Originally released in the early part of this year as a Bandcamp-only download, Angeline Morrison’s third solo album, Ophelia, gets a “proper” release just in time for the Autumn Equinox. Which is fitting, really, as it’s full of fallen-leaves romanticism and silvery-moon hauntings.
It’s not entirely clear which Ophelia Morrison is trying to conjure across the album and, in many ways, it doesn’t really matter. Lurking somewhere in the eleven relatively short tracks – most clock into at around two and a half minutes – there’s the innocent purity of Richard Redgrave’s painting from 1842; John Everett Malais’ famously doomed, utterly vivid version; the beautifully poetic Waterhouse one and Shakespeare’s complex, shocking heroine too. Morrison gathers them all together, giving voice to every one.
This is, very much, a solo album. Morrison plays every instrument, multi-tracks every voice and produces the whole thing too. If we weren’t already sure of her position as one of the most important new voices in the folk world, she uses Ophelia to remind us. Even if some of the ideas feel like the outlines of something bigger, which in many ways it is; Morrison says it should be viewed “as an aperitif to my alchemy-themed album”, which she is currently working on.
Clouds Never Move was originally released in 2020 after George Floyd’s murder, and Morrison reminds us of the importance of speaking your own truth. It is a lullaby with an unsettling, sinister edge; the soft, almost childlike melody at odds with Morrison’s voice that sails very close to Wyrd. The plinks of a kalimba are raindrops falling through leaves, faint sounds of bird song further enfolding the whole thing in forest green until a multi-tracked Morrison harmonizes, staring up to the heavens. Perhaps it is fitting that the story she tells is one from her childhood, but it’s one that has been slightly twisted due to time’s passing. Childlike but odd; gentle but strange.
In fact, most of Ophelia follows this pattern. The title track drips with romanticism but Morrison’s voice is strangled and wavering, a lightly strummed acoustic guitar creating tiny ripples in water. There’s a real sense of 70s folk horror soundtracks, a creeping unease that the harmonised ah-ahs fail to entirely dispel. Creaks, the scraping of knives and the winding of clocks skitter away behind He Comes in the Night, more nightmarish visions flickering at the periphery. This time Morrison channels Eartha Kitt’s deep feline purr over an insistent keyboard drone. If the Tiger Lillies spent their time haunting wooded groves, rather than Edwardian backstreets, they might sound like this.
Hours of Sunlight starts to ease away from the eerie and horror-filled, into something that feels more straightforwardly Folk (with a capital F). It’s floaty and 70s; a meditation. This time her voice is high and sweet, droplets of sunshine rather than rain. Bright Blessings is exactly that; a blessing that is blindingly bright. Nature imagery and bird trills fill the air, an innocent folk song which Morrison sings leaning right into your ear.
A Quiver in the Heart has a glorious 60s girl band sway… It’s the best thing that Morrison has ever done
For all of the folk horror witch-ery, floaty folk and off-kilter strangeness, it is on The Ghost of a Song that Morrison does something truly shocking. Half way through the song, she scrapes the silvery film off and uncovers the tiniest hint of a doo-wop melody. Then she sings, really sings, and all of the Wyrd Folk affectation start to fall away. It is so ridiculously exciting, so natural and honest. As if to prove that it’s not a one-off she then does it again. A Quiver in the Heart has a glorious 60s girl band sway, even the autoharp can’t disguise the sha-la-la exuberance of the thing. It’s the best thing that Morrison has ever done and, if she carries out her desire to make it some kind of spector-ish Wall of Sound monster, it could be simply delirious.
Ultimately, Ophelia has the feel of a set of scratchy tone poems, fragmentary ideas, the preparatory sketches for something grand and romantic. It creates its own world, gathers sticks and stones from woods and streams, sets them up to be studied and sifted. Much of it is moss, twigs and beautiful pieces of birds’ eggs but A Quiver in the Heart is the bright gem amongst the fuzzy, natural shades. Ophelia is worth having simply to hear Angeline Morrison struggling to contain her inner Ronette.
Ophelia is out now on various formats.
You can catch Angeline Morrison live throughout autumn.
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