Four years ago, Katy Morley accepted solitude. After putting out two lovelorn, trip-hop-influenced EPs, the Minneapolis-born, London-based singer, whose pen name is Morly, released “Sleeping in My Own Bed,” a track that emphasized her newfound fulfillment with a jazzy full-band arrangement. This song appears remixed and remastered on Morly’s debut album ’Til I Start Speaking, functioning as the final entry of a trilogy—following the lethargic title track and the smoky reflection “Dance to You”—about contented singledom. Throughout the album, Morly drifts between resigned longing and reciprocated love, painting in every shade of heartbreak and romance along the way.
’Til I Start Speaking shines most brightly when Morly gets explosive, yet her muted moments also resonate. During the climactic bridge of “Dance to You,” she sings, “I can’t grow inside your glow/And I’d rather be an artist than his wife,” as the storm of toms, minor-key pianos, and distant oohs and aahs surrounding her reverts to the track’s primary melody. This swelling accompaniment makes Morly’s confidence in this realization palpable; she recognizes that she’s more capable of understanding herself alone. Yet more common is the listless melancholy that defines “Superlunar II,” which depicts the opposite feeling: “I need you/You’re my proof/That death is worth the wait.” Her icy production works here: The track’s obvious romantic tunnel vision doesn’t require much fanfare, and the haunting chord progression flickers in the dark, lingering like a deep obsession.
Morly’s songs are most powerful when she shines a direct light on her life. On the minimalist piano ballad “Twain Harte,” she explains exactly what she did about a passion clouding her vision. “They must have followed you across the sea/Pulled down the line/Because I’m so in love with you” isn’t a metaphor: Morly recently moved from L.A. to London to be with her partner. When Morly gets even more specific, the results are captivating. “At home/Dinner cooking on the stove/And Nina singing to my soul,” she sings at the outset of the gorgeous guitar-and-Mellotron haze of “Up Above.” The first time I heard it, I instantly visualized her in a tiny big-city kitchen, steam rising above her head, a slightly warped I Put a Spell on You LP spinning on a record player. By conjuring these moments out of thin air, she shows that she can be arresting simply by recounting her day-to-day experiences with specificity.
Yet there is a moment where Morly manages to evoke a vivid scene by applying broad strokes. On “Jazz Angel (Bill),” she hears “an old song that makes me feel young” coming from behind a neighbor’s door. It’s a lonely, noir-tinted portrait of life in the city, and like the most affecting Morly songs, it’s a foggy window right into her heart.
Catch up every Saturday with 10 of our best-reviewed albums of the week. Sign up for the 10 to Hear newsletter here.
