A Song Born in the West

When “July Morning” was written, there were no political ambitions behind it. It was not a protest song, not a manifesto. It was slow, searching, existential. A song that took more than ten minutes to build its world. The Hammond organ hovered like a mist over everything — not aggressive, but inviting.

Music that didn’t shout.
Music that waited.

In the West, it was an expression of musical freedom. In the East, that same freedom became something far more charged.

A Memory from the 1970s – When Rock Was Still Now

For me, Uriah Heep were not just another band of the 1970s.
They were one of the greatest.

I saw them live only once, on the main stage at Liseberg, in the early 1970s. That was enough. Some concerts never need to be repeated to become lifelong reference points.

This was before rock turned into a nostalgic concept. No screens telling you what to feel. No filters. Just volume, bodies, and presence. Ken Hensley behind the Hammond organ — not as a background keyboardist, but as an architect, building rooms out of sound. Everything grew slowly. Ceremonially. Almost hypnotically.

I don’t remember every song.
But I remember the feeling.

That sense of standing in front of something that didn’t apologize, didn’t try to fit in, didn’t explain itself. Music that took space. Music that demanded something from you.

Only later did I understand that this was where “July Morning” began to live on inside me — not as a song, but as a state of being.

When Music Slipped Through the Iron Curtain

During the 1970s and 1980s, Western rock music began to seep through the Iron Curtain. Not through official channels, but via cassette tapes, radio waves, and whispered exchanges. In Bulgaria — one of the most loyal countries of the Eastern Bloc — rock music became more than entertainment.

It became a language for the unspeakable.

“July Morning” was perfect for this. It wasn’t aggressive. It carried no slogans. It named no enemy. It opened a space — and let the listener fill it themselves.

When a Morning Became a Ritual

Sometime during the 1980s, people began gathering along the Black Sea coast on the night between June 30 and July 1. They lit fires. They talked. They waited.

And as the sun rose from the sea, someone played “July Morning”.

Not as a concert.
Not as a tribute.
But as a ritual.

The tradition became known as Julaya — a word that hadn’t existed before, yet everyone understood it. It was no longer about Uriah Heep. It was about meeting the morning together, in a society where the future had already been planned by others.

Freedom Without Slogans

What is remarkable about Julaya is that it was never openly political. No banners. No chants. Just people standing quietly, watching the sun rise.

That is precisely why it survived.

Systems are good at crushing protests. They are far worse at understanding quiet longing. A song about a morning could not be banned without exposing fear.

So it was allowed to exist.
And it grew.

When the Songwriter Found Out

For Ken Hensley, Bulgaria initially existed as a rumor. A strange claim repeated by fans: “You know your song means something completely different there.”

Most artists learn to smile at such stories. Myths form around music all the time. But this was something else. This wasn’t about popularity — it was about meaning.

When Hensley finally understood what was actually happening — an annual ritual repeated for decades — his relationship to the song changed.

Participating — Not Controlling

When Ken Hensley traveled to Bulgaria and took part in Julaya, he did not do so as a rock star reclaiming ownership of his work. He did not come to create the tradition. It already existed.

He came to step into it.

On several occasions, he played “July Morning” live at sunrise, in front of thousands of people. But what mattered was not that he played — it was how he did it.

Restrained.
Attentive.
Respectful.

As if he understood that his role had changed.

“The Song No Longer Belongs to Me”

In interviews and conversations, Ken Hensley expressed something rare:

When a song means that much to so many people,
it no longer belongs to the one who wrote it.

That statement requires humility. In an industry obsessed with ownership and control, he chose to let go. He never corrected the interpretation. He never said, “That’s not what I meant.”

He listened.

Why Bulgaria?

“July Morning” did not become Bulgaria’s unwritten anthem despite its vagueness — but because of it. In a society where everything was regulated, the open and undefined became the most powerful thing of all.

Ken Hensley understood this when he met the people there. He understood that the song had not become a symbol of freedom in hindsight — but in real time, while freedom was still missing.

When Systems Fell — But the Song Remained

In 1989, communism collapsed. The Iron Curtain fell. Bulgaria became free, at least formally.

But Julaya did not disappear.

That says everything. Protests often die when power changes hands. But Julaya was never primarily about power. It was about feeling alive. About standing together and realizing that the future doesn’t always need to be explained — sometimes it only needs to be sensed.

When the Circle Closes

For me, the circle closes in a quiet, almost improbable way.

A song I heard as a young man, on a stage in Gothenburg, in a free West where everything still seemed possible — became, decades later, a silent ritual in a country where freedom had long been scarce.

And the songwriter himself stood there and witnessed it.

Not to control.
Not to own.
But to observe.

The Highest Form of Music

Today, we talk about music as content. Streams. Algorithms. Reach.
But “July Morning” reminds us of music’s true power: to create collective meaning without instructions.

Ken Hensley did not write Bulgaria’s anthem.
He wrote something better.

He wrote a song that could be taken over, reinterpreted, and carried forward by people who needed it more than he could ever have imagined.
He lived long enough to understand that.
And he was wise enough not to stand in the way.

That is why “July Morning” is still played as the sun rises over the Black Sea.

And that is why it still feels true.