On a cold, bright, but aptly Sunny Afternoon, the New Wimbledon Theatre delivered a hit of pure Kinks power. This is not a soft nostalgia stroll. Not a gentle sing-along. This show storms the stage like a plugged-in gig—electric, fast, and loud enough to rattle bone and memory. It doesn't ease you into the music; it detonates it. The sound hits like a slap you'll gladly take twice.
Visually, the set is a statement. Banks of speakers tower like a wall of sound; chandeliers hang like glittering echoes of Soho glamour. Initially, there is a risk that such staging might overshadow the performances, but here it does the opposite. It strengthens them. The design becomes a pulse that the cast plays against, not a distraction. It frames the story; it never steals it.
Costume and wardrobe designers Charlotte Innes and Sharon Williams deserve a curtain call of their own. Velvet, monochrome, mini-skirts, tailored silhouettes—all style, no parody. Add Christine Smertzaki's wigs, hair, and makeup, and you get authenticity rather than imitation. When the young dancers sweep through the aisles, hips and hemlines swinging, the room time-travels. We don't imagine the 60s; we sit in them.
Directed by Edward Hall, the production tracks the rise of the Davies brothers and The Kinks—one of Britain's loudest cultural detonations. Told entirely through Ray Davies's perspective, the show has the advantage of clarity. It isn't a greatest-hits scrapbook; it's insight. The story unfolds from the inside out: Ray thinking, breaking, rebuilding, writing through chaos. We don't watch legacy; we watch the moment it was born.
The performances punch through the sound. The cast is tight, wired, and perfectly in time with one another. Danny Horn (Ray Davies) dominates the night not with volume, but with command. He performs like someone plugged directly into the mains: sharp, restless, musically decisive. He doesn't just lead scenes; he steers the show's entire energy. A genuine feast for eyes, voice, body, and timing.
Alongside him, Oliver Hoare (Dave Davies) compliments the charge. Their chemistry crackles—brothers who love, resent, compete, and combust in equal measure. Think Del Boy and Rodney, if they swapped sheepskin coats for guitars and the jokes came with distortion pedals. When they collide, the stage lifts.
The women are not background. Lisa Wright (Rasa) gives the most quietly affecting performance of the evening. Her heartbreak isn't theatrical; it's grounded. The show nods, intentionally, to Cynthia Lennon's reality: love tucked away to protect fame. Her story lingers long after the music stops.
A standout return comes from Ben Caplan as music executive Eddie Kassner. Having originated the role in the West End, he slips back into it with authority, ease, and a welcome blast of familiarity. It feels both fresh and effortless—like watching someone step back into a perfectly broken-in leather jacket.
Act One sets up the genesis—pubs, rehearsals, label pressure, rivalry versus brotherhood. When "You Really Got Me" and "All Day and All of the Night" land, the theatre snaps awake. This isn't storytelling with songs added. It's music that drags the story forward with force. Musically, it doesn't wait for applause; it drives the night.
Act Two widens the lens of fame, burnout, unions, U.S. fallout, and the weight of success. It offers tension without melodrama and humour without sugar. The “I'm old now” / “You're twenty-three, Dave” exchange remains a crowd-killer, precise and brilliantly timed. Then the shift happens: the lights open, the aisle fills, and the sound expands like heat.
You're no longer watching a musical—you're inside a gig. That is this show's magic. Sunny Afternoon isn't a memory. It's a revival. Fast. Stylish. Loud with identity and intention. With Danny Horn driving the narrative and Edward Hall directing with clean muscle, the result is confident, polished, unashamedly amplified theatre.
It runs until 29 November.
Review: Kay Johal Photo: Manuel Harlan