A quiet prayer of longing that lingers like a half‑remembered melody
On Rock On, his 1973 debut album, David Essex tucked away a gem in the form of “On and On” — a subdued, haunting closing track that never saw the spotlight of single success, but still holds a profound emotional weight within his catalogue. While On and On was not released as an A‑side or charting single, it sits nestled on the same record that launched Essex into the stratosphere, anchored by the glam‑dub classic “Rock On,” which reached No. 3 in the UK charts.
There’s little in the historical record about On and On’s commercial trajectory — no chart peak, no radio campaign — but that silence may speak as loudly as any chart listing. The song plays like a whispered confession, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but settles into your bones long after the needle lifts. On Rock On — produced by Jeff Wayne — Essex and his sparse bandcraft draw the listener into a space of wistful reflection.
Musically, On and On is a delicate counterpoint to the gritty minimalism of its siblings. While the titular single Rock On is built on a stripped-back groove — Jeff Wayne famously described the original demo as Essex banging on a trash can, a testament to rawness and restraint — On and On feels more like a lull: soft piano (or perhaps just voice layering), gentle backing vocals, and a melody that ebbs and flows like memory.
Lyrically, it explores transience and yearning. Essex sings to a lover (real or figurative), calling them “a melody that seems to linger on,” confessing that they stay in his mind on and on. This is less about the flash of romance and more about the persistent echo of someone who never truly leaves you. It’s a meditation on what remains when words fall away: the hum of longing, the weight of absence, the softness of what is unsaid.
In the context of the album, On and On provides emotional closure. After the defiant, smoky swagger of Rock On, Essex doesn’t just fade out — he mellows, he contemplates, he yearns. It’s the moment when the party’s over, and the reality of being alone returns. There’s an intimacy in the production: no bombast, no flashy solos — just the bare bones of a voice and its echo.
Although On and On may not be one of Essex’s most famous tracks, its legacy lives in its subtlety. It’s beloved by those who spin the vinyl, those who linger on the B-sides, the night owls and the dreamers. In live performances — like on his 2009 Secret Tour — Essex resurrects that fragile mood, reminding his audience that not all of his emotional power lies in chart-toppers.
Ultimately, On and On is a deeply personal whisper tucked into a landmark album. It may not have dominated radio waves, but it dominates the heart of anyone who listens closely — a soft prayer of memory and longing that plays on long after the record’s side turns.