Why has Ray Davies refused to enter America for the last 20 years?
There’s a common trope of romanticising the chaos of music history. We feast upon the esoteric moments of its mythology, branded the golden years of cultural mischief. For those artists who came out of the era unscathed, the bubbles of chaos settle down, and the worst memories are rightly thought of as symptomatic of an unsavoury environment. While Ray Davies certainly had his share of near misses in his heyday, he would have been forgiven for thinking, at the more sensible age of 59, that those days were behind him.
Attributed as one of the 1960s’ most impactful songwriters, his legend largely cemented itself on the airwaves rather than the tabloid press. Additionally, he was one of the arrowheads for British invasion music in the 1960s, the success of which would have been a great source of pride for Davies, who never shied away from sharing his love of America.
He once said, “America was a source of inspiration to me when I was a kid. Not just the music, but the culture of cowboys, Indians, good guys, bad guys, where the good guys were clearly, definitively different to the bad guys.”
From there, he continued, recalling, “There’s an obviousness about it that I found quite quaint, really, and safe. But, of course, when I got here it was a good bit different.”
Learning the realities of America was one thing for Davies’ earlier life, but the frightening turn of events that took place later was entirely different. On January 4th, 2004, he was shot and wounded by a mugger in downtown New Orleans, where he was living at the time. The frontman was reportedly walking through the city’s iconic French Quarter when a gunman jumped out of a car and demanded his friend’s purse before running off. Davies then chased them before they turned and fired, wounding him in the leg.
The authorities didn’t exactly praise Davies’ heroics, either; Police Chief Eddie Compass said, “I’m sorry for what happened, but Mr Davies showed poor judgment in running after the individuals.”
Nevertheless, the man in question was charged, and Davies expressed remorse over a man who was merely a symptom of the society he lived in.
“It’s a difficult thing to talk about,” he recalled. “Just before he shot me, he looked afraid—and he had a gun. You know, I was thinking of the world he came from, the challenges in his life… It’s utter desperation.” While Davies has never explicitly claimed he would never return to the United States, he swiftly moved back to the UK and has not since returned.
Was it the first time Ray Davies almost lost his life?
The very fact that Davies’ instinct inspired him to chase after an armed mugger hints at his predisposition for chaos. In his prime, his songwriting genius acted as a necessary cover-up for his rather complex psyche, which, on one fateful day in 1973, reared its ugly head.
After his wife Rasa left him and took their two daughters, Davies spiralled into a rather understandable tailspin but was faced with playing a show at The Great Western Express Festival in London’s White City. A combination of a declining career for the band, personal trauma, and a bucket load of pills led to one of music’s frightening episodes that ended with Davies threatening to kill himself onstage.
Pouring his catharsis out into the microphone, Davies yelled, “I’m fucking sick of the whole thing. I’m sick up to here with it,” to a frightened crowd. Moments later, Davies kissed his brother on the cheek before proclaiming, “I just want to say goodbye and thank you for all you’ve done.”
While tragedy was swiftly averted, a day later, Davies was rushed to the hospital to have his stomach pumped as the pills were starting to leave their mark on the singer; he just about survived the most tumultuous 24 hours in rock and roll history.
