JOY OF A TOY

Kevin Ayers had everything it takes to be a pop star. Drop-dead gorgeous, he was possessed of a seemingly effortless ability to compose richly melodic songs which he delivered in a delectably creamy baritone. That he never actually became a pop star can only have been because that particular ambition, or indeed ambition per se, never ranked very high on the list of priorities of this dedicated bon viveur.

Joy of a Toy, Ayers first solo album following his departure from Soft Machine in 1968, is replete with a nonchalant brilliance. It's not that Ayers isn't trying too hard, he doesn't really seem to be trying at all, just rattling off these idiosyncratic gems before getting back to the serious business of partying in Ibiza. With it's dry wit and languid air of bohemian Englishness this is the record Noel Coward would have made had he ever been introduced to the delights of mind-altering drugs. Mixing surreal wordplay with world-weary romance, Ayers was the missing link between Syd Barrett and Bryan Ferry. The songs are firmly in the tradition of late sixties quintessentially English pop, but the soundworld, with its unusual combination of instruments (Ayers former Soft Machine colleagues are augmented by a wide variety of instruments including cello, oboe, piccolo, celeste, alto melodica, Hawaiian guitar, and even that perennial I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue favourite kazoo - but no swanee whistle, alas) is utterly unique. At times the ensemble sound like a wandering troupe of psychedelic mediaeval musicians.

In addition to his pop sensibility, Ayers was also a dab hand at full tilt weirdery, and on this album the two strands of his artistic personality are seamlessly woven together, at once eminently accessible and impeccably avant-garde.

Ayers was responsible for some of the most singular music of the early seventies but he never surpassed the casual perfection of this miraculous debut. For Kevin Ayers being brilliant just came naturally.