“Getting Off The Sauce Gave Me A Chance”
How sobriety, storytelling and a Scouser from the 1800s helped put a fragile talent back on top.
MICHAEL HEAD & THE RED ELASTIC BAND Dear Scott (MODERN SKY)
THE HISTORY OF popular music is rich in tales of triumph over adversity. Michael Head, however, has been a master of that narrative for 40 years. In his previous bands, The Pale Fountains and Shack, he overcame heroin addiction, grief, financial apocalypse and even the loss of an album’s master tape in a hire car to deliver a string of cult classics. But for Dear Scott, the Liverpudlian’s second solo album without his guitarist brother John by his side, Head faced a new array of adversaries, including a broken heart and alcoholism. “That was close,” he recalls, “the detox almost killed me, but getting off the sauce gave me a chance.”
Clean and sober, Head teamed up with producer Bill Ryder-Jones in his studio across the River Mersey in West Kirby and, alongside Head’s youthful Red Elastic Band, crafted an album that’s a summary of his songbook: all Bacharachlike melodies and smoky psychedelia, with Head the pitch-perfect Scouse street-poet, drawing elegant pen-pictures from the inner city margins. No wonder it’s MOJO’s Album Of The Year. “I love the album,” he agrees. “I’ve had some bad times, so to come out of that with this record is an amazing achievement by everyone involved. And a relief.”
Congratulations, you’ve won MOJO’s Album Of The Year for Dear Scott. How does that feel? Fuck me, man! That’s amazing. I did not know that was coming. Wow! I was with [daughter] Alice the other day, wondering how it would do. You know what? For all the people who made it, it’s well deserved. It’s a good album, you know?
It’s the best album even, officially.
Yeah! It’s really well played, the production is boss. The label played a blinder. Ah, that’s boss news.
Is this your first critics’ award?
I’d say so. Think of all the work that’s gone into it, as a reward for that creativity it’s massive.
As well as being a critical hit, it was the first UK Top 10 album of your long career. Why do you feel it connected with people in such a way?
A friend who’s been watching me play since I was 19 said it was my most complete set of songs. I thanked him and thought, I’ll have that. I was walking in town recently and this young scally was glaring at me. I’m thinking, Oh aye, what now?! He gets close to me and goes, “What a fucking album, lad!” I’ll have that as well. And as much as it flows together as an album, it’s an array of songs. It’s quite diverse.
It sounds like a summary of your songwriting career.
It does, but that’s a fluke. I never had any premeditated plan for it. I’ll tell you what influenced it most of all. We obviously all had that long break, didn’t we, the lockdown, and everybody utilised it as best they could. Personally, I got creative. I started writing. There were illustrations all around my flat from an 19th century illustrator called William Herdman, who drew Liverpool in the 1800s. So I’m locked in, his illustrations are covering the walls and they influenced the album more than anything. There’s one drawing in there by Herdman of London Road which goes to Kenny [Kensington], which has been an important road all my life. I’ve written songs on that road, written songs about that road, and to have that window into its past… wow! Then I found out that Herdman, who I assumed was from London or Bristol because he drew those places too, was born on St Domingo Vale in Liverpool. I was born on St Domingo Road, right round the corner. It felt significant.
The album’s also influenced by personal turmoil, isn’t it?
Yes. I was going through heartbreak. But there’s positivity in that. The word in the Chinese language that means ‘crisis’ also means ‘opportunity’. That makes a lot of sense to me, especially for this period.
What was producer Bill Ryder-Jones’s impact on Dear Scott?
Massive. We were joking we could have called the album ‘Bill’. You know, I’ve played with some amazing guitarists. My brother [John] for one.
Bill’s up there, his playing is quite avant-garde, out-there. The thing he plays on Gino And Rico, fuck me. His understanding of my songs, his orchestration, was second to none. You get his studio and that craft, but you also get his musical talent. A lovely man, beautiful, sweet fella. It’s like a footie team manager, you get different styles of producers, and his style suited this team.
Is he your Jürgen Klopp?
I’d go with Klopp, yeah, but he wouldn’t be happy with that. He’s a blue. So let’s say Howard Kendall.
One of the notable aspects of your songs throughout your career has been the people who pass through them. Dear Scott has some of your most vivid character sketches. Where do you find them?
Grace And Eddie, for example. I was in Birkenhead, on the water opposite Liverpool, with my girlfriend of the time. I was making these little 40-second movies, filming these two buskers, and they were amazing. He’s about 70, shit-hot, she was obviously his partner, maybe 20 years younger. She was playing a box-drum and they’re knocking out this blues-rock stuff, but it was the look of absolute love and devotion in her eyes as she watched him that inspired it. The only time I’d seen that look of admiration before was watching Tina Weymouth looking at David Byrne when they were doing Psycho Killer on The Old Grey Whistle Test. Wow! I know I’m married to the drummer, but I fucking love you! I just imagined the story of Grace And Eddie from that moment.
So you pick these characters up in the streets? I do. The girls in Fluke came from witnessing a conversation between two girls on a bench. One was a PR, the other was a manager, and the immediacy, the speed with which they got things done blew me away. They’d organised a trip to LA within 30 seconds! The story evolved from that, but when they get to LA it takes on a The Day Of The Locust, Karen Black feel to it. The woman from The Grass came from a documentary I watched about drug smugglers, about a strong woman who’d been wronged once so she became this ruthless smuggler. These characters come from observation, mainly.
Who’s under observation for future songs? We’ve got a few new songs, actually. There’s a Mrs Rafferty who is an older lady, quite an interesting character, and she’s toying with a younger man, leading him a merry dance.
Giving up alcohol was a big factor in Dear Scott appearing. Are you still on the wagon?
I am. It’s going amazingly well. I’m in love and writing like fuck. Hopefully we’re going to go in with Bill soon, take these new songs to him, which means there’ll be another album sooner rather than later for once, I hope. We’ve been rehearsing them and have integrated a couple into the set. There’s one called The Human Race, another called You Smiled At Me that we’re playing. You Smiled At Me is a beautiful song about love, just a simple smile on a train means so much to somebody. But, yeah… to answer your question about sobriety. It’s amazing. I said at one of the gigs that it was great to be here and a girl in the audience said, “We’re astonished!”
Have you seen your brother John recently? John’s brilliant. We see more of each other lately than we have for seven or eight years. He’s still writing, got some music he’s working on.
Do you ever play together?
We occasionally might have a jam if we’re round our Joanne’s [their sister]. I saw Pete [Wilkinson, Shack bassist] on Saturday night, just walking through town. He’d got up with The Red Elastic Band at Shepherd’s Bush Empire in London this summer, did a song we’d written together called Merry-Go-Round, so we’re in contact a bit. He’s with his son and we’re chatting away in the street, reminiscing about Shack. He’d sent me this picture from when we were in Japan where I had long hair and a shiner – no memory of that! I was saying to Pete that I’d love to play with our John again. He came from that era of your Will Sergeants and your Johnny Marrs, those guitarists who were influenced by the psychedelic axe heroes of the 1960s but they made their own thing with it, their own art form. Our John was there on that level. He could play anything. So, hopefully, in the future, we’ll be getting together.
Watch this space.
Always.
And finally – what’s the best thing you’ve heard all year?
Oh man! That’s a toughie! You know what… something… oh, what was it?! Argh! It’s a tough one that, mate, I haven’t heard that much. Let me think. What did I hear? Can I text you back when it comes to me? Good on you for that. I will, promise. (He has not, as yet, texted back).
“I’M IN LOVE AND WRITING LIKE FUCK. THERE’LL BE ANOTHER ALBUM SOONER RATHER THAN LATER FOR ONCE, I HOPE.” MICHAEL HEAD