David Essex & Richard Burton – The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine

By Great Songs
December 17, 2025

The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine — when rock opera transformed science fiction into living, breathing drama

There are songs you hum absentmindedly. And then there are pieces of music that feel like events — moments where sound becomes cinema, and storytelling steps far beyond the boundaries of radio. “The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine” belongs firmly in the latter category. Drawn from the monumental 1978 concept album Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of The War of the Worlds, this track stands as one of the most electrifying intersections of rock music, literature, and theatrical performance ever committed to vinyl.

When the album first appeared in 1978, it was not merely another ambitious studio project — it was a cultural phenomenon. Built upon The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells, Jeff Wayne’s adaptation fused progressive rock, orchestral sweep, and spoken-word drama into something startlingly immersive. It soared to No.1 on the UK Albums Chart and has since sold millions worldwide, becoming one of the most enduring British albums of its era. But its true achievement lies not in numbers — it lies in atmosphere.

“The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine” arrives early in the narrative, at the moment when disbelief collapses into terror. The Martian cylinder has landed. Curiosity has turned to horror. And through the eyes — and voice — of a shaken Artilleryman, listeners experience the first full awakening to catastrophe.

That Artilleryman is portrayed by David Essex, a star who, by the late 1970s, had already established himself as a charismatic presence in British pop and theatre. Yet here, Essex abandons glamour. His performance is not polished bravado; it is raw adrenaline. His voice trembles with urgency, sometimes almost breathless, as he recounts the towering, metallic nightmare emerging from the pit.

Opposite him stands one of the most commanding narrators ever to grace a recording studio: Richard Burton. Burton’s narration throughout the album is legendary, but in this track, his presence feels almost seismic. His deep, resonant delivery transforms science fiction into something disturbingly plausible. When he describes the fighting machine rising — deliberate, mechanical, unstoppable — it feels less like fiction and more like documentary testimony from a survivor of the impossible.

Sound That Moves Like Machinery

Musically, Jeff Wayne constructs tension with surgical precision. The rhythm pulses like advancing machinery. Synthesizers grind and shimmer. Strings swell ominously, then retreat into uneasy silence. Unlike traditional rock singles built around catchy hooks, this composition thrives on escalation. It builds. It stalks. It erupts.

The famous “ULLA!” cry of the Martians — eerie and mechanical — slices through the arrangement like an alarm from another world. The fighting machine is not merely described; it is sonically embodied. You hear its metallic stride. You feel the tremor beneath it.

Wayne’s genius lies in restraint as much as spectacle. Silence is used strategically. Moments of near-stillness heighten the impact of sudden orchestral surges. The track becomes cinematic without visuals — a film projected directly into the imagination.

Fear Beyond Fiction

While rooted in Victorian science fiction, the themes resonated profoundly in 1978. The Cold War still cast its long shadow across Europe. Nuclear anxiety lingered in public consciousness. Technological advancement accelerated at dizzying speed. In that climate, Wells’ Martians were more than extraterrestrials; they symbolized overwhelming force, the fragility of civilization, and humanity’s vulnerability to powers beyond control.

“The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine” captures the exact moment innocence evaporates. The Artilleryman is not a hero charging into battle. He is a witness — stunned, terrified, trying to process what he has seen. That humanity is what makes the piece timeless. It reminds us that in the face of catastrophe, our first instinct is not grandeur — it is survival.

And yet, within the fear, there is awe. The fighting machine is monstrous, but it is also magnificent. Wayne’s music does not trivialize its power. It respects it. That tension between terror and wonder keeps listeners suspended in emotional contradiction.

Performance as Storytelling

David Essex’s portrayal deserves special recognition. Rather than delivering lines like a pop vocalist hitting notes, he performs like a stage actor inside a soundscape. His phrasing conveys confusion and urgency — the sense of someone replaying trauma in real time. There is breath in his words, hesitation, disbelief.

Richard Burton, by contrast, provides gravitas. His voice carries the weight of history, grounding the fantastical in sober reflection. Together, they create dynamic contrast: youthful panic against seasoned narration. It is not simply a duet; it is dramatic architecture.

Few albums of the 1970s dared to demand such attentive listening. This was not background music. It required immersion. It asked the audience to imagine, to visualize, to lean forward. And remarkably, audiences embraced it.

An Enduring Legacy

Decades later, “The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine” remains one of the defining moments of Jeff Wayne’s epic adaptation. The album has been remastered, re-staged, and toured with live holographic performances — proof that its imaginative scope continues to captivate new generations.

What keeps it alive is sincerity. It never winks at its premise. It never apologizes for its ambition. Instead, it commits completely to its world. That confidence invites the listener to suspend disbelief and enter the story wholeheartedly.

In the broader history of rock music, few works have so seamlessly blended literature and progressive sound. While concept albums were not uncommon in the 1970s, this project elevated the format into something theatrical and symphonic without losing emotional immediacy.

When the Machine Still Rises

Listening today, the track retains its potency. The production may carry the unmistakable texture of late-1970s analog recording, but its emotional core is ageless. When Burton’s voice describes the mechanical titan emerging against the sky, and Essex’s Artilleryman struggles to comprehend what he has witnessed, the scene still unfolds vividly in the mind.

Music has always possessed the power to transport. Here, it does more — it confronts. It asks what we would do if confronted by forces beyond our understanding. It reminds us how quickly certainty can dissolve.

“The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine” is not just a highlight of a landmark album. It is a testament to the power of ambitious storytelling in popular music. It proves that rock can be literary, orchestral, dramatic — and still deeply human.

Nearly half a century later, as the fighting machine once again rises from the speakers, it carries with it the same mixture of dread and wonder that first startled audiences in 1978. And in that moment, we are reminded why this collaboration between David Essex, Richard Burton, and Jeff Wayne remains unforgettable: because it dared to imagine the unimaginable — and made us believe it.