"Sebastian" – Baroque splendor and tragic poetry in a single song

There are songs that accompany us like old letters. They reek of the past, rustle like silk in dark theaters, and leave a fleeting tremor in the heart. "Sebastian," written by a young Steve Harley , back then with road dust on his boots and great pathos in his head, is just such a work.

Even before Cockney Rebel was formed, this song emerged somewhere between sidewalk, night bus, and daydream—a chamber piece for the ages, born of Harley's own deep longing for grandeur, stage, and significance. When EMI finally agreed to pursue his theatrical vision in 1973, the idea became a sumptuous soundscape: "Sebastian," recorded with over 50 classical musicians and a massive choir, orchestrated by Andrew Powell , and recorded at the legendary Air Studios under the supervision of Neil Harrison.

And the result? Not an ordinary single. Not a casual track. Rather, a majestic brocade curtain that opens onto a world of mysticism, drama, and brilliant decadence. The baroque power, the artful arrangement – they transcend all genre categories. "Sebastian" is not a rock song; it's a drama in four minutes and fifty seconds.

Since its release, "Sebastian" has remained a fixture in Steve Harley's universe—an opus that is repeatedly performed at his concerts and never seems old. Particularly poignant: the live version from 1989 presented here. Harley, now more mature, opens the song with a dedication—to his former bassist Paul Jeffreys , who was killed along with his wife in the Lockerbie bombing in 1988. A touching gesture. A song about loss, love, and memory—suddenly sadder, more true than ever.

Anyone who listens to "Sebastian" today doesn't just hear a song—they hear a time, an attitude, a promise: that music can be bigger than three chords and a chorus. That it wants something. And says something.