Ten days on the road. Two countries, 7 states, over a thousand miles just on the ground. No plane crashes, auto accidents, or unplanned pregnancies. No hemorrhoids. Yet.
So we’re back – and just in time to post an obit. I HATE it when that happens.
His name is Peter Quaife, and he was there in the early 60s when the greatest band the world has ever known emerged from the nascent earth. Linking up with a pair of neurotic, quibbling brothers named Davies, he played bass guitar and provided impromptu counseling services, which proved himself sufficiently talented so the three went on to become the 75% of the original Kinks. He died Friday.
“After some jamming and loose rehearsals it was decided that Pete would team up with us,” Dave Davies wrote in his memoir, Kink. “We drew lots to see who would play bass guitar and Pete lost.”
I’m a passionate Kinks fan. (So is this guy. Everything you want to know, is here, as well as tons of shit you don’t care about.) I’ve also read “X-Ray,” Ray Davies’ “unofficial autobiography,” and “Ray Davies — Not Like Anybody Else” by Thomas Kitts. And thanks to the interwebs, I have as complete a collection of Kinks, Ray Davies, and Dave Davies tunes as anywhere this side of a Liverpool Laundromat. Some of it is ghastly. I played a lot of it, and I love it all.
As far as I know, Quaife never had a single song recorded under his name with the Kinks. I believe also he’s the first member of the Kinks to die, rather amazing considering how long the band has been around. His book of cartoons, “The Lighter Side of Dialysis” is available on-line.
Over the last several years there had been talk of a Kinks reunion, but I figure this kills it. However, I’ve been practicing again, so if they need me to fill in, I’ll be prepared. I even have a 1967 Rickenbacker 4005 tuned up and ready to go.
Damn. Where Have All the Good Times Gone?