Roy Ayers in a 1976 publicity still. (Wiki)
Born 1940 in Los Angeles, Roy Ayers never orbited the approximate longitude of the Mississippi Delta, Memphis, and Detroit that formed the connecting lines between Black gospel music, blues, and soul and rhythm and blues that would merge in Detroit to form the cultural phenomenon of Motown. A true fan might say he had no need to travel along that line at all, seeing how he formed one all his own.
It would be hyperbole to say that Ayers, who died at the age of 84 earlier this month, held the same rank in the soul world as Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, or Sam Cooke. Ayers’s vocal prowess and emotive range never came near the giants, and his instrument of choice, the piano, but mostly the vibraphone and other percussive mallet instruments, leaned more toward jazz. His niche was too esoteric for most soul fans looking for a good song on the radio. Rather, Ayers coasted on his unique sentiment and vibe. And it was sublime, positive, and unfailingly warm and luminescent. What else would you expect a writer, any writer, to say about the musical talent who gave us the song “Everybody Loves The Sunshine”?
For a talent who rarely stormed the Billboard charts, Ayers’s footprint would travel all over the pop music map. By more than one estimate, he is the most sampled artist ever, lending touches to A Tribe Called Quest, Mary J Blige, and Kendrick Lamar. For Erykah Badu he was the “king of neo-soul.” For Pharrell Williams, Roy Ayers was a key advocate of joy in songwriting. It is certainly no mistake that one of the first lines of “Happy” announce, as Ayers did thirty-eight years earlier in 1977 with his first break-out hit, “Sunshine she’s here you can take a break!”
I came upon Ayers’s music basically by mistake the first time I also came upon a 1987 print copy of the UK music publication New Musical Express (NME), also by mistake. Growing up in Salt Lake City during the pre-internet early ’90s, any publication outside the 48 contiguous states was more exotic than sushi. The publication’s cover promised its critics “All Time Top 150 Singles.” Aretha Franklin’s “I Say A Little Prayer,” written by Burt Bacharach, aced the list at No. 1. Roy Ayers’s “Running Away,” by contrast, languished at No. 147, just after The Flamingos “I Only Have Eyes For You” but before “The Last Time” by the Rolling Stones.
After two years of working through the entire, 150-song list, between school and work, I finally happened upon a used vinyl copy of Ayers’s LP Lifeline to hear “Running Away” for the first time. The tune lacked the fire of great soul songs soul fans love and know—“Superstition,” “Move On Up,” “Papa Was A Rolling Stone,” et al—but what it lacked in emotional focus it gained in sheer propulsion. As such, “Running Away” can be listened to as one of the first examples of driving, relentless grooves that the world would enjoy in “Good Times” by Chic, to say nothing of the entire song catalogs of Kool and the Gang, Earth Wind & Fire, and Daft Punk.
His lyrics were as straightforward as his music. In addition to its groove, “Running Away” was the break-up song supreme, proclaiming the vital ingredient of reciprocity in relationships. Almost every other song Ayers penned, even if not an underground soul hit, operated on the same lyrical outline of naked honesty. “I need more than sex to nourish my equilibrium, but I do need sex,” he said in his talk-sing voice on “I Am Your Mind.”
Seemingly contrary to his warm, life-affirming aesthetic Ayers’s 1977 album Lifeline features a large stream of blood streaked across a black background, as if someone’s jugular was cut for album art. What the image spoke to was the visceral nature of Ayers’s music, which cut deep. Listening to it you almost believed his groove was eternal.
