Somehow, between stints in drama-school and waiting restaurants, London-born songwriter Alex Dover has cultivated a style lyrically ravishing as Dylan and vocally wrought as Neil Young.
To draw comparison to the guitar work of John Martyn would do a disservice to the unique voice Alex has found here. Yet, every bit as rich, every bit as nuanced, Dover makes his instrument speak, in subtle harmony, plucking strings that collude in the air with words delicately plucked from the ether. That, never too lost in whimsy, pack just the kind of insight to hang in your heart forever.
His is the kind of music that dresses English sun-sets, that trundles down Somerset brooks and nestles in Swallow's wings.
But, just when you think you have him pegged as a curator of pastoral wild-flowers, tones sewn from the rhythm of crickets, he'll hit you with the kind of whit that pauses your thought in its tracks. Sardonic, a little scathing, but never cynical.
His is the shadow behind the wild thyme, a troubadour purveying wears ancient as the foothills, through a lens distinctly contemporary and unavoidably Alex Dover.