Morse

Alastair Galbraith had gone through the usual punk conversion, though in Dunedin, New Zealand, which meant a) that it happened a bit later than elsewhere and b) that he got to see incredible local groups like The Clean and The Stones, first-hand. Indeed, it was the late Wayne Elsey of The Stones who encouraged Galbraith seriously to pursue music, after seeing the latter’s first band, The Rip. By the time of Morse, Galbraith had begun a slow, decades-long quest to find the most pinprick-accurate, direct way to express something of himself; recording to four-track, which often prioritises a kind of rustic minimalism anyway, the seventeen songs on Morse glimmer like jewels, and take only the time they absolutely need to say what should be said. The flinty strum of guitar meets Galbraith’s folksy, richly intoned vocals, his lyrics haiku-perfect; piano, organ, second guitar and drums all make fleeting appearances, played by collaborators and friends from the NZ underground. I can’t remember which fanzine-writer wag said of this album, “morse is the feeling you have before remorse,” but they got it right.