Did The Kinks Accidentally Write The Cricket Theme?

Every now and then, somebody points out something in a song that changes the way you hear it forever.

This week’s culprit was my wife, Katie.

I was listening to The Village Green Preservation Society by The Kinks when she entered the bedroom and asked, “Why are The Kinks playing the cricket song?”

At first, I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. Then I listened properly. Four seconds into the song. Then again at nine seconds. And suddenly I understood exactly what she was hearing. Buried within those opening seconds is a little musical phrase that bears a striking resemblance to Soul Limbo by Booker T. & the M.G.’s, better known in Britain as the soundtrack to every rainy summer’s day ever broadcast by the BBC.

Now before anybody starts drafting legal papers or launching a YouTube channel dedicated to exposing the truth, let’s be clear. The melodies aren’t identical. Ray Davies wasn’t wandering around the studio demanding that the band sound more like Test Match Special, and The Kinks certainly didn’t accidentally record the cricket theme. But there is definitely something there. The descending notes, the rhythm, the bounce of the phrase and the overall feel are close enough that once the connection is made, your brain starts doing the rest of the work for you.

The timing makes it all the more interesting. Both songs appeared in 1968 and were born from a musical landscape full of shared influences and ideas. It’s entirely possible that this is simply one of those happy coincidences that occasionally crops up in popular music. Different artists, similar ideas, same era. It happens more often than people realise. Yet that doesn’t stop it being fascinating when you stumble across one.

For me, though, Soul Limbo is more than just a cricket theme. It’s the sound of childhood. Not because my dad sat me down and taught me the game. He didn’t. I learnt it myself, largely through the BBC.

Anyone who grew up watching cricket in the late 1970’s, throughout the 1980s and into the 1990s will know exactly what I mean. The coverage often seemed to follow a remarkably familiar script. Soul Limbo would play, the presenters and commentators would chat for ten minutes, and then somebody would announce that it was raining. Usually at Old Trafford. Occasionally at Lord’s. Sometimes at The Oval. In truth, it felt as though it was raining everywhere all summer long.

What followed was often less “live sport” and more an exercise in creative broadcasting. Out came the archive footage. On went a repeat of the previous Sunday’s John Player League match. The commentators filled for time, the groundsmen wrestled heroically with covers, and viewers sat patiently waiting for the weather to improve.

Looking back, it sounds utterly ridiculous. Modern television executives would probably have a collective nervous breakdown at the thought of broadcasting lengthy discussions about cloud formations over Manchester before settling down to show a match that viewers had often already seen. Yet somehow it worked.

The presenters talked. The rain fell. The scorecards appeared. Soul Limbo played. And through it all came those familiar voices. Tony Lewis. John Arlott. Jack Bannister. Ray Illingworth. And, of course, the incomparable Richie Benaud, who possessed the unique ability to make absolutely anything sound interesting.

Whether he was discussing a gripping Test Match or a particularly stubborn rain cloud, you listened. Benaud had a wonderfully understated way of describing deteriorating weather. There was never any need for drama or overstatement. A simple observation such as “It looks grim over Wilf’s mum’s” told you everything you needed to know. Somewhere beyond the boundary, dark clouds were gathering, covers would shortly be making an appearance and the prospect of an afternoon spent watching archive cricket was increasing by the minute.

Perhaps that’s why Katie’s observation landed so quickly. The moment she said it, I could hear exactly what she meant. What followed was several minutes of replaying the opening seconds of both songs, comparing them from every conceivable angle like two amateur detectives who had accidentally stumbled upon the least important mystery in British musical history.

The more I listened, the more I could hear it. Not enough to accuse anyone of borrowing anything, but certainly enough to make me wonder. And that’s often where the most enjoyable musical rabbit holes begin.

The real casualty here is The Village Green Preservation Society itself. Every time I hear those opening seconds now, my brain immediately starts expecting a weather update from Lord’s. Ray Davies is singing about preserving old England, draught beer and strawberry jam, while I’m mentally preparing myself for the announcement that play has been delayed due to a passing shower and we’re about to revisit highlights from last week’s Sunday League fixture (despite the Sunday league being a thing of days gone by).

So I’ve uploaded both clips below.

Have a listen and see what you think. Focus on those little phrases at around four seconds and nine seconds in The Village Green Preservation Society, then play Soul Limbo immediately afterwards.

You may hear absolutely nothing.

You may conclude that Katie and I have finally lost the plot.

Or you may find yourself spending far longer than is healthy comparing two songs released in 1968 and wondering whether you’ve just discovered one of the most gloriously insignificant coincidences in British music.

Either way, it all started with a simple question:

“Why are The Kinks playing the cricket song?”