There’s a story buried in rock and roll history that feels almost too absurd to be true—but it is. In 1970, when The Kinks released “Lola,” one of the most iconic songs of the decade, the BBC nearly banned it. But the real culprit wasn’t the controversial transgender storyline that made parents squirm in living rooms across Britain. It was a single brand name: Coca-Cola. Ray Davies, the band’s creative genius and lead vocalist, found himself in an impossible position mid-tour. The BBC had strict advertising rules, and mentioning a commercial product by name on the radio was verboten. So what did he do? He flew back home from America, into a recording studio, and sang the now-legendary alternative: “cherry cola” instead of the original “Coca-Cola.” That’s right—rock and roll history was literally rewritten in a hotel room because of a corporate naming dispute.
The Kinks were already living on the edge in 1970. After years of turbulent concerts, canceled tours, and internal band friction that would haunt them throughout the decade, Ray Davies was determined to make something that would stick. “Lola” was that song. Written as a cheeky celebration of a transgender character Davies supposedly met in a London nightclub, it was daring for its time—sexually ambiguous, musically infectious, and impossible to ignore. The song climbed charts worldwide, becoming The Kinks’ biggest American hit in years. But Davies’ vision was almost derailed not by moral outrage, but by trademark law.
The tension within The Kinks during the early seventies was legendary. Band members barely tolerated each other, Dave Davies (Ray’s brother and guitarist) harbored deep resentment over creative control, and personal demons—alcohol, drug use, and bitter personal disputes—were tearing at the fabric of what had once been one of Britain’s greatest rock bands. In this volatile atmosphere, Ray Davies had to think fast. The Coca-Cola reference was part of the song’s genius: it grounded the narrative in reality, making the story feel like something you could stumble upon in a real London club. Losing it felt like losing the song’s soul. Yet the BBC wouldn’t budge.
What’s remarkable is how seamlessly Davies pivoted. The “cherry cola” version became the one most people heard on radio, and it worked. The lyrical shift is almost imperceptible to casual listeners, yet it reveals something fascinating about artistic compromise in the age of corporate gatekeeping. Davies flew back to re-record just that one word—a gesture that speaks volumes about his dedication to the track, even amid The Kinks’ fractious internal relationships and the chaos of touring.
Today, when we listen to “Lola,” most of us hear the cherry cola version first. But knowing the original story adds another layer to a song that’s already complex and layered. It reminds us that even rock and roll legends had to navigate bureaucratic nonsense, and that sometimes the most memorable songs come from working around obstacles rather than through them. Ray Davies proved that night that an artist’s vision could survive almost anything—even corporate censorship—if you were clever enough. The Kinks’ legacy remains unshakeable, even if their biggest hit had to be tweaked to survive the BBC’s watchful eye.
