The needle drops. A dry, crisp acoustic guitar strums a rhythmic foundation, a sound immediately alien to the sprawling, electrified rock of the late sixties. It’s 1970, the air thick with the residue of political upheaval, technological acceleration, and a cultural hangover from the Summer of Love. This is the year The Kinks—a band that had, through an enforced American touring ban and a subsequent string of brilliant but commercially muted albums, become masters of the subtle English concept album—released Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround, Part One. And nestled comfortably within that caustic examination of the music industry machine was “Apeman,” a three-minute fantasy escape, a deceptively light piece of music that cuts to the core of modern discontent.
My first encounter with “Apeman” wasn’t through its original vinyl pressing, but on a flickering transistor radio during a summer road trip, the signal fading in and out over long stretches of rural highway. It stood out immediately. It didn’t roar like a stadium anthem, nor did it wallow in baroque complexity. It simply swayed, a deceptively cheerful call for regression. Ray Davies, the band’s primary songwriter and visionary, was in a period of high artistic productivity, having established himself as the premier chronicler of English social manners and neuroses. Lola Versus Powerman was the group’s return to major commercial viability, thanks in part to the transatlantic success of “Lola,” but “Apeman” provided the necessary balance—the introspective sigh after the hedonistic shout.
The Sounds of Simple Discontent
The arrangement of “Apeman” is a lesson in economy and mood-setting. It opens with that hypnotic acoustic rhythm, suggesting an island escape or a campfire lament—a sonic environment far removed from the cold steel and bureaucracy the lyrics decry. The production, handled by the band themselves (with significant input from engineer Mike Stone), favors clarity and punch over the sonic experimentation of their psychedelic peers. The drum work, featuring Mick Avory’s steady, unfussy beat, locks in immediately, providing a gentle, almost calypso-like propulsion. It’s a rhythmic pattern that seems to actively resist complexity, opting instead for a primal, unhurried pace.
The song is built on a simple, ascending-descending melodic structure, perfectly suited to Davies’ characteristically conversational delivery. His voice, world-weary and slightly sardonic, is mixed close to the microphone, lending an intimate quality to his confession. He’s not shouting his discontent; he’s sharing a secret longing. The chorus explodes only slightly, given texture by the simple, sustained harmonies provided by the rest of the band.
Crucially, the song introduces a beautiful, understated piano line in the middle section, played by John Gosling. This is not the crashing, rock-and-roll boogie of an earlier era; it’s a series of gentle, bright chords and fills that weave around the central acoustic frame. The piano here acts as a ray of sun filtering through the jungle canopy, lifting the mood just enough to transform the satire from a bitter complaint into a hopeful, if slightly naïve, dream. The texture is further enriched by some light, tremolo-heavy electric guitar that provides melodic accents rather than dominant riffs, a tasteful use of instrumentation that prioritizes the narrative.
The Escape Artist’s Manifesto
The genius of Ray Davies lies in his ability to use absurdity to expose a genuine, universal anxiety. The character of the “Apeman” wants to live in a cave, grow his hair, and reject the trappings of industrial society, explicitly including pollution, taxes, and the constant threat of nuclear war. This wasn’t merely a timely protest; it was an early signpost of the environmental movement and a deep cultural fatigue with progress.
The song’s core irony is inescapable: it is a perfectly crafted, high-fidelity pop song, a product of the very “Moneygoround” it seeks to satirize, yet it preaches the gospel of primal simplicity. This tension is what makes the track resonate. The narrator, for all his longing, knows he can’t truly go back to the cave; he’s too far evolved, too comfortable with the tools of the modern age. It’s the ultimate intellectual luxury—to long for simplicity while actively participating in complexity.
In my years as a critic, I’ve found that the pieces of music that endure are often those that articulate an emotion people are hesitant to admit. The desire to simply quit the treadmill—to throw the phone into the river and stop checking the mail—is a powerful, universal fantasy. “Apeman” gives that feeling a catchy, hummable voice. For those deeply invested in sound quality, the original Pye Records mono mix, or a careful pressing of the later Reprise US stereo version, provides a stunning example of how a limited number of tracks can be leveraged for maximal textural depth, a quality often sought out by collectors who prioritize premium audio.
“The Kinks mastered the art of making profound societal commentary feel as effortless and breezy as a walk in the park.”
The song’s enduring appeal lies in its micro-stories, the small moments where listeners connect to the core idea. I often hear it described by friends who are burnt out from the gig economy, or those who find themselves trapped in perpetual online connectivity. One friend, a software developer, told me he puts “Apeman” on his running playlist when he needs to feel unburdened by code and deadlines. For a fleeting moment, the gentle rhythm and the call to “look at the sun and the stars and the sea” acts as a powerful, necessary reset button. Another listener confessed that the first time he played the song for his children, they asked if Ray Davies was singing about a caveman. That childlike interpretation, missing the satire but grasping the core desire for freedom, is perhaps the ultimate reading. The yearning is palpable, regardless of whether you understand the corporate machine being skewered.
This subtle arrangement, with its Caribbean lilt, serves as a masterclass for anyone starting their musical journey. The simple, syncopated rhythm is often a staple in beginner guitar lessons, teaching the importance of a groove that transcends complex chord voicings. The track’s charm is its transparency; every instrument has a defined role, contributing to the overall feel without fighting for dominance. It’s a structure that reveals itself slowly, gaining emotional weight with each repetitive, satisfying chord change.
“Apeman” is not the most famous Kinks track, but it is perhaps the most necessary. It functions as the moral compass for the entire Lola album, pulling the focus away from the glitz and the grind of the music business back towards the essential human need for peace and simplicity. It’s an intellectual shrug set to a cheerful tune. When the final strum fades, you are left with the gentle ringing echo of an acoustic guitar—a quiet, insistent reminder that the modern world, for all its convenience, occasionally leaves us feeling like we’ve regressed instead of progressed. The only logical thing to do is put the record back on, close your eyes, and dream of a life far, far away.
🎧 Listening Recommendations
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Gerry Rafferty – “Baker Street” (1978): Shares the same mood of world-weariness and cynical yearning for escape from the system, built around a deceptively smooth arrangement.
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Cat Stevens – “Wild World” (1970): Features a similar acoustic-driven, conversational style from the same era, focusing on human complications rather than societal ones.
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Harry Nilsson – “Everybody’s Talkin'” (1968): An earlier piece with a slightly tropical feel and a core theme of needing to mentally and physically retreat from the noise of the city.
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The Lovin’ Spoonful – “Daydream” (1966): A gentle, acoustic-based piece that celebrates a simple, pastoral fantasy as a counterbalance to daily life.
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Traffic – “Feeling Alright?” (1968): Offers a blues-rock rhythm that, like “Apeman,” uses an upbeat arrangement to mask a lyrically anxious mood.