very near the end of "Kink," Dave Davies' rambunctious rock 'n' roll autobiography, he recalls a meeting he had with his brother Ray's psychiatrist. "He said that if I didn't get away from my brother he would eventually end up destroying me," Dave writes. "Not consciously, but purely because he just couldn't help it. And many years later, my mother, on her deathbed, would say something very similar." Mother knows best, it seems. For over 30 years the brothers Davies -- who are, in essence, the Kinks -- have been the Tweedledee and Tweedledum of rock, more Bitter Twins than Glitter Twins, locked in immortal combat, forever bashing each other with rattles, toys and, finally, guitars. The animosity began early: Ray, the youngest child and only son in a working-class family of seven, was not amused by the arrival of another brother, and used their cowboys-and-Indians games as an excuse to maul the interloper. "I was punished by my own conscience," Ray wrote in his own autobiography, last year's "X-Ray." "As I slept at night, I had a recurring dream. My brother and I were playing on the edge of a cliff. David Russell slipped over the edge and I grabbed him as he fell. There he would stay, one brother literally holding the other's life in his hands." The dream ends, of course, with Dave plunging to his death and Ray sweating and screaming. Dave's nocturnal memories are a bit different: a sleepwalking Ray running into the garden, pursued by unseen tigers, until he is shaken awake. "I realized that night, even though I was the younger brother, I would somehow have to fulfill the role of the older one and keep a look-out for him," writes Dave. "Shit. I was worried that life was becoming more serious." He needn't have worried. Serious is something the 49-year-old Dave doesn't get until deep into his narrative. This is a story so drenched in drugs and alcohol it could have been written on blotter acid paper and cocktail napkins. While Ray's book was often coy, skirting issues of excess and sexual experimentation when it suited the author, "Kink" is a straight-ahead recounting of the did her/drank that variety. Typical is this evening: A cool West Indian named Eddie invites Dave and Kim, his girl-of-the-moment, back to his pad to sample some outrageous reefer. Jazz is played. Kim goes down on Dave. "Uncontrollably, and without warning, I was overcome with terrible nausea," Dave recounts. "Suddenly, I threw up all over poor Kim, who was so far into her act it was downright tragic." Kim showers and leaves and then Dave himself is shown the door by his smiling, no-problem host. "I remember being as white as the sheet used to be as he handed me a small bag that contained some more of the dope. 'Come back soon,' Eddie said."