Every few years there is a big push behind Michael Head, the Liverpool troubadour whose bittersweet Merseydelia has made him a revered cult figure of 40-odd years’ standing. Despite a career of Sisyphean stops and starts, Head’s muse has remained constant over nine albums and four incarnations.
So here, then, are 12 more hardscrabble character studies and “boulevards of fractured dreams”, all illuminated by evergreen romance and the influence of Love. Every Head album is a gem, but Dear Scott – named after a note-to-self by F Scott Fitzgerald, down on his luck – has a particularly deep internal lustre.
