Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of War of The Worlds

No-one would have believed, back in the early 80s when I first heard the album, that I’d be sat forty or more years later watching the hugely popular Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of War of The Worlds: the album is a classic piece of 1970s ensemble musical performers plus the gravitas of Richard Burton’s unmistakable voice. That the album is a classic meant little to me back then: that its running time was a bit more than you could fit on a 90 minute cassette was the big problem. So you listened on vinyl or you missed the rather important end…

They’ve re-worked the piece, with some inserted commentary from HG Welles at the beginning of the 20th Century, then after the two world wars. It’s part of the show’s message about the arrogance of post-Victorian Empire being brought low by an overwhelmingly violent takeover from the alien red planet. We know that it’s not red weed that gives that world its colour, but almost everything else about the message of this piece rings very differently now—post-pandemic and also after some devastating acts of terrorism in a violent world that’s never been quelled by the shock of the last one. So there’s no longer war to end all war.

In any case this is a staged concert with the classic score played on a huge orchestra, and a massive Martian fighting machine that spits fire and roars Oooooohhhhllaaa!

Once the journalist (Liam Neeson on screen and spectacularly in hologram form) realises that the Martian invasion is against everyone, he goes in search of his love, Carrie. Carrie’s role is expanded a little and she’s played by maestro Jeff Wayne’s daughter, Anna Marie. Failing to find her, and getting separated from the Artilleryman, he bears witness to the final fight between British military power and the Martians. Thunderchild. This ironclad is sacrificed so that Carrie and her father can escape, but the journalist continues his walk towards—literally—London and metaphorically to a conclusion that he can do nothing. He meets a Parson whose faith can no longer help him or anyone: he has descended to madness and believes his wife, Beth, is a devil. The Spirit of Man is an incredible song, originally performed with Thin Lizzie’s Phil Lynott and Julie Covington with the kind of one-off passion you can do on a concept album. Transferred to a more theatrical setting it’s good to see it landing with Max George and Maisie Smith giving a phenomenal performance. Charlie Simpson sings ‘Forever Autumn’ as the sung thoughts of the journalist—one of the weird conceits of bringing this to the stage—and while he is fine, it’s great that the song is reprised with Carrie injecting some much-needed emotional depth.

The visual experience is a thrilling mix of overwhelming effects: the big fighting machine squirts flames into drama at times, of course, and Neeson’s journalist appears in holographic form either standing or seated behind a desk. It’s not obvious how the effect is achieved because he seems like a regular cast member—albeit uniformly brightly lit and disappearing like a switched-off light.

As a concert experience this is very difficult to beat. It’s got an in-built fan base that crosses generations, and the performers make a terrific ensemble. Maybe the meaning of the show is obvious now… and clearly I should have used two sixty-minute tapes.