For most of his life, Tony Morris was a bookkeeper, quite content to be a failure. Now the Broomhill resident is an underground music sensation. Our writer meets a rockstar.
‘I was in a very cosy wee pub down the road from mine having a quiet drink. This chap came up and wanted a selfie.’ His eyebrows bristle above the rims of his glasses like two curious porcupines, and he replaces his teacup carefully in its saucer. ‘And then, he announced to the whole pub: “This is the Tony Morris. He is a genius. Everyone know that.”’
We’re sitting in a wood-panelled booth in University Cafe, a beloved Glasgow Italian eatery. ‘There is somewhere on YouTube a video of a famous chef, Anthony Bourdois? He came here,’ says Tony. ‘Bourdain?’ I suggest, and get a polite chuckle when I add, ‘Someone else with a cult following.’
A 73-year-old former bookkeeper, Tony is an unlikely icon of Glasgow’s underground music scene. His Instagram account contains hundreds of surreal depictions of suburban life compressed into minute-long audiovisual sketches. Over eerie soundscapes or sparse beats, he picks apart niggling doubts in a soft, sibilant whisper, or croons his deep longing to transcend a conventional existence. Lyrics from the song Decaffeinated Coffee, which launched his success after going viral in 2024, are typical: ‘A decaffeinated coffee, please, a large one, pleease, to sit in, pleeease.’ He frets over whether these precise manners might suppress deeper feelings before concluding, ‘No harm done… Or maybe there was?’
A sly humour lurks behind the doubt, something most evident in the bizarre self-recorded videos which accompany his songs. Often he’ll stand in front of a dark background clad in a shirt and braces, hands in pockets, whilst staring off camera with a hangdog expression. Then, almost apologetically, he’ll turn to offer the viewer his opening line: ‘It started with your armpits.’
I became acquainted with Tony after being commissioned to go on a mini pub crawl with him. We would, the editor explained, have a swift one at each stop as a nod to the brevity of his songs. Sounds fun, I thought, and eagerly wrote to Tony on Instagram. I received the following reply:
‘I am a lone drinker, a serious lone drinker. I use alcohol to loosen up the inner connections between my unconscious and conscious mind and thence concoct an audiovisual piece; so a pub crawl is completely out of the question. I hope that doesn’t stymie the whole idea. All the best. Tony’
The idea was abandoned, but my curiosity was all the stronger and I requested to meet anyway. ‘Can we stop at Uni Cafe for an egg roll and cup of tea?’ he wrote back.
Visiting West End coffee houses is one habit in his ordered life, I learn, but it was attempting to loosen things up which eventually led to him making music in his retirement. First, he tried tango classes, then took up the bongos. Neither proved sufficiently loosening, though he made a critical acquaintance through his endeavours. ‘I asked my bongo tutor how he made his music for his electronic group,’ Tony recalls. The tutor introduced him to Ableton, a music software program better suited to Tony’s temperament: ‘I realised instantly I could get to grips with this.’
Since catapulting into public attention, he has performed live to rapturous crowds in packed-out nightclubs. I caught one of his gigs in McChuills’ candlelit hall. Somewhat incongruously, he was sharing the bill with the songwriter Vashti Bunyan. It was primarily her audience who had gathered to hear her memories of the horse and cart journey she took from London to the Outer Hebrides in 1968 and the lush, dreamy music this inspired.
She signed copies of her memoir beside the stage during the interval, and a line of eager fans remained by the time Tony launched into his set with the thrawn anthem to disagreeability Boozy Lunches are Back! I noticed that Bunyan’s hair was dangling alarmingly close to a candle while, unawares, she smiled across the table at fans and Tony was bellowing ‘I got no time for books about groups of friends!’ onstage. My eyes darted between these two spectacles, all to the din of an organ sounding like it was being played by a drunkard wearing boxing gloves.
‘That’s first rate!’ Tony laughs, when I relay this to him. The demographics of his own following run wide, which has taken him by surprise. Cool kids often ask for selfies around the studenty West End, while at a gala day in the plush suburb of Bearsden, he was ‘treated like some massive celebrity’ by a smartly dressed couple. His local church also enjoys the distinction of having a rock-and-roller among the congregation, and neighbours in leafy Broomhill were surprised to read in The Herald’s weekend supplement that Tony over the road spends his evenings performing to adoring fans. Now he spots them in the crowds.
‘And the postman,’ Tony says, with a look of bemusement. ‘He said, “Your voice came on the radio!”’ Deep and rich, it is a distinct part of his appeal. Has anyone ever told you they find it sexy, I ask, anticipating a flustered smile. ‘Yeah,’ he nods, ‘yeah.’ There have been messages. ‘Quite ridiculous things,’ he says. ‘Not utterly obscene, but, you know, just…’ he stares at the table. ‘Usually I just send a laugh emoji back.’
Musicians such as fellow musical outliers like Optimo and The Fall’s Eleni Poulou have also championed his work, and he has collaborated with a range of acts over the last year. The DJ David Holmes invited him to perform in Belfast, an occasion Tony enjoyed, but he later turned down the opportunity to join Holmes at Convenanza festival in Carcassonne. A free trip to the south of France sounds pretty good, I say. ‘Yeah, my wife and I have been on holiday,’ says Tony, ‘but I couldn’t possibly go back as this groovy guy.’
His life as a bookkeeper sounds like it had the format of a classic British sitcom, working alongside colleagues who shared his sardonic outlook: ‘Very cynical about life, no pretension, consider themselves losers,’ he says.
‘I was quite content to be a failure,’ he adds. ‘Suddenly not to be one is a wee bit difficult to get to terms with.’
