Kevin Ayers

When "Shooting At The Moon" came out in 1970, Kevin Ayers was twenty-six years old and already carrying a fair amount of glory on his shoulders. The bassist of the early Soft Machine, with a vocation quite different from the direction taken by that epic Canterbury band, had already, with his solo debut "Joy Of A Toy" (1969), seemed to map out the ideal territory in which to channel his instincts: from the psychedelic jazz of the Kent combo to the lysergic melodies of a visionary, circus-like pop.

What looks like a choice of side, a more narrowly defined landing point in the song-form, is in fact an admirable urgency, the prologue for the elusive, wandering experimenter who would soon carve out new and surprising spaces to indulge his irrepressible talent.

And yet, at first, the record picks up right where "Joy" left off: the opening "May, I?" brings back many of the flavours of the debut album, though adding a confidential-crooner cliché embellished by rive gauche accordion. As if to drive the point home, among the bonus tracks on the reissue currently in print there's a (definitive!) French-language version, titled "Puis Je?".

Were Kevin not a scruffy dandy-freak based in Ibiza, we'd picture him for the occasion in tuxedo and bow tie, clothes and accessories already hanging in the wardrobe of that Bryan Ferry who, a couple of years later, would show up at the starting blocks warmly thanking him for the tip.

To the future Roxy Music, Ayers would also hand down an "arty" cheekiness that plays with the listener, wrong-footing them exactly where they'd normally expect reassurance. It's a trait also dear to Brian Eno, who would draw on it for the launch of his solo career, so much so that his path crossed with Ayers' on "June 1, 1974", the incredible live performance that also featured Nico and John Cale (another artist who, as early as 1970, was already plotting to change the fate of avant-garde pop), alongside guests of the calibre of Robert Wyatt and protégé Mike Oldfield, the bassist and guitarist who, at just seventeen, took part with The Whole World in the sessions for "Shooting At The Moon".

Wrong-footing, as we said. That's the leitmotif of an album that alternates sublime melodic passages with unexpected forays into the boldest experimentation. Emblematic of this is "Rheinhardt & Geraldine/Colores Para Delores": an instrumental incipit with Canterbury-style horns, a psychedelic rock development rippling with progressive touches, and then a sudden cascade of tape effects cloning the space usually reserved for the solo. Then straight back into the main theme to close, as if nothing had happened. Structures and ideas we'd come to appreciate a quarter of a century later, in the heretical prog sampling of Tortoise, or in the surreal digressions of Jim O'Rourke.

The mischievous streak resurfaces in the disguised rock'n'roll of "Lunatics Lament", another shining example of how sheer inspiration can reshuffle the deck of well-worn standards. But the definitive provocation comes with the dazed eight-minute suite "Pisser Dans Un Violon", sardonic right from the title ("as useless as pissing in a violin", goes a colourful French saying), lurching between silences, murmurs and scattered string improvisations: a challenge that leads deep into the folds of a subtly hallucinated avant-garde.

What's striking is the consistency with which seemingly disparate scenes alternate, as if it weren't the spaces that changed but the intensity of the lights illuminating them, offering multiple keys to reading a context that is, in fact, strongly unified.

The play of tones repeats on side two of the record, where the ballad hovering between beach-like and bucolic, "The Oyster and the Flying Fish" (a duet with Bridget St John here in her playful, Nico-like guise), is followed by the evocative instrumental abstraction of "Underwater". The splendid "Clarence in Wonderland" and "Red Green and You Blue" sketch out new pop-ballad horizons running parallel to those John Cale was exploring, while the epilogue belongs to the title track, which, starting precisely from Soft Machine (taking its cue from their track "Jet-Propelled Photographs"), unfolds into a robotic hypnotism that pushes the boundaries of psychedelic rock further out, offering more than one hint even to the Stranglers yet to come.

On the following "Whatevershebringswesing" (1971), Kevin Ayers, aided by some members of the now-disbanded The Whole World and the ever-present Wyatt, would complete a trio of memorable albums, securing his place forever among rock's greats.

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google

01/08/2009