but Ray isn't trying to pretend anymore that lust is the only thing on his mind. Looking for a template for satire, he borrows a page from Bob Dylan (he could segue any minute into "Like A Rolling Stone") and begins to twang out a sort of talking blues: "Well, lived my life and never stopped to worry 'bout a thing / Opened up and shouted out and never tried to sing." But while Dylan is skewering some old girlfriend, Ray is skewering himself -- or at any rate, some fictional version of himself, your prototypical 60s British rocker. Now, he laments, the musical trend is running on empty and his creative energies are failing: "Wondering if I'd done wrong / Will this depression last for long?" (Trust Ray to get depressed about the fact that he's depressed.)

The gutsy wail of the chorus is totally heartfelt: "Won't you tell me / Where have all the good times gone? / Where have all the good times gone?" I love how matey and boozy the Kinks sound on the chorus, with its lurching rhythm, the chromatic melody sliding back and forth between F and G. Discordant and sloppy, with those trademark crunchy riffs, it's like an old-fashioned pub singalong, definitely near to last call and closing time. But the last call Ray envisions is the end of the Beat revolution (originally he was inspired to chronicle the death of the Merseybeat scene, but as a Londoner, he couldn't really comment fairly on that). Those early 60s days must have been heady indeed -- I can only imagine how exciting it must have been to be caught up in that madness. But it is only 1965, and while other bands are trying to reproduce their early hits, Ray Davies has already checked out.

Long before "American Pie," Ray Davies cleverly name-checks other artists' work in his verses -- the Rolling Stones ("Time was on our side and I had everything to gain"), the Beatles ("Yesterday was such an easy game for you to play"). Any of you see other references there that I've missed? Verse three may be more autobiographical -- "Ma and Pa look back at all the things they used to do / Didn't have no money and they always told the truth / Daddy didn't have no toys / And mummy didn't need no boys" -- but he's also making fun of people who live in a fantasy past (nostalgia ain't what it used to be), including his peers who cling stubbornly to their old sound.

Ray Davies has always had a complex reaction to nostalgia. On one hand, he longs to live in the past, when life was less complicated; on the other, he's suspicious that the past can be a prison. (The whole Village Green Preservation Society album is Ray's conflicted dance with nostalgia.) "Where Have All the Good Times Gone" sits right on that fence; it's an obituary for the British Invasion and a declaration of independence, but it's also tinged with regret. The good times were good, and he owes that musical revolution everything. But now it's time to move on.

TOMORROW: Face to Face and "Too Much On My Mind"

"Nothin' In the World Can Stop Me Worryin' 'Bout That Girl" / The Kinks

Back in the early 60s, when Kinda Kinks was released, singles and albums were more or less separate. The Kinks had a string of hit singles in 1965 -- "Tired of Waiting For You," "Set Me Free," "Who'll Be the Next in Line" -- but only "Tired of Waiting" was on this LP. And back then, I was 11 years old, with only enough babysitting money to buy 45s. Naturally I spent my nickels and dimes on "She's Not There," "I Don't Want to See You Again," and "Yesterday," not the Kinks' hard-rocking, sexually charged singles. I had my priorities.

If I had bought Kinda Kinks, though, I bet I would soon have been cutting photos of Ray and Dave Davies out of 16 Magazine and Tiger Beat, to tape to my mirror alongside Paul McCartney and Peter Asher. This album is packed with the yearning, sensitive side of Ray Davies. Just listen to the song titles: "Look For Me Baby," "Wonder Where My Baby Is Tonight," "Don't Ever Change," "So Long," "You Shouldn't Be Sad." (Meanwhile oversexed brother Dave is tearing his way through "Got My Feet On the Ground" and "Come On Now"...). They were just the kind of dreamy stuff I would have loved at age 11.

I've already written about my favorite song on this album, "Something Better Beginning" -- a neglected masterpiece, IMO. But a close runner-up has to be "Nothin' In The World Can Stop Me Worryin' 'Bout That Girl." I have to giggle at that crazy long title (you'd think it was a comic novelty song) and all those apostrophied contractions. But behind that oddball title is a brilliant little song. Ray probably tossed it off in half an hour, but that doesn't mean it isn't great.



While most songs on this album start off with a bang, "NITWCSMWBTG" (gotta go for the acronym) begins gently, in a melancholy minor key, with Ray singing softly over an acoustic guitar. Eventually we get a little percussion and electric guitar, stepping up the bluesy factor, but it remains marvelously stripped-down and intimate -- you can just imagine the singer lying in his bed brooding late at night. Despite that word-drunk title, the lyrics are fairly basic, in true blues style. "Met a girl, fell in love, glad as I can be" -- the old story. But Ray Davies in love is never a happy man; he's not worrying about that girl because he wants to protect and care for her. No, he's jealous, suspicious, possessive, and obsessive. (Remember, this is the man who wrote "All Day and All Of the Night"). "But I think all the time, is she true to me?" -- does this man have trust issues or what?

Not that he doesn't have reason. As the song picks up steam, he reveals that she has been two-timing him (he may be paranoid, but people ARE out to get him). "Now she tries to tell the truth, and I just can't believe" -- he's wracked with doubt. He can't quit her, as he explains in verse three, "Tried to put her out of my mind, she'll only cause me grief / I love that girl, whatever she's done." But his wounded ego is caught up in it too, as he admits in verse four: "I ache inside every time I think, I know it's just my pride." The lyrics may sound simple, but their psychological acuity is dead-on.

I love how the melodic line mirrors the singer's anguished to-and-fro. Line one of each verse morosely works its way down the scale, hitting the gravelly bottom of Ray's register. Line two goes the opposite direction, fluttering upward in his high voice, as if reaching for hope. Line three shifts into major key, but hangs anxiously on two chromatic notes; line four resolves it all, cresting over the top and coming home to roost on "worryin' 'bout that girl." For worrying IS his home state, where he's bound to end up.

Ah, the torture of being Ray Davies. It just makes a girl want to hold his hand, mop his fevered brow, smooth his ruffled hair...well, like I said, I'd have been cutting out those photos from the teen magazines. That sensitive soul -- he needs a better girlfriend. Any volunteers?

TOMORROW: The Kink Kontroversy and "Where Have All The Good Times Gone"