Vegetable Friends interview: Vic Singh

http://launch.groups.yahoo.com/group/VegetableFriends/


Vic Singh has been so kind as to share some of his experiences with
us.. I am still in contact with him so watch this space..
ENJOY, VEGGIES....

Mr Vic Singh:
I started as a young photographer in Studio 5 in Shepards Market,
Mayfair London in the early 60's, other young photographers there
were Norman Eales, David Bailey. We were the founders of the swinging
sixties. At this time there were only men in drab grey suits unaware
of what was to follow. Studio 5 became very popular with its handsome
young photographers and dolly bird models, the start of the youth
culture. Suddenly fashion, music and design blossomed and invention
was the key word. The 60's exploded into a new universe and Carnaby
Street, Mary Quant, Vidal Sasson, The Beatles, Rolling
Stones etc. started happening. I was one of the "In Crowd" making a
load of money and having a groove.

> Can you tell us more about what happened around the
> time THE PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN cover photo
> sessions took place? (cues: CONTACT WITH Syd
> Barrett/Pink Floyd, the SLEEVE CONCEPT, what you know
> about the genesis of SYD'S DESIGN on the back sleeve)

Around 1966-67 the first time I set eyes on the Pink Floyd was in
Piccadilly Circus, there was some sort of event taking place. They
were standing under the statue of Eros and looked very spaced out and
we had a few words. Remember that at this time they were a unknown
group like many others. I was well known in the music business as a
photographer and friend besides taking fashion and advertising
photos. I had left Studio 5 and opened my own studio in Mayfair and a
short time after meeting the Pink Floyd their manager rang me and
asked me to shoot their first album cover. I asked "What would you
like on it" he said "Leave it up to you". I was a friend of George
Harrison and used to pop in to visit and have lunch at his house in
Esher, wife Patti doing the cooking, going for a swim in the
pool and sitting around chatting, anyway George had bought this
prismatic lens and did not know what to do with it so he gave it to
me. I did not know what to do with it either - until The Pink Floyd.
So I decided it was right for them rang their manager and asked him
to go shopping and get them bright phsydelic clothes that would stand
out because the lens multiplied the image and made it soft.
They turned up in the studio - we totally got out of it and had their
music very loud reverberating around the studio, they put on their
gear and I shot the photo on a white background with strobe lights on
a Hasselblad. It was a very spaced out session, the music was so loud
you could hear it wafting down Bond Street, I had a few complaints -
never mind. They were well pleased with the results and went off with
the photos. It was probably at this time that Sid got into designing
the "Piper at the Gates of Dawn" album cover, putting in the
lettering in the space on the front of the cover and designing the
back, in which I was not involved. I was just the initial spark that
set the whole thing rolling, it was like that in the
60's.....invention. You may notice that The Floyd have a fascination
with prisms and light spectrums even on their later albums. Light is
the mother of invention.

> What do you think of the REISSUE of Piper in
> comparison to the original release?

Looks like the record company has had a slick art director on the
job and brought it into the new millennium.

> Anything that may provide more insight in your
> relationship with Syd Barrett? :-)

I lost touch with Sid and the rest of the group after the session
simply because there was so much going on. Besides running my studio,
I lived in the Kings Road with my model girl friend. There would be
at least thirty people sitting around when I got home, at least 4
parties to go to, getting very out of it, going for a drink with 30
people, going to Alvaros for dinner (this was the "In" restuarant),
going to the parties and finally ending up in the WestEnd night club
until 4 in the morning, having sex and finally starting a shoot at 9
in the morning and the rest of it - an was an unbelievable time - I
probably over did it a bit.
I think Sid really got into the visual side and formed a group of
artists to work with.

> Are there any written sources on any of these
> topics that you know of?

Yes. My friend John Cavanagh who works for the BBC has written a
book about "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn" and has done research on
the subject.



>Do you know what George Harrison thought of the Pink
>Floyd?

>Mr Vic Singh:

Can't remember George saying anything about the Pink Floyd,
he talked about mysticism a lot. A subject we all loved.
I did tell George that I had used the prism lens he gave to
shoot a cover shot for the Pink Floyd and that it had come
out smashing.

>Sofar you have given us some valuable insights in the
>genesis of the Piper sleeve. It may interest you to
>know that in Storm Thorgerson's book "Mind Over Matter
>- The Images Of Pink Floyd", Storm states the
>following:
>"I don't think this front photo was made by
>sandwiching transparencies or by multiprinting; more
>likely by a multiple exposure actually in camera,
>though I could be wrong. The picture goes some way
>towards evoking the contemporary sensibility - a nod
>in the direction of psychedelia - and provides a sense
>of the lovable mop tops (after The Beatles), as Nick
>likes to call early Floyd, as well as current styling
>trends in floral jackets and cravats. The Floyd
>themselves were probably too excited by stardom to
>have had that much input. Vic Singh where are you now,
>to tell us the the actual genesis of this piece?"

>Maybe you would like to comment on this paragraph?

I think Storm is trying to treat the subject as the interlectual.

When in reality it is quite basic.
The Floyd had no idea what they wanted in so many words.
It was more an invisible vibe, whatever you call that spaced,
psychedelic.
The photo was taken with a prismatic lens which happened to
be present at the time, with which I had not taken any pictures
because the lens was too farout - psychedelic form the norm. The Pink
Floyd and their music an innovation at the time. The lens fitted
their image perfectly, like a hand in the glove, so I used it as a
matter of chance, being at the right place at the right time.
Chance is a wonderful magical thing - how can anyone explain it and
its workings.
the clothes needed to have bright rich colours for the prismatic lens
which softened the image. So they got some floral jackets and
cravats - probably the only brightly coloured clothes they could find
at that time.

As far as the lovable mop tops (after The Beatles), thats another
story. I was a mate of Vidal Sasson his hair salon was in Bond Street
across the road from my photo studio, he actually loaned me some cash
to start up my studio and I used to shoot some of his early hair
styles. The mop tops were originally invented by Vidal for chicks,
becoming fashionable it spilled over to pop. Every pop singer had the
mop top after the Beatles success.

The true reality about the mop top is this - at that time if a guy
had his hair length below his ears he was jeered in the
street "bloody faggot, especially by workmen who would
catcall and shout obscence queer things like "look at her - get your
hair cut ninney" and a lot worse. It was against the law to be gay.

>[Storm Thorgerson in Mind Over Matter:]
>Vic Singh where are you now,
>to tell us the the actual genesis of this piece?"

I am sitting here writing to you about the actual genesis - fear not!

> Now, in the same coffee table book, Storm also
> mentions a millennium T-shirt design by Jon Crossland
> which was based on the album Piper At The Gates Of
> Dawn. This design had been a psychedelic cockerel, a
> "dawn piper", but it was rejected by the later Floyd
> in favour of a pixellated pic of Syd.
>
> This raises the question as to whether you yourself
> had considered any other concepts for the Piper
> sleeve, before the final prismatic lens design was
> approved?

No, there was no other designs. The sleeve was designed by chance,
beyond the realms of the marketing man and spin much more in the
realm of magic - how can one improve on something like that. I still
work my pictures in this way, finding that concious visulisation only
goes that far, but adding chance and the subconcious give magic and
mystery of art to the image - otherwise its another PR photo.

>To what extent were you involved in the
>repackaging project for the Piper CD?

Not involved.

> What do you think of the Piper album itself (musically)?

Very brave, the album commands respect. When I first heard it I did
not think it would be a success, because it was so different to all
the other music Beatles, Stones, Elvis, Beach Boys etc. of that time.
The Pink Floyd are one of those groups that should not
really be here and yet they are...... this in itself transcends all
the hypocrisy, arrogance in a society that sucks.

Best wishes,
Vic

>Thanks a lot for all your time, Vic. We highly
>appreciate the gesture.

Grimble Gromble,
VegetableFriends, 2003

george harrison the last performance

george harrison the last performance (in four parts)

The last (?) televised interview with George Harrison. Interesting and engaging discussion of his philosophy of life. George plays 3 songs (on pt. 4).

Lol Coxhill (RIP) - I Am The Walrus

Lol Coxhill - I Am The Walrus

Uploaded by 1001younan on Jan 24, 2010

Ripped by: ChrisGoesRock
Lowen Coxhill, generally known as Lol Coxhill (born 19 September 1932, in Portsmouth, Hampshire, England), is a free improvising saxophonist. He usually plays the soprano or sopranino saxophones.

Coxhill has collaborated with many other musicians during his career, including Kevin Ayers, Steve Miller (ex Caravan), Mike Oldfield, Morgan Fisher (ex Mott the Hoople), Chris McGregor's Brotherhood of Breath, The Dedication Orchestra, Django Bates, punk rock group The Damned, Hugh Metcalfe, Derek Bailey and street theatre performance art group Welfare State.

For many years Lol was compere and occasional performer at the Bracknell Jazz Festival, renowned as a raconteur as well as a musician, indeed it was following a performance at Bracknell that he recorded the legendary monologue Murder in the Air.

The avant-garde is an odd beast. In the case of saxophonist/singer Lol Coxhill, that can range from the virtually unlistenable squawk of "Feedback" (which is exactly what the title says) to '30s music hall songs performed with keyboard player David Bedford. Cobbled together from live tapes and a few studio sessions, much of the backing comes from the Whole World, the Kevin Ayers backing band of which Coxhill was a member. But not all: "Rasa-Moods," a 20-minute spontaneous performance taped in Holland, brings in Dutch free musicians for something that travels through moods; "A Conversation With Children" is exactly that; and the cover of "I Am the Walrus" is sung by kids, to offer an odd, disquieting effect.

Some pieces work better than others; the solo railway bridge improvisations of "Hungerford," punctuated by passing trains, is the perfect plunge into this record, while "The Rhythmic Hooter" is as close to something normal as it gets here, before descending into "That's Why...Darkies Were Born," an ironic, deliberately anti-racist performance of an old vaudeville hit (as the notes emphasize). The standard "Lover Man" gets a working over, not always with the best result, while "Open Picadilly" is just that, recorded in the open in London's Picadilly. It's a challenging record, and as Coxhill admits at the very beginning (on "Introduction" he disarmingly discusses the disc's successes and failures), it doesn't all work. When it hits, it's excellent; when it doesn't, attention wanders all too easily. But for 1971, aimed at the rock audience via John Peel's Dandelion label, it was decidedly adventurous and daring — and still is.

Famous for his unaccompanied, unorthodox concerts and albums, Lol Coxhill has an immediately identifiable soprano and sopranino style. He's perhaps Steve Lacy's prime rival in getting odd sounds out of the soprano with his wrenching, twisting, quirky solos. While Coxhill's an accomplished saxophonist and can play conventional bebop, it's his winding, flailing soprano and sopranino lines that make him stand out. He actually started playing more conservatively; Coxhill backed visiting American soul and blues vocalists in the '60s, playing behind Rufus Thomas, Lowell Fulson, and Champion Jack Dupree. He worked with Stephen Miller's group Delivery in 1969 and 1970, and played with them at the Berlin Music Festival. But his debut album, Ear of the Beholder, established a new direction for Coxhill. Since then, he's worked with both bebop and free musicians, among them Chris McGregor, Trevor Watts, Bobby Wellins, and Company. Coxhill's also played with such groups as the Recedents, Standard Conversions, and the Melody Four.

Roky Erickson/Nervebreakers Ephemera

1972:

1973:

1979:

Original New Rose CD sleeve

Last Call/New Rose re-issue sleeve

A Few Orphaned Good Borrowed Images From Lost Sources

Jad Fair

Joe Coleman

Click Mort

A Few, Good, Borrowed (In Entirety From a Fellow Borrower) Images To Get Goin' Again

I've been accused of being like the Wizard of Oz, the man hiding behind the curtain pulling the strings to put on a show, so no one sees the real me... This may well be partially true, especially in the series of "Few, Good, Borrowed Images" here on this blog, where I throw random images out there for consumption with little or no comment from the presenter... This is also the way I utilize my facebook page, just re-posting links, videos, and images, again with little or no comment from myself coloring the viewers initial reaction to the subject... On the rare occasions when I check the stats for this blog, postings from the "Few, Good, Borrowed Images" series always dominate the top ten... So here, with pleasure, I present a page of  someone else's few, good, borrowed images... In this case, from a facebook friend, Bob Reuter, who posted these as a facebook note entitled "Flawed Souls"... Good job, Bob, definitely worth "borrowing" from a fellow borrower...

Kevin Ayers - Musical Express (1980)

via: http://wyattandstuff.blogspot.com/2012/06/kevin-ayers-musical-express.html


"...here is the full portrait of Kevin Ayers, from the Spanish series "Musical Express"... 
with Andy Summers, John Cale and Ollie Halsall..."

This is an hour-long & the interviews are in Spanish, but it's worth the time & Ollie Halsall is crazy...

Kevin Ayers Interviews

KEVIN AYERS

(Danny Clifforda)

A collection of Kevin Ayers post-2000 interviews and snippets both on video and in print...

Kevin Ayers about the 14 Hour Technicolor Dream

Uploaded by freakedeliqueful on Jan 9, 2010

All Kevin Ayers' contributes in the great documentary 'A Technicolor Dream'.

Kevin Ayers and his 'normal' life with Sixties friends

Uploaded by UKRockHistory on Jul 16, 2011

Syd Barrett, Jimi Hendrix and some of the rip-offs of a musician's life in the Sixties

Kevin Ayers interview 2008

Uploaded by freakedeliqueful on Jan 9, 2010

Kevin Ayers interviewed in 2008 by catalan television Sputnik for their great documentary 'Les Illes Escollides', about musical scene in Balearic Islands during '60-'70.
This video collect all Ayers'interviewes you can find in the documentary.
Other persons who appear in this extract are: William Graves (with red polo, Robert Graves'son) and the guitarist Joan Bibiloni (black coat and pink t-shirt).

http://www.stylusmagazine.com/articles/interview/kevin-ayers.htm

Interview

Kevin Ayers

ince the recent release of The Unfairground, the first new album from British singer-songwriter Kevin Ayers in fifteen years, there has been an increasing and long overdue acknowledgement of his position as one of the founding fathers of British psychedelic rock. Along with Robert Wyatt, Mike Ratledge and Daevid Allen, Ayers was a member of the original line-up of the Soft Machine. Following a grueling tour of the US in 1968, supporting the Jimi Hendrix Experience, Ayers left the band and embarked upon a remarkably varied and consistently engaging solo career, releasing a series of critically acclaimed (if commercially under-performing) albums during the 1970s, before slowly sliding off the radars of all but the committed few during the 1980s. 

For his latest album, which marks something of a return to the freshness, eclecticism, and clarity of vision that characterized the best of his 1970s work, Ayers has enlisted the services of a wide array of younger collaborators. These include members of Ladybug Transistor, Architecture In Helsinki, Noonday Underground, Neutral Milk Hotel, and Teenage Fanclub, as well as Euros Childs (the former leader of Gorkys Zygotic Mynci, and a long-time champion of Ayers’ work), and the rising pop-soul singer Candie Payne. 

Ayers is widely regarded as an awkward and reluctant interviewee, whose distaste for self-promotion could be attributed partly to unreconstructed hippy anti-commercialism, and partly to classic upper middle-class English reserve (he is, after all, the son of a diplomat). Speaking to Stylus from his home in Southern France, where he leads a simple and mostly reclusive existence, he willingly submitted himself to a guided stroll through his solo career to date. Choosing his words slowly and carefully, with frequent pauses, Ayers’ natural wariness was tempered by a wry humor and a gentle, understated charm. 

To anyone who knew your work with the Soft Machine, your solo debutJoy of a Toy [1969] would have been viewed as a radical switch of direction: from free-form experimental jamming into a more traditional songwriting-based approach. Had you been storing up songs for future use over a long period, or was it a sudden decision, that you were going to change course and try your hand at songwriting? 

The latter. Basically, I’m a songwriter. I’m not a virtuoso musician, or anything like that. It was great to do the so-called “free-form” stuff—but after a while, you get the T-shirt, you know? I think that songs are more enduring, and more fun to do. A lot of free-form stuff is very self-indulgent. That’s why I left, because Soft Machine was heading more into fifteen-minute solos—and frankly, it wasn’t just Soft Machine. There was a whole era, wasn’t there? Endless guitar solos, and people just banging around. Which is great fun for a while, but then you just want to move on. 

You got out ahead of the curve, I suppose. But then with Shooting at the Moon [1970], you threw another curveball. You’re back with a band [the Whole World]—indeed, it’s your only album which is credited to you and a band—and there’s actually quite a lot of free-form stuff on there, where you’ve abandoned traditional rhythmic and harmonic structures. It’s not quite heading back in the same direction, but it’s certainly a surprise. 

Well, I was surrounded by some incredibly talented musicians, and it’s a side that’s just… there. I still have it, to a certain extent. 

Was that album more of a band effort, or was it more your vision as interpreted by others? 

Both. I always consider myself as a sort of catalyst, for these very talented people. I provided a sort of framework, and allowed them an incredible leeway. Letting them have their heads, basically. 

And I suppose you were also mentoring a young Mike Oldfield at that stage? 

In a way. He was quite a lost soul at the time. I think it provided some kind of stability for him. 

Onto Whatevershebringswesing [1971]. There’s a lot of eclecticism at work: you’ve got symphonic rock, vaudeville, avant-garde, and almost MOR balladry on there. This genre-hopping is a key part of your appeal, I think. What was the motivation? Was it experimentalism; was it showing off; was it restlessness? 

It’s just the way I am—it’s as simple as that—and it’s to my disadvantage, I think. If you think about most best-selling albums, they’re all basically one tone, one direction, repeating the same thing over and over again. I just wasn’t able to do that. But there certainly wasn’t any showing off in it at all, I can assure you. That’s just how my mind works. 




It seems to me that you were constantly picking a new genre and seeing what could be done with it. And then trying another, and then trying another… 

Yes. And also, a lot of stuff is kind of arbitrary. It happens in the studio. Choices are made, simply because some machine sounds better than another, or someone suggests another bass line, and you say: yeah, that’s a good idea too. So it’s kind of random. 

Because of this eclecticism, it is always difficult to recommend a definitive Kevin Ayers album, or even a definitive track, as somewhere for people to get started. But I think that the more unified Bananamour[1973] is as close as we get. 

I’m glad that you said that, because that’s one of my favourites. I think it sort of covers the ground. 

During an interview that you gave while supposedly promoting The Confessions of Dr. Dream [1974], you said that you were disappointed with your new album, and that Bananamour was superior. I thought that was such an extraordinary thing for an artist to be saying, especially as you had just switched record labels. So I went out and boughtBananamour and left Dr. Dream for a couple of years, because you told me it wasn’t very good. 

Oh, shit…! [laughter] 

Were you just winding up the interviewer, or did you have reservations about that album after it came out? 

I don’t know; I’m always saying things like that, and putting my foot in my mouth… and always getting told off for it too. Managers tearing their hair out, you know… [laughs] 

The live album June 1st 1974 [recorded with John Cale, Brian Eno, and Nico] sounds like one of the first Big Pushes, if you like. There was an attempt being made to turn you into a rock star, and it sounds like a pre-conceived showcase. You’ve said that you weren’t always too comfortable with that. 

No, I wasn’t. It was too stagey, and you’re absolutely right—it was Island’s attempt to make me into a kind of pop star, with high-heeled shoes and all that kind of stuff. It just wasn’t me; I didn’t fit the picture. 

And in any case, you were still promoting Dr. Dream, which is quite “out there.” It’s not something that you would expect to be pushing to a mass market. 

Not at all. Especially the second side, which is basically one track, all interlinked. It’s sort of the remnants of my Soft Machine days. 

It was round about this time that Ollie Halsall came onto the scene. He then stayed with you, as your closest musical associate, for the next eighteen years. At a time when an awful lot of collaborators were constantly coming and going, what was it about Ollie that led to the two of you sticking together for so long? 

[long pause] Gosh, that’s a really hard one. I think it was just instant empathy. I met him while I was in the studio doing Dr. Dream; I think he was working with members of Colosseum at the time. I needed a guitar solo for “Didn’t Feel Lonely Till I Thought of You.” I opened the door, and there was this guy walking along with a white Gibson. I said, “Do you fancy doing a guitar solo?” Sure, he said… and then came in and did this stunning solo, after listening to it just once. That was it. That was love, you know? 

Ollie worked with you closely on the next album, Sweet Deceiver [1975]. This is a problematic one. I listened to it again this week and absolutely loved it—I had forgotten what a good album it was—and I really do think that it’s one of your most underrated albums. 

Well, thank you for saying that. [emphatically] Thank you very much for saying that. 

Up until that point, you’d been the golden boy of the music press. You’d always had good reviews. And then all of a sudden they turned against you, maybe because you were saying goodbye to the avant-garde, and they didn’t like the idea of you going in a more conventional soft-rock direction. I think you were nobbled by the cool police, actually. 

Absolutely right. It was probably Nick Kent, or someone like that. It was panned. I think something about the title pissed them off. 

And the cover art maybe, because there’s this rather of-its-time line drawing of you. But these are very superficial reasons for dismissing an album. 

Well absolutely, but it’s so damaging to the artist. People don’t realize that. They sit there, sniffing their lines of coke, writing you off, sniping away… and you get slammed. At that time, the musical press was very powerful. Today it’s zero, compared to what it used to be. If you had a good review in Melody Maker orNME, you sold records. Now, no one really gives a shit. But thank you for saying that it’s an underrated album; I totally agree with you. 

And then came Yes, We Have No Mananas [1976], which makes me think of sunshine, beaches, palm trees… 

Falling in love does that for you. [laughs] 

That was the emotional context, was it? 

Of course. It always is. Either falling in love or out of love; those are the only two things that motivate anybody. 




You had John Reid, of all people, managing you at the time—and I think this may have been another attempt at a Big Push. He also had Elton John and Queen on his books, didn’t he? 

No, but the problem was that it wasn’t a Big Push. I was like a token, a golden boy, another charm on his bracelet. He totally abandoned me. He just bought me somehow, I don’t know how, and then proceeded to totally ignore me, in terms of any positive, constructive plan of what to do. 

Was there, at any time, any part of you that wanted that kind of mainstream rock star status, or was it always anathema? 

[long pause] I think probably when I very first started, with the Wilde Flowers or something way back then. It was part of the dream, yeah. But after that, not at all. 

By the time that Rainbow Takeaway [1978] came out, the ground had clearly been pulled from under your feet, in several ways. The album had no promotion at all, and punk rock had come along. All of a sudden, people didn’t want to hear about sunshine and palm trees; they wanted to hear about high-rises and dole queues. [laughter] Rainbow Takeawayisn’t even a rock and roll album, really. How did you feel about that kind of paradigm shift? Did it touch your world? 

I kind of numbed out on that. I kept working, but obviously it wasn’t working. I mean, another generation had just clocked in, you know? 

It was another explosion of creativity, but in a very different direction. 

Yes, and the best of punk rock is great. I was just rather out of context. 

Once again, with That’s What You Get Babe [1980], the NME absolutely savaged you, with the reviewer [Ian Penman] decrying the whole concept of the Cult Figure, and holding you up as an example. And in some ways, you are the living archetype of the Cult Figure—at least in terms of someone who’s actually living, of course. Is it a description with which you feel comfortable? 

Having never been in any kind of cult, I don’t really know what that means. 

I think it means that there’s a small number of people who really get what you’re doing, as opposed to having a larger number of people who might only have been half listening. 

Cult is the wrong word, then. It’s a selective audience. [laughter] 

You then left your major label, moved to Spain, and Diamond Jack & the Queen of Pain [1983] came along. In many ways, this is your strangest album. It’s the only time where it sounds as if you’re trying to follow fashion. There are typically Eighties-sounding synths on there, and so on.

That’s because it was commissioned. Someone offered to pay for it, but on condition that I agreed to his producer, and his musicians, and his ideas as to how things should be. I was very poor at the time, so I had to do it. And that’s really all there is to it. 

Listening to it, I almost sensed an invisible stick, just off-camera, forcing you to sing in a way that’s not your normal singing style. 

Yeah, you’ve got it. Absolutely right. 

Various albums then emerged during the Eighties, which are less well-known: Deia Vu [1984], As Close As You Think [1986]—which isn’t available on CD, and which few seem to have heard—and Falling Up[1988], which sounds like you’re just having fun. One of the Amazon reviews says it’s as if you’ve “just drifted up from the beach bar to the studio with old friends.” Was music perhaps less of a priority during this period? 

I think Falling Up was a good record, though. [pause] I mean, hopefully what you said was right. It was coming up from the beach and having fun with friends? Well, that’s good then. Leave it there. 

But there’s a track on there called “Am I Really Marcel” in which you seemingly hold your hands up to being lazy and lacking ambition, in a way that suggests that you’re very comfortable about it. Should we take that at face value? 

Well, obviously I’m not that lazy, or else I wouldn’t have had a whole career in the business. But you have to be clear in terms of what “lazy” means. It just means that you don’t need to be involved in the day-to-day hustle, or hassle, of city life. You can actually exist as a person on your own, without all the trappings. “Lazy” means you don’t necessarily have to keep making an effort to make yourself liked. 

Still Life with Guitar came out in 1992. Shortly after its release, Ollie Halsall tragically died—and then you didn’t release another album of original new material for fifteen years. It’s very tempting to draw certain conclusions from that. 

Well, you’ve got it, yeah. [pause] I mean, you’ve answered… it’s a rhetorical question. 

OK. Well, I could delve further, but I kind of don’t want to. 

[evenly] No, I don’t think you should. 

Let’s fast-forward to The Unfairground, which is being hailed as your best album in over thirty years. What gave you the impetus to return to recording after so long? 

That’s a really tough one to answer. Firstly, I need to earn a living. Secondly, I need some kind of intellectual satisfaction, and life. I need to feel that I’ve been vaguely useful on the planet. 

But there must have been a change in your general mindset… in your confidence, maybe, I don’t know… 

Well, it’s probably been made more from a lack of confidence. I need to re-affirm that I still exist, you know? It’s my job; it’s what I do; it’s been my whole life. I kind of have to do it—otherwise I’m dead. Dead to myself. 

With some of the 1980s albums, it didn’t feel as if you were so firmly in the driving seat—but I gather that you personally directed every note onThe Unfairground. Was this a happy experience? Was it a long hard slog, or was it a joyous explosion of energy? 

A long hard slog. It always is! There’s no such thing as a joyous explosion in recording studios. 

I’m outside of it; I can romanticize these things. [laughter] 

You might have it for a while. You might have a few moments of it, but then you find it sounds like crap on tape—and then it’s the long hard slog. It’s work; it’s like anything else. 

Tim [Shepard], your manager, helped bring in a range of younger collaborators. Has it led you to a curiosity in their work? 

Sort of, but I don’t really listen to pop music these days. I listen to jazz—the old jazz—and classical music. I’m not trying to be snobby about it; there’s just so much crap around. I turn the radio on, and listen, and I just have to turn it off again. I’ll listen to world music, but mainstream pop, or whatever, I just find to be totally uninteresting. 

There has been a sustained period of publicity involved with this album, and I know it’s not your favorite activity in the world. Are you longing for the buzz to die down, so you can go back to your quiet, bucolic, rustic life? 

It’s like a punishment tour for me. [laughs] No, you have to support what you do. You don’t necessarily have to enjoy it. But I do enjoy talking to people, sometimes. And other times, it’s not enjoyable at all. 

I would imagine particularly when they’re asking you questions which they could have found out for themselves, without too much effort. 

Well, particularly when they know the answers already. But I’d like to thank you for intelligent questions. 

By: Mike Atkinson Published on: 2007-10-23

all content copyright 2001-2007 stylusmagazine.com

http://www.kevin-ayers.com/