Kristoffer Morgan

Kristoffer Morgan


Rooted in the aesthetic of the 60s folk-revival with an ear for bold pop hooks. Like Dylan and Waits knack for spinning a yarn, coupled with Cohen's dour nature, set to The Beatles pop charm.


Having dragged my sorry arse across every inch of the UK for the past three years fronting indie-pop outfit, Edgar Prais, the hankering to return to the 60s folk music that I’d been brought up with became all encompassing. The band had a good run and during our time, we'd seen everything from the unspeakably filthy, fly-infested and completely unsanitary toilets of Liverpool’s Barfly, to the lush surroundings of a Victorian spa-resort, Strathpeffer, whilst on tour with The Kaiser Chiefs in 2008.

Ultimately, I needed to cut down my own route, off the well-beaten path and scout through the hinterlands in hope of finding something new. What exactly that something is, I haven't figured out yet; but I’ll keep at it with the vigour of an addict after the next hit.

As a lonesome singer, I approach song writing from the Dylan school of thought, where the music is primarily a vehicle for the sad-sack-drunks and broken-hearted-lovers to inhabit. That’s not to say I can’t carry a tune! Having been around all the great soul and pop records from the 60s, I have that Motown sound deep in the marrow of my bones. It’s with a keen ear for a great pop-hook and the golden age of radio that I write the majority of my melodies.

Despite my short tenure as a solo artist and despite having only just set out on this new venture, I’m proud to say that I’ve already released two EPs, both of which I recorded at my home studio. A third is due in May, along with a small tour around the country (once again!) to raise awareness. In July / August, I intend taking a small band into the studio to re-record twenty or so songs for my debut full length. It’s this prolific output that informs everything that I set out to do, in the hope of writing something I can stand behind fully.


Two Jezebels

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

We are as kith and kin in suffering the cruel and heartless bastards.
And as one, we are riddled with the sin that is our calling’s wretched manner.
So, come time for all the children to be dreaming
And for the mothers to be putting up their feet;
Come the time the husbands’ leaden-eyes go roving:
We both go down together.

You were the only child, born to a wild and desperate pair of scoundrels,
Who both died on the vine, having lived their lives just clinging to the bottle.
As an orphan, you were shuttled through their system,
Like a wraith, forever wandering its purlieu.
For the streets were all that ever proved becoming
Of a girl as unloved as you.

And I remember your tears, how they glanced in the half-moon;
Your slight, huddled frame, on the skirt of a doorway; and
How the whole damned scene reeked of piss and of stale-booze:
That faithful first night when you set my heart to ache.
I knew then I loved you, with your make-up all over your face
Like a fresh bouquet; dying to be saved.

I was a wealthy girl, all tender curls with bows of blushing ribbons.
Though I seemed too able, for my callow age, to kindle father’s passions.
So, under nightfall, on the eve of my twelfth birthday,
When the house had all been bedded down to sleep;
I packed a bag and left on tip-toes, down the stairway,
Without ever looking back.

Our grazed and bloodied knees would pay the lease to a man with tattooed eyelids,
For a room defiled by sleaze, that took on the dreams of those who’d never left it.
But with lover’s tongues we’d spin furious fancies,
That helped to keep our fears firmly at bay;
As we basked within the glow of tangled bodies,
Just wishing the other would stay.

How can I ever forget? You spilled out over the bathroom,
Overflowing like an old, broken cistern, with promise
That a wealthy, young banker and all such sinews of virtue,
Poured into your ear, with such lightness as a kiss.
I’m sure that he loves you, and that look that’s all over your face
Of having been thrown to the dogs and just waiting to be saved.

Poor Tom

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

These streets play host to weeping rains and bitter, howling winds,
But will admit no Tom that's looking for his Maudlin.
And the wounded welkin does lament through a clearing in the mist.
It's that cadaverous moon: my one true mistress.

For I have loved, but walked a lonesome road.
My foul breath the only love I've known.
So, loose these fetters from my dreams and
Serve my fancies with a house to call a home,

Where I may do as I please
And fashion my tune from the breeze.
For a release from all these roguish miseries.

O, to make-believe…

These crumbs of broken glass that bloom like flowers from the road,
Whisper tales of women that haunts my sweet repose.
And night's sable shadows are keening in forgotten, foreign tongues.
It's such a harrowing din, bereft of my Maudlin.

So, I do sing to bridle all such idle thoughts at play,
And my fearful howl stirs the fear in fearful slumbers.
Mothers shut their windows tight to keep my song at bay,
Should that wicked wind blow the ribbons from their curls.

Yet, for my love, I'll rove this lonesome road
Forever, or until my Bedlam's known.
There I'd be shackled at the feet, completely
Lost inside of dreams: far from these woes,

In the arms of my sweet:
As my heart on the breeze
Pours out its miseries
From Her to Eternity.

Like a Fool in Love

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

This is the story of the boys who loved you,
Of the hearts lain fallow, slightly bruised and sallow.
The poor boys you never thought were thinking of you,
And how they all soon thought you proud.

Though you once had loved and your love was plenty
For inconstant youth, knowing his spotted truths.
Yet, still you yielded to his untouched body,
To see your leaves turn green to brown.
From green to brown and then straight for the ground.

But O, how you bloomed
In the eyes of a rabble roused.
You so vulnerable and beauty-bound.
Yet wedded to your woes,
Such that the baying never did
Weep through your window.
You're like a fool in love.

So, nestled by the eaves when dreams come calling,
You'd lie awake, lonely, but for melancholy
And the tender lull of a dull heart beating.

But O, how it soothed,
Such that the yawning gulf did resound,
And a mirthful din beat sorrow's round.
Ephemeral and sweet,
For such moments always
Seemed so few and far between.
Like being a fool in love.

Evening Song for a Lonesome Man

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

Smoke hangs in the air.
The sweet languor of despair
That steals upon a room stripped bare.

Your life has grown small,
Contained by four walls and
Dreams from back before you chose to crawl.

But there's a hole in your head
Where the rain pours his lament,
And you can but drown
Beneath the weight of that regret.

So, douse all your sadness
And keep nursing the dark.
Find solace in the dust
And crushed flowers of your heart.

Now hope is a bruise,
Your desire a riddled ruin.
The ghosts of memory are all that's true.

And they are lithe in repose,
The fast marrow of your woes.
Yet, the only company you ever seem to know.

So, as morning flies with the hymns
You lie there cradling the dead,

Having wrapped your head
In all your endless troubles and
Watched the budding leaves
Of bloom, slowly crumble
All around you.

So, nurse all your darkness
And hide from view,
Behind those scars of yours
That have never felt a wound.

When You're Old and Lonely

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

When you’re old and lonely
And your heart’s as soft as splints of glass;
When your looks repel what they’d once attract:
You ought to remember me.
For I was sweet as sixteen
Before I unravelled with a glance.
Now my bones are fast like glue
Beneath the family’s plot of land.

O, to have died in vain:
You never even knew my name.
As I go, forevermore, wandering.

When you’re old and lonely
And your love’s an empty fallow fount;
When your memories are a skein of doubts:
You ought to remember me.
For I was dead and buried
Before my seventeenth birthday.
But with my dying breath, I wished
That you’d lay flowers on my grave.

O, to have died in vain:
You never were to know my name.
But on the wind it blows,
Forevermore, whispering.

Ballad of Dearest Blue

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

The bars are all closed.
I write this, alone,
In the room that you’d
Once called your own.
At the window
A candle burns forevermore,
Should you ever come home.

You were the heat in my bones.
Now, I’m cold as a ghost,
To the tune
Of ten hollow tones.
You made my failings
Seem like I’d be winning gold.
These days, I’m just losing hope.

As the leaves wane with the short days,
Before parading through the streets
Like soldiers to their graves.
The seasons may change but this
Feeling stays the same and lately,
All it ever seems to do is rain.
It must be that time of year again.

We were so tender in bloom,
Let the dust fill our shoes
And lay entwined
With our lovers’ ruse.
But I was drunk on
The fears that had taken root
In all that I’d gained to lose.

You were the heart at my ruin.
The stamp of my bruise.
I was cruel and you,
You were no man’s fool.
Well, I’m sorry! But you
Should know that I still think
Of you, my Dearest Blue.

And the dead weight from these mistakes
Forever shakes my every thought
Like a toothache.
So, please, don’t say that I will
Never change because all that
Now remains are the memories
Of a better day.

Cair Paravel

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

I’ve found shelter in the bower
From unending maladies,
As you careen through milky yonder,
Buoyed on lulling melodies.
Dreaming dreams, seamlessly.

When cloaked in darkness, I just cower
Like a dog down at your feet
And say a prayer that you’ll remember
To sometimes think of me.
That sole belief can bring me relief.

But this room has grown much colder,
So much so, my breath now lingers
When I breathe out against the window-pane.
I trace my fingers through the phantom shimmer,
Frame the future, and then watch it slowly fade.

As the bell ringing off in the distance,
Wakens my conscience and serves to recall:
In the lee of our braced-quilts and torch-light,
We gathered pace towards Cair Paravel.

So morning sky like silver ribbons
Falls through the boughs of dewy trees,
Whilst the sound of school-bound children
Carries gently on the breeze.
Waltzing feet, endlessly.

But that vestal light is now woven
Only in the books we read.
Where the happy sounds forgotten
By our selective memories
Are singing sweet, sweet and free.

Cigarettes and Oranges

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

Your tongue swells and grows heavy with words soft and honey sweet
That fall so clumsily from your lips on to me,
With a hint of cigarettes and oranges in every breath,
So warm and gentle across my neck and behind my ears.

But your body is an ocean, so lonely and open.
Your heart’s like an empty beach:
It’s nothing but sand that all just scatters with the breeze.
So when the water is rushing up to touch my feet,
There’s a sense of relief that the heart of you is in retreat.

And I should feel sorry, or guilty; but I don’t feel anything at all.
Your pockets have unravelled and your laurels crawl across the bedroom floor,
Before shambling slowly, one by one, out of the door.

Well, little by little
You’re ever more fragile,
Like a paperback bible
By a wide-open window.
But with tongue of a preacher
And the touch of a tailor,
Our troubles seem lighter,
Stitch the pieces together.

Still, when tangled in the throes of a sober dawn,
A bluebird sings you his songs:
One for each and every love to do you wrong.

So your worries are knotted, your stomach has you backed against the wall.
You’re balled-up and you’re clawing, crying, having never felt so small.
And I should feel sorry, or guilty; but I don’t feel anything at all.
I’m still wearing that old bruise, my excuse to walk before it gets too warm,
Because the fruit will spoil left in the sun for too long.

This Town

Written By: Kristoffer Morgan

What’s a poor, ragged man with no money to hand for a fare?
But a used gypsy hag, born to travelling bands playing anywhere.
Weaned in carnival stalls with the porcelain dolls,
Where the woman sing songs in their Spanish drawls.
Like gone southern belles ringing ghostly through this haunted town.

The eager to please get their fingernails clean as you sleep
With the cockroaches, fleas, all the squalor and sleaze that’s running deep.
As boys brittle and lithe and the cloak of a knife,
Walk the blade of the night for to earn but the price
Of a poor crust of bread and a bed in this crooked old town.

Watch the five-legged freak with a leather-bound geek at his side,
As he profits from dreams bottled-up in the stream with cow’s tongue and brine.
Whilst the babbling fool on the puppeteer’s stool,
Through his slobber and drool, moans that conscience is cruel
And the dead are all that’s living in the houses of this wicked town.

Well the sailor just leers at the prostitute’s leech riddled eyes,
For her rare, bloody knees on the lime-bitten street seems to suspend time.
As the roar of the waves drown the ships in the bay
And all memory fades with the marching parade.
The stories that remain unspoken make for the grave in this quiet town.

Hear the gaggle of clowns waxing frowns from their sad-orphan lives,
With the lines on their brows tying them to the ground of unanswerable night.
But for agonized strains of the stray-dogs who wait
On abandoned arcades with the wind’s harsh refrain.
Relief has itself no believers among the lonely in this sleeping town.

The young Catholic girls are all drawing on straws for to find
Who pulled short the divide with it’s tender goodbyes for the circus tide.
Where the clock drags his feet to the swinging trapeze,
As the gluttonous feed on the helpless and meek.
And your sins are all forgotten lest you ever return to this town.


"Milky Yonder EP" (self-released, Mar 2009).
"Blue EP" (self-released, Apr 2009).

Set List

Thirty to forty minutes, typically includes seven or eight originals.