Like the 1982 song which gives the show
its title (and which is one of only three previously extant Kinks
numbers included in the evening), Ray Davies’ musical is informed by
nostalgia both general and particular. It looks back fondly at the
culture of spending Saturday nights down the
palais de danse in the late 1950s
on the eve of the rock and roll revolution; specifically, it is infused
with reminiscences of two of his older sisters. He even refers to the
Wallers, on whom his story centres, as “my family” for the purposes of
the evening.
For in addition to writing the music, lyrics and (with Paul Sirett)
book of the show, Davies also appears as a narrator. He sets up the
story of eighteen-year-old Julie’s first visits to Ilford Palais with
her family under the watchful eye of MC and crooner “uncle” Frankie;
her eagerness to dance but embarrassment at her limp, a legacy of
childhood polio; her uneasy courtship by Borstal boy Tosher, and the
aftermath of a ruckus on the dancefloor one night. Perhaps in
acknowledgement of the diversity of Stratford East’s usual audience,
the otherwise all-white cast and story also include a first-wave
Jamaican immigrant sax player, for whom Julie falls, and a proto-soul
singer.
The deficiencies of the show are part of its fabric. This is nostalgia
of the sedate English kind so often evoked in song by Davies, not – to
compare it with other Stratford musical hits of recent years – the
calypsonian exuberance of
The Big
Life or the roots-reggae oomph of
The Harder They Come. Although the
design cleverly makes the stage feel like a continuation of the
auditorium and performers mingle with us before each act begins, there
is no danger of masses joining in in the excitement. The other major
factor is Davies himself, who despite decades of experience both with
The Kinks and solo has never been a natural showman, and seems almost
defiantly wooden as The Storyteller. Gemma Salter gives Julie as much
rebelliousness as a nice, not entirely healthy girl can muster, and
Alasdair Harvey’s Frankie is all teeth and Brylcreem and no soul, as he
should be; but, despite its shadows and its tears,
Come Dancing never has the capacity
to be more than a comfy evening.
Written for the Financial
Times.