Kevin Ayers
Joy Of A Toy

In 1968, Kevin Ayers, exhausted after the long tour with the Soft Machine, decides to leave the group and retire to the sun of Ibiza, where he can finally rest among distractions of all kinds, indulging, among other things, in composing songs on the guitar: thus the first solo work, Joy of a Toy, is born, from the Mediterranean climate, the wine, the sea, and the entertainments of this pleasant island that perfectly matches the romantic, lazy, indolent soul of the artist.
In this sense, the record is paradigmatic, far more than his other works, it defines Ayers' style, his carefree approach to music and life, inevitably marked by an innate laziness that will eventually affect his undeniable talent.

Ayers was the bohemian side of the Soft (and even before that of the Wilde Flowers), the dandy spirit of Canterbury rock: with Joy of a Toy, he ventures into a genre, the song, completely different from his past experiences, even though his style draws heavily from Canterbury jazz-rock as well as the pataphysical quirks of his old formation, defining a kind of progressive pop (especially in the choice of instruments) with psychedelic reminiscences.
The first track is indeed the right link between past and present (Joy of a Toy - Continued, a reference to an old track with Wyatt and Ratledge), and it is in its own way programmatic, a playful and unpretentious march, almost an invitation not to take the album too seriously.
On this same note, the entire album continues, each track is pervaded by joyful and carefree (self)irony, imbued with deeply romantic, playful, quirky, and childish poetry, music that indeed seems inspired by the mild climate of the Balearics.

Carefree rags (Clarietta Rag), orchestral ballads (Town Feeling, in my view the best piece of the album) and almost "author" songs (All These Crazy Gift Of Time), irreverent songs (the psychedelic flashes of Stop This Train or the jazz digressions of Song For Insane Times, which seems like a Soft track) alternate with seductive declarations of love (Girl On A Swing, Eleanor's Cake, Lady Rachel), dreamlike moments, all stitched together by the warm, romantic, unmistakable baritone voice.

It is undoubtedly Ayers' best work, a record that has its strength precisely in its modesty, in its naivety. Never again will he reach such levels of spontaneity and originality, descending album after album into a stagnant, often banal genre. After the historic 1974 concert with Cale and Eno, his star dims definitively, no one remembers him anymore, although his production continues for a long time, dragging on by inertia until the '90s among short rehearsal sessions, albums rushed out to honor the Harvest contract, and increasingly long vacation stays.

To Mr. Ayers (now in his sixties) will certainly remain the memory of a life enjoyed to the fullest, to the world of music and to us, the audience, the regret of having seen the inspiration of a musician who could have said much more wither away (far from any criticism, I actually consider his choice widely understandable: who, in his place, would not do the same?).