Rick Wakeman once mortgaged his house to pay for a mountain. Not a real mountain, mind you, but a giant fiberglass one that sat in the middle of a stage while he played a Minimoog in a sparkly cape. It sounds like a punchline to a joke about 1970s excess. But for millions of fans, Rick Wakeman Journey to the Centre of the Earth isn’t just a relic of prog-rock indulgence; it’s a masterclass in how to take a wild, impossible idea and actually make it work.
You’ve probably heard the stories. The heart attacks. The three divorces. The lost orchestral score that magically reappeared in an Australian packing crate decades later. Honestly, the drama behind the record is almost as tense as the prehistoric monster battle in Jules Verne's original novel.
Why a Live Album Was the Only Way
In 1974, Rick was a 24-year-old kid with a massive ego and even bigger talent. He’d just left Yes after the polarizing Tales from Topographic Oceans and wanted to do something that combined the storytelling of Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf with the power of a rock band.
The problem? Money. Or rather, the lack of it.
Recording a full orchestra and choir in a studio back then was prohibitively expensive. A&M Records basically told him he was crazy. They weren't going to foot the bill for a 40-piece orchestra and a 24-piece choir just so a guy in a cape could play a "symphonic rock adaptation." So, Rick took a gamble. He decided to record the whole thing live at the Royal Festival Hall in London on January 18, 1974.
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He paid for it himself. If it failed, he was broke. Simple as that.
The pressure was immense. During the second show—the one actually used for the album—a microphone cable came loose. A tape change almost ruined the narration. Rick and his engineer, Paul Tregurtha, had to spend hours in the studio later "fixing" it, which included having actor David Hemmings re-record parts of the narration because the live tape was a mess.
The Missing 18 Minutes
One thing most people don't realize is that the original 1974 vinyl was a compromise. Because of the physical limits of a 12-inch LP, Rick had to chop nearly 20 minutes of music out of the score. He hated doing it. It felt like "severing a limb," as he’s mentioned in interviews.
For years, those 18 minutes were just a memory. Then, in 2009, a water-damaged conductor’s score showed up at his house. It had been lost in transit to Brazil in 1981 and was presumed gone forever. This discovery allowed him to finally record the "full" version in 2012, which added songs like "The Echoes" and more depth to the narrative. If you've only listened to the 1974 version, you’re basically watching the theatrical cut of a movie when the director’s cut is sitting right there.
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The Sound of 1974: Mellotrons and Monsters
What makes the music stick? It’s the contrast. You have these soaring, classical themes from the London Symphony Orchestra, and then—bam—the English Rock Ensemble kicks in with this gritty, distorted bass and Ashley Holt’s "Joe Cocker-esque" vocals.
Rick’s rig was a hardware store of synthesizers:
- Minimoog: Used for those iconic, "whistling" lead lines that mimic the wind and the monsters.
- Mellotron: The classic 70s tool for eerie, choir-like textures.
- Hammond C3: For that heavy, percussive organ sound.
- Clavinet and Rhodes: Adding the funky, rhythmic layers.
The "Battle" section is where the madness peaks. It’s a literal fight between an Ichthyosaurus and a Plesiosaurus. In the music, this translates to a frantic back-and-forth between the brass section and Rick’s Moog. It’s campy. It’s loud. It’s brilliant.
The 2026 Perspective: Does It Still Matter?
We live in an age of digital perfection. You can recreate an orchestra on a laptop in your bedroom. But you can't recreate the raw, "edge of your seat" energy of a guy who risked his entire financial future on a one-night-only performance.
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Critics at the time called it "pretentious" and "a classical pastiche." They weren't entirely wrong. It is pretentious. But that’s the point. It was an era where musicians weren't afraid to be grandiose. When Rick Wakeman Journey to the Centre of the Earth hit Number 1 in the UK and Number 3 in the US, it proved there was a massive audience for long-form, narrative music.
Interestingly, Rick is still at it. Even in 2024 and 2025, with releases like Live at the London Palladium 2023 and his recent album Melancholia, he keeps coming back to these themes. He’s a "Freeman of the City of London," which technically means he can drive sheep across London Bridge. He actually did it once. That same "why not?" attitude is exactly what fueled Journey.
Actionable Insights for the Modern Listener
If you’re looking to truly experience this piece of history, don’t just stream it on low-quality speakers. Here is how to actually digest it:
- Compare the Versions: Listen to the 1974 live recording first to feel the "danger" of the performance. Then, switch to the 2012 studio re-recording to hear the "missing" 18 minutes. It changes the pacing of the story entirely.
- Read the Book First: Seriously. Jules Verne’s 1864 novel is surprisingly fast-paced. If you know the plot beats—the descent into Snæfellsjökull, the mushroom forest, the storm on the Lidenbrock Sea—the music makes ten times more sense.
- Check the Credits: Look for the names. David Hemmings (the original narrator) brings a very different, theatrical energy compared to Peter Egan on the newer versions.
- Vinyl is King Here: If you can find an original A&M pressing with the gatefold sleeve and the booklet, buy it. The artwork by Roger Dean and the printed lyrics are essential to the "concept" experience.
Rick Wakeman proved that you could combine a 19th-century novel with a 20th-century synthesizer and create something that would still be talked about 50 years later. It's a reminder that sometimes, the most "ridiculous" ideas are the ones that leave the deepest mark.