Little Regan writhes on a bed, suddenly lifts into the air, his face marked with wounds, his eyes vacant, and a green fluid drips from his mouth as his head swivels in a full circle. Opposite him, two priests attempt to exorcise the demon from the girl. This scene connects to a well-known horror movie directed by William Friedkin, while the piano motif he crafted has become inseparably linked with Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells. Fifty years after its release, the work is sometimes called the devil’s symphony.
Yet this masterpiece, born from the imagination of a 17-year-old English boy, has also been described as heavenly music, a cornerstone of contemporary culture, or a divine journey into the new-age musical landscape. As if vibrational waves begin the moment a tubular bell is struck, definitions swing between extremes. One thing remains constant: the piece defies easy classification even after half a century, proving its enduring mystique.
Today, as listeners encounter Tubular Bells, it still feels like an unruly, anarchic, and distinctly eclectic record. To grasp its impact on the music world, one must rewind to 1973. A 49-minute instrumental album with no songs and no letters, it burst onto the scene as a subversive force when progressive rock was ascending. Up to 20 different instruments were used, almost all played by the composer himself: piano, glockenspiel, flute, Farfisa organ, electric guitar, acoustic guitar, carillon, bass, and of course tubular bells.
on a recorder
The project began on the suggestion of a young British guitarist named Mike Oldfield, who had just lost his job when Kevin Mayers decided to disband his band, effectively breaking up the world. Mayers did something pivotal in music history: he handed Oldfield a Bang & Olufsen recorder. Still a teenager, Oldfield set his sights on recording a swirling sound on tape, experimenting relentlessly. He introduced himself to labels that often ignored or treated him as a curiosity. EMI, CBS—major labels looked at this total outsider who wanted to capture an uncut, purely instrumental track and hesitatingly moved forward.
After one rejection after another, Oldfield faced a difficult stretch. It is said at one point he even had to ask for potatoes from a local grocer just to eat. Yet perseverance paid off. A breakthrough came when he joined a studio at The Manor, a country house in Oxfordshire owned by a notable figure named Richard Branson. Branson’s unyielding support helped Oldfield present a demo to Simon Hayworth and Tom Newman, who worked there. Newman then introduced the demo to Simon Draper, president of the fledgling Virgin Records, and Branson convinced him to take a chance on the project.
RECORD
Work on the first part of the personal musical symphony began in November 1972, taking just over a week to lay down. The debut unfolded from delicate piano lines to powerful riffs that bridged pop, folk, rock, and symphonic textures. It was a bold fusion—an exploration of styles that would echo through the years. Tubular Bells would be described as calming and contemplative in places, while other sections hinted at new-age and even metal influences that would surface in later decades.
The album earns one of its most memorable touches in the role of the master of ceremonies who introduces each instrument in the opening segment. The voice is provided by musician and comedian Vivian Stanshall, a member of Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, whose performance became legendary for its playful, slightly inebriated delivery. Newman later recalled that Stanshall never quite nailed every instrument perfectly, yet his contribution formed a crucial part of the texture.
For the second part, Branson allowed Oldfield to use the studio when it was free, enabling a more complex arrangement that included additional choral elements. The recording was completed in March 1973. Initially, the project was publicly considered as an album title, with early discussions around issuing it as Opus One while debates over including lyrics raged. Branson favored a simpler, more understated approach, preferring a straightforward listening experience. The bells were treated with unusual intensity; at one point Oldfield struck them with a hammer to achieve a powerful resonance, a moment he recalled years later with a smile. Tubular Bells emerged as the chosen title—an outcome born of trial, error, and a touch of audacious intuition.
RECORD
The album marked the inaugural Virgin Records release, arriving on May 25, 1973. Branson set modest sales expectations of around 4,000 copies, envisioning humble beginnings. The album art, conceived by Trevor Key, featured a montage dominated by tubular bells framed against an English landscape. Oldfield’s name appeared in lowercase at the top, a deliberate choice to keep the focus on the monumental sound rather than the performer.
The chart ascent was steady and relentless. Two factors proved pivotal in the album’s European spread: John Peel, a BBC Radio 1 announcer, dared to play the entire album on air, a bold move for a show that typically favored shorter tracks, and the inclusion of Tubular Bells on the soundtrack for a spiritual-themed film, which broadened its appeal in the United States. The phenomenon surpassed expectations, with millions of copies sold and the British chart run spanning 279 weeks. Oldfield, grappling with anxiety and extreme shyness, eventually found himself overwhelmed by success and retreat to a quiet hillside in Wales. He declined interview requests and touring offers, choosing a more introspective path as Branson saw a global phenomenon, while Oldfield perceived the overwhelming attention as an obstacle. A single live BBC broadcast later satisfied Branson’s ambition to present the music publicly.
Measuring precise sales remains difficult. Tubular Bells has endured for five decades with estimates ranging around 20 million copies sold. Regardless of the exact figure, the work stands as a rare artistic triumph: a transcendent, influential composition from the latter part of the 20th century, a creator’s fortune, and a story of a once-struggling musician who rose from near obscurity to global recognition. Branson’s Virgin Records built its empire from ambitious releases like this, while Oldfield’s perseverance—often described as stubborn resilience—became a defining element of the album’s legend, a testament to what can happen when stubborn vision meets the right moment in history.