Remembering Steve Harley
WHEN STEVE HARLEY emerged in the early 70s it was into an era awash with glitter, swagger and carefully-manicured personas — clichéd archetypes fashioned by record label executives.
Taking the stage among the ranks of pre-packaged conformity, this newcomer occupied a space slightly apart from the mainstream.
Furthermore, when he materialised in 1973 as front man to the band ‘Cockney Rebel,’ he did so as something altogether unconventional and more thoughtful — theatrical, perhaps, but without being artificial.
In keeping with this meditative aspect, his unique song writing style revealed a literary character, yet one without the usual accompanying affectation.
Paradoxically too, here was an artist whose apparent self-assurance appeared to mask an underlying vulnerability. More on that later.
Left: Steve in Bill Gibb Chinese silk coat, 1976
For those of us who discovered him early in his career, his passing in 2024 felt less like the loss of a celebrity and more like the departure of a fellow traveller; one whose songs had long been part of the soundtrack to our lives.
HARLEY’S FIRST COCKNEY REBEL studio album was ‘The Human Menagerie,’ released in November, 1973. My own introduction, however came a year later with album number two, ‘The Psychomodo.’ As I recall, I’d been loaned the album by an art class buddy who’d been drawn to it by the striking imagery on the album’s sleeve.
Like many listeners encountering Cockney Rebel for the first time, I was immediately struck by how unlike anybody else they sounded. The album did not simply present a collection of songs; it was an invitation into a vivid and eccentric world populated by dreamers, outsiders, street poets and damaged romantics.
A classic example, and one that reveals perfectly Harley’s literary sensibilities, is the band’s first single, ‘Sebastian.’ It was a song he later described as ‘poetry’ rather than something having a solitary fixed meaning.
More a piece of gothic verse than a conventional pop song, Sebastian unfolded through layers of symbolism, surreal imagery and emotional suggestion.
Radiate simply, the candle is burning so low for me
Generate me limply, I can't seem to place your name, chérie
To rearrange all these thoughts in a moment is suicide
Come to a strange place, we'll talk over old times we never spied
Harley never sought to explain the song’s meaning, insisting instead that listeners should draw their own interpretations. In doing so, he achieved something rare in popular music: he created a song that rewards repeated listening in much the same way that a favourite poem rewards recurrent reading.
While many songwriters of the era chased catchy hooks and simple, cheesy narratives, Harley was crafting miniature works of art whose mysteries remain unresolved half a century later.
And then there was his voice — urgent, quivering, theatrical and deeply human. It was a voice that carried a matchless quality. One heard echoes of cabaret, folk, glam rock and music hall, yet the whole was clearly unique; unmistakably his own.
That individuality defined his career.
At a time when the music industry rewarded conformity to fashionable trends, Harley steadfastly refused to mould himself into whatever happened to be commercially convenient.
Even during the height of glam rock, when image and spectacle often eclipsed substance, he brought intelligence and emotional depth into his song writing. Songs such as Sebastian and Mr. Soft possessed an ambition and lyrical richness that set them apart from much of the era’s output.
Mr. Soft, turn around and force the world
To watch the things you're going through
Oh, Mr. Soft, believe everything they tell you
And be dammed if they'll thank you
Harley was never content merely to entertain; he wanted to provoke thought, stir emotion and create atmosphere.
If Sebastian demonstrates Harley the poet, Tumbling Down demonstrates Harley the social observer, scornful of much of the contemporary record industry, and those who sought to control him.
Gee, but it's hard when one lowers one's guard to the vultures
Now me, I regard it a tortuous hardship that smoulders
Like a peppermint eaten away
Will I fight ? Will I swagger or sway ?
Together they reveal him to be one of the most literary lyricists to emerge from the 1970s British rock scene. There can be no doubt, however, that his determination to remain authentic undoubtedly cost him at times.
Harley’s career was never the easiest route through the music business. Yet there is something noble in the way he continued to pursue success on his own terms rather than surrendering his identity for broader acceptance.
He belonged to that increasingly rare category of artist who valued integrity more highly than fashion. Part of the strength behind that resolve surely came from the hardships he endured early in life.
BORN IN LONDON in 1951, Harley faced enormous challenges as a child after contracting polio at the age of three.
Long periods spent in hospital left him isolated from the ordinary rhythms of childhood, but they also fostered the imagination and inner world that would later become so central to his writing. The young boy confined to a hospital bed escaped into books, poetry and music, developing the observational eye and emotional sensitivity that would shape the songwriter he became.
It is difficult not to hear traces of that struggle in his work. Lyrics such as those contained in his classic anthem, ‘The Best Years of our Lives,’ are highly revealing:
... Fresh faced imbeciles laughing at me,
I've been laughing myself, is that so hard to see?
Left: Steve’s first guitar was a Christmas gift from his parents when he was ten-years-old. It was a Spanish, nylon-strung instrument.
Beneath the flamboyance and theatricality there was always that vulnerability — an awareness of fragility and loneliness.
Harley understood outsiders because he had been one. He understood pain because he had lived with it.
Yet what made him remarkable was that he transformed those experiences not into bitterness, but into creativity, humour and fierce determination.
His battle with the lingering effects of polio never entirely disappeared.
Even as success arrived, he carried physical limitations that would have discouraged many others. But Harley possessed an extraordinary drive.
He pursued music with stubborn conviction, not despite his difficulties but almost in defiance of them. Watching him perform live, one became aware not merely of talent but of resilience. There was courage in the very act of standing before an audience and giving so much of himself.
I was fortunate enough to see him in concert twice, experiences that remain vivid in my memory decades later. Harley had the rare gift of making even large venues feel intimate.
Between songs he could be witty, self-deprecating and warmly conversational, but once the music began he commanded the stage with magnetic intensity. The performances were never cynical recreations of old hits. He sang as though the songs still mattered deeply to him — because they did.
And perhaps that is why his work continues to endure.
In recent years, many artists from the 1970s have been reassessed and rediscovered, yet Steve Harley never really required rediscovery among those who loved his music. His audience remained fiercely loyal because the connection was genuine.
Harley gave listeners something personal and truthful. His songs spoke to people who never entirely felt at home in the ordinary world — people who sensed there must be something more colourful, more poetic and more emotionally honest beneath the surface of everyday life.
Beyond the performer, there was also by all accounts a deeply principled and devoted family man.
In an industry not always known for stability or loyalty, Harley seemed to remain grounded by strong personal values. There was dignity in the way he conducted himself publicly and privately alike.
THE DEATH OF artists from one’s youth inevitably carries a deeper resonance as we grow older ourselves. Their music becomes woven into memory — into who we were, who we became, and the emotional landscapes through which we travelled. Steve Harley’s songs formed part of that soundtrack for many of us.
But perhaps the finest tribute we can offer is this:
He succeeded exactly as he intended to succeed.
Not as a manufactured star, not as a follower of trends, but as a singular artist devoted to his fanbase, and whose voice could belong to nobody else.
FINALLY
NO APPRECIATION OF Steve Harley and his gift for poetic songwriting would be complete without Sebastian — the haunting, enigmatic masterpiece that remains one of the most distinctive recordings of the 1970s.
So here it is, a live version recorded in 2012.
SEBASTIAN
Radiate simply, the candle is burning so low for me
Generate me limply, I can't seem to place your name, cherie
To rearrange all these thoughts in a moment is suicide
Come to a strange place, we'll talk over old times we never spied
Somebody called me Sebastian
Somebody called me Sebastian
Work out a rhyme
Toss me the time
Lay me, you're mine
And we all know, oh yeah
Your Persian eye sparkle, your lips ruby blue never speak a sound
And you, oh so gay, with Parisian demands, you can run-around
Your view of society screws up my mind like you'll never know
Lead me away, come inside, see my mind in kaleidoscope
Somebody called me Sebastian
Somebody called me Sebastian
Mangle my mind
Love me sublime
Do it in style
We all know, oh yeah
You're not gonna run, babe, we've only just begun, babe, to compromise
Slagged in a Bowery saloon, love's a story to serialise
Pale angel face, your eye-shadow and glitter is outasite
No courtesan could begin to decipher your beam of light
Somebody called me Sebastian
Somebody called me Sebastian
Dance on my heart
Laugh, swoop and dart
la-di-di-da
we know you all, yeah
RAVEN MOON 