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 ...

The fact that the fetchingly tousled, psychedelic beat-balladeer would never quite get it together on the scale his formidable legion of admirers believed him capable of was apparent even four decades ...