This British chill-folkie’s most recent recognition came from his opening gigs for Vashti Bunyan, who shelved her freak-folk dreams for 30 years when her first LP went largely unnoticed in 1970. Dickson’s stubborn bohemianism reaches supernova in this collection of random, often-impromptu performances: a riverbank in Istanbul, a rooftop in Paris, a stairwell in Caen, anywhere that’d be appropriate for hosting his gently murmured lone-man-picking-a-guitar-by-the-cave-pool ambience, the upshot of which is a Bon Iver-ified Jim Croce thing, a gentle but steady rain of common lovey-dovey platitudes as experienced by someone who obviously thinks too much. It’s not too bummed-out sounding, though (that angle’s sort of covered by his obvious alienation when addressing the crowds). B — Eric W. Saeger