The memory is as sharp as the chill air of a New England autumn morning. I was perhaps seven, slumped in the backseat of a wood-paneled station wagon, the landscape outside blurring into streaks of gold and russet. The crackle of the AM radio, slightly out of tune, surrendered to a sound that was both entirely foreign and deeply familiar: the liquid, cascading arpeggios of a lone piano. It was a sound that seemed to paint the rising sun onto the car window. It was Cat Stevens, and it was “Morning Has Broken.”
This wasn’t a standard pop anthem. It was a hymn, and for a generation increasingly disillusioned with the hard edges of rock and roll, it was a balm. This particular piece of music, released in 1971 on the Island label, arrived precisely at the pinnacle of Cat Stevens’ seismic shift from baroque, mid-sixties pop sensation to the introspective, acoustic folk icon we know today.
The album it anchored, Teaser and the Firecat, followed the success of Mona Bone Jakon and the breakthrough Tea for the Tillerman. Those records had stripped away the orchestral clutter of his early work, replacing it with a directness forged in the crucible of a near-fatal bout of tuberculosis. Stevens, real name Steven Demetre Georgiou, emerged from that illness with a new spiritual urgency and a simplified sonic palette. He was crafting gentle parables that offered warmth against the era’s cynicism.
But even within that framework of folk intimacy, “Morning Has Broken” is an outlier. It’s not an original Stevens composition but a traditional Christian hymn, with lyrics penned by Eleanor Farjeon in 1931 and set to the traditional Scottish Gaelic tune, “Bunessan.” It was producer Paul Samwell-Smith who reportedly pushed back initially, noting the hymn’s brevity—a mere 45 seconds if sung straight—would not fill out a proper album track.
The solution, which became the entire sonic identity of the recording, was Rick Wakeman. The then-session keyboardist—soon to be Yes’s prog-rock architect—was brought in to flesh out the arrangement. What he delivered was a sequence of improvisational interludes that are now inseparable from the song’s character. His contribution elevated a simple devotional tune into a majestic, yet still restrained, soundscape.
The arrangement is a study in purposeful contrast. Stevens’ voice, that familiar tenor of gentle conviction, sits front and center, delivered with unforced sincerity. His acoustic guitar provides a foundational rhythmic pulse, a quiet strumming that keeps the traditional melody grounded. But the star is undeniably the piano.
Wakeman’s performance is breathtaking. It is characterized by swift, sparkling runs—a waterfall of notes that fill the sonic space between Stevens’ brief vocal stanzas. The timbre of the instrument is bright, almost bell-like, captured with a clarity that gives the impression of a cathedral’s high ceiling, even on humble home audio systems. The dynamic shifts are subtle but crucial; the arpeggios swell and recede, mimicking the gentle tides of the morning.
The result is a piece of music that moves like an ocean tide. It begins with the famous, almost stream-of-consciousness intro—a rapid, repeating figure that immediately signals a ceremonial start. This elaborate framework allowed the four short original verses to breathe, stretching the track to a respectable three minutes and twenty seconds. It’s a remarkable fusion: the deep root of a traditional melody married to a virtuoso’s modern, quasi-classical flourish. The sheer elegance of Wakeman’s playing became an aspiration for many who began taking piano lessons in the early seventies.
The legacy of “Morning Has Broken” is wrapped up in an industry parable. Despite his monumental contribution, Wakeman was reportedly paid a flat session fee of £10 and was, to his lasting frustration, initially uncredited on the original release. It’s a classic tale of the unsung session musician’s crucial role, a detail that only adds a layer of bittersweet grit beneath the song’s spiritual glamour.
The song’s impact was immediate and widespread. It became one of Stevens’ most successful singles in the US, charting well into the top ten on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1972, and peaking in the top ten in the UK as well. Its success demonstrates a hunger among the mainstream audience for something earnest and pure. In a time of escalating political tension and cultural upheaval, this song offered a moment of quiet grace.
I recall sitting in a brightly lit coffee shop years later, headphones on, trying to write about the concept of “transcendence” in folk music. It was then, listening to the almost painful delicacy of Stevens’ vocal delivery—his phrasing so simple, his intent so clear—that the entire structure clicked into place for me. The song isn’t just about the beauty of a morning; it’s about gratitude for the simple, recurring miracle of existence. It’s the sound of humility amplified.
“The recording captures not merely the moment a day begins, but the quiet, profound realization that the self is part of something far larger, far older, and infinitely forgiving.”
The power of this recording lies in its unhurried quality. There is no catharsis, no big chorus, and no rock-and-roll climax. It simply exists, a persistent, flowing meditation on light, grass, and sky. The vocal harmonies, added in subsequent verses, are restrained, serving only to gently buttress Stevens’ lead, never distracting from the core spiritual message. It’s a testament to Samwell-Smith’s production restraint that the track maintains this fragile, intimate dynamic despite the complexity of the piano interludes.
Today, when we stream this track—perhaps through a music streaming subscription on high-fidelity gear—the recording holds up brilliantly. It retains a sense of deep sonic space. The simplicity of the core components—voice, guitar, and piano—means that the production remains timeless, uncluttered by the sonic excesses of its decade. It is a beacon of calm in a chaotic world.
It is a subtle masterpiece, a perfect alignment of borrowed text, traditional tune, and unexpected instrumental genius. It reminds us that sometimes, the most revolutionary acts in music are those of perfect stillness. Listen again, and let the light break over you.
Listening Recommendations
- “Hymn” – James Taylor (1972): Adjacent mood and acoustic sincerity from his landmark One Man Dog album.
- “Suzanne” – Leonard Cohen (1967): Shares the same deeply spiritual, hymnal quality and folk intimacy, though darker in theme.
- “A Case of You” – Joni Mitchell (1971): Another brilliant use of piano and voice from a contemporary master, focusing on emotional vulnerability.
- “Bridge Over Troubled Water” – Simon & Garfunkel (1970): Features a similarly grandiose yet tasteful piano arrangement that lifts a gospel-inspired melody.
- “River” – Joni Mitchell (1971): A wintery counterpoint, using a slow, melancholy piano figure to express a similarly profound longing.
- “Amazing Grace” – Judy Collins (1970): A direct comparison, showing a folk artist elevating another traditional hymn to chart success with simple, clear instrumentation.