IT’S FAMILY, INNIT?: Kinks’ legendary guitarist, Dave Davies, in conversation.

We could talk about the arguments now but that would be too easy. We could list the tensions too. Too obvious. It’s what you expect. It’s even cliched: the fights; the blood; the broken bits of cymbal…

But that’s not Dave Davies. It’s not even an edited version. What makes Dave Davies tick, what makes him ‘operate’ is the companionship, support and feedback from others. What he gets, he gives. He’s an archetypal family man. It’s what’s kept him safe, made him happy and secure but it also sourced his frustrations and his anger.

 

To Davies, though, ‘family’ can mean a lot of things. There’s the obvious definition of the name, of course. Mum and dad were crucial to the formative years of Dave Davies. This family was safe and warm, not cosseted (Could it ever be in not in post-war austerity?) The family was an emotional buffer.

There were always parties and get-togethers. My dad would come home from the pub, on a Saturday, with a crate of ale for a piss-up and a knees-up,” said Davies who almost disappeared, right at the start of this interview, into a nostalgic funk. It’s a time of his life that he holds in great affection. “The whole family was involved. Everyone played piano to some degree. My sister, Joyce had a lovely voice too. We’d sing old standards of the time. My mum was a big fan of [Welsh tenor] Malcolm Vaughan,” he said this and cringed but with a smile. “Many people don’t realise that there was so much music in the house.”

Yet the bonds of family extend further than that, for Davies. Friends, like Kinks founder-member, Pete Quaife, certainly falls under that definition, “He was really important,” said Davies suddenly becoming very serious. “We wouldn’t have started the band without Pete. He was a big driving force. Ray hit it off with Pete, they were older than me. Then the three of us would jam together and hang out and play. At school, we had a little band.”

Which grew into The Kinks: another family unit. Another ‘bubble’ to provide protection from the outside world and to allow Davies to experience the magic of friendship and comradeship, “Some days we’d be miserable but we’d also generate an energy, without realising it. There were times on stage and in the studio and you’d get a feeling. You don’t know what the hell it is. You think, “What the fuck’s happening?” but its amazing. It was a sort of psychic interaction between people. People who are in total harmony with each other. You’d be playing a song and it’d return. The music brings things out of people.”

The fans themselves also provided an essential connection to Davies. Although, possibly, not in the way you might think, “I wanted to give up the music business.” He was standing in a New York street. It was 1973. According to Davies, the music business attracts, as he calls them, “the wrong kind of people.”

Which was why Davies had had enough. He’d had enough of them, of being a member of one of the most iconic and influential rock bands of that era and of being Dave Davies. He knew that he needed to be healed so he sought out a healer.

 

“I told him, ‘I’m fed up. I want to jack it all in.’ He said, ‘So what is it that you really want to do?’ I said, ‘I really want to heal others.’ He laughed and said, ‘So what the hell do you think you’re doing now? I sit here, charge people 60 bucks and try to give them healing and direction and comfort. You can get up on stage and project your healing, through your music to thousands of people!’ I thought, hell, this guy’s right.”

Davies needs people. He needs that interaction, the vibe it creates and the buzz he gets when artists produce and elevate a piece of work such as a simple song. He couldn’t do without it back in the 60s and he still can’t. It fuels him.