When we meet in his manager’s flat in West London, Kevin Ayers greets me with: “The last time we met I believe I corrupted you.” Not quite. It was in old Amsterdam, 1975. After a couple of bottles of ...

Blessed with a sozzled decadence and a louche, velveteen singing voice, Kevin Ayers was never straight enough for the mass market or experimental enough for the avant- garde crowd. His precarious but ...