More typical, however, is Davies’ sly and subtle approach. In the “be careful what you wish for category” lies “Peace in Our Time,” comprised of an ambivalence that, without mentioning Chamberlain-era wartime appeasement, still could have fit into the 1969 Kink concept classic Arthur (Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire). Similarly, an account of a frustrating parting of the red tape retold in “No One Listen” recalls 1970's Lola vs. the Powerman & the Money-Go-Round, Pt. 1, one of the Kinks most rough-edged and agitation-ridden recordings.

Soothed and smoothed to “Celluloid Heroes” perfection, or perhaps reminiscent of a song from one of the Kink’s ‘70s-era rock operas, the gorgeous “Imaginary Man” suggests some skewed self-identification for an artist perhaps too accustomed to living “other people’s lives”:

Walked down to Preservation Hall
Looking for the old trad band
It was just a momentary glance

I saw my reflection in the glass
Watched as the world went flashing past
I knew the face but could not tell
Why I couldn't recognise myself

I am, I am imaginary
I am, I am imaginary
I'm the imaginary man…

But escape may not be the way to discovery: “So you headed down south left another home town / Now you don't have the time to think / Who's left behind” in “The Real World.” In Working Man’s Café’s most stellar stand-out — and the most un-Kinked and independently Davies -- Ray offers one of his most heartrending vocals as a solo artist. After he follows the travels and travails of his subject, Davies sums up that “There's a lot of lost souls looking out / For a sign for the real world.”

It’s as if every day, and for over 40 years, Ray Davies still looks at the world from his window, taking notes. Comforting thought, somehow.