Being a young teenager of the mid-1970s, it was impossible not to be aware of an older breed of youth whose denim attire served as means of pledging allegiance to their favourite rock band.
From memory, by 1975 it was rare to see a pair of jeans walk by or catch glimpse of a jean-jacket sleeve without them being adorned with a stitched-on badge bearing the name of a hugely successful group, yet one whose individual members, broadly speaking, remained unknown to the public at large.
While Jagger, Richards, Moon and Townshend were household names, the act in question could claim greater prominence than either the Stones or The Who when it came to sewn patches. While not, quite, having the album sales to match those of say Floyd or Zeppelin, they led the way when it came to a distinctive logo – the ensemble in question being prog-rock titans Yes, the instantly recognisable fascia (devised by artist Roger Dean), first seen on the cover of their fifth album, ‘CLOSE TO THE EDGE‘ (September 1972).
Those worshipping at the altar of these progressive-rock ultras – through their 1971-77 heyday Yes had an almost messianic following – were an audience who whole-heatedly embraced the convictions (others would quickly say pretensions), of a band that took rock music into some of its most abstract territory.
Indeed, it was unlikely ever to chance upon a casual Yes fan. Once on board those smitten tended to stay for the entire journey, yet for others it was a ride too ghastly to contemplate, the first stopping off point not arriving soon enough – Yes the very antithesis of rock and roll or mid-60s rebellious rock, not for them the boozy bonhomie or ramshackle rowdiness of early-70s compatriots the Faces.
By the time Yes came to release ‘Close to the Edge‘ in the late summer of 1972, they were neck and neck with the likes of Emerson Lake & Palmer and Genesis in the prog-rock field, but with this release went way ahead of the game with what stands as their defining album, one crafted by the most accomplished line-up of the band. With Pink Floyd yet to weigh in with ‘The Dark Side of the Moon‘, Yes were acclaimed for making the greatest prog album so far recorded – which depending on your viewpoint represented affirmation of their artistic ambitions or was the most back-handed of compliments.
Formed in late-60s London by Jon Anderson (vocals), Chris Squire (bass) and Bill Bruford (drums), both other founder members, Peter Banks (guitar) and Tony Kaye (keyboards) dropped by the wayside at various stages through the opening couple of years and first two albums of their existence.
Neither ‘Yes‘ (1969) or ‘Time and a Word‘ (1970) won them many friends among the rock press, the New Musical Express in particular not partial to what they felt was the ‘cold artistry‘ attached to the technically impressive yet strangely charmless music Yes produced.
With neo-classical song arrangements aligned to the impenetrable (‘banal‘ – NME), lyrics of Anderson, they were quickly dismissed as ‘utterly pretentious‘, no mean feat in the overblown, opening years of the 1970s. Yet despite critical negativity from some quarters, Yes built a huge fan base that kept enlarging due to growing repute as a live act, few questioning their capabilities in reproducing this most grandiose form of rock on the concert stage.
For the 1971 set ‘The Yes Album‘ Steve Howe replaced Banks and at a stroke the guitar work became more expressive, even if the overall picture was still one of unchecked bombast, this being their first offering to comprise entirely of material written by the group. There was, however, no doubt that despite a lack of passion in what Yes conveyed it was striking a chord with many among the record buying public.
These gains were subsequently built upon with fourth album ‘Fragile‘ (November 1971), the first to feature keyboard whiz Rick Wakeman, whose previous credits included work with David Bowie, Cat Stevens, Black Sabbath and erstwhile membership of folk-rock outfit The Strawbs – London-born Wakeman also having a solo album to his name by the time he was recruited to replace the exiting Kaye.
While ‘Fragile‘ met with the usual array of mixed reviews (‘Fragile does not seem to go anywhere or have any theme except displaying their technical ability‘, opined Melody Maker), the devoted received it rapturously, lengthy opening cut ‘Roundabout’ (written by Anderson and Howe) edited to such a successful extent it gave the group a top ten U.S. hit single.
With what would prove their most revered aggregation of members in place, Squire, Anderson, Bruford, Howe and Wakeman, along with long-serving co-producer Eddie Offord, spent the early summer of 1972 recording at Advision Studios in London.
The ensuing album became their most successful to date in reaching number four in the U.K. while going a place higher in the United States, ‘Close to the Edge’ an appropriate title given Yes would take prog-rock to the very edge of plausibility and then way, way over the top – which to the uninitiated was precisely what this school of popular music amounted to anyway.
Comprising of just three songs – the title-track at almost 19 minutes accounting for the whole first side – this was prog at its most experimental, but also inherently self-absorbed. There is a confidence, bordering on gratuitous conceit, about the single-minded intention in evidence, throwing up the obvious irony that when punk rock emerged five years later to disparage what was viewed as the soulless, self-indulgent music of the recent past, it was Yes (with the possible exception of Led Zeppelin), who found themselves most mocked by the new-wavers – Howe, Anderson and co no less narcissistic in their approach to making music, albeit in a vastly different style, than the most pedantic punk.
Opening to the ambience of birds chirping and a river in flow, the latent tranquility which opens the title piece eventually surrenders to the bold, at times harsh freneticism of the music, that at times comes across as the most chaotic jazz.
As changes of tempo and mood come and go, each of the four players, Wakeman, Bruford, Squire and Howe (who co-wrote the piece with Anderson), spend time in the spotlight, the track split into four component parts – i) ‘The Solid Time of Change‘ ii) ‘Total Mass Refrain‘ iii) ‘I Get Up I Get Down’ iv) ‘Seasons of Man‘ – this presumably to create the effect of a rock symphony, that like its classical counterpart consists of different musical movements.
If elements within the music are hard to fathom in terms of what it depicts, the lyrics of Anderson are even harder to decipher. Apparently inspired by the 1922 Herman Hesse novel ‘Siddhartha‘ they range from non-sensical, stream of conscious expressionism, ‘A seasoned witch could call you from the depths of your disgrace/And rearrange your liver to the solid mental grace’ to flowery jargon, ‘A dew drop can exalt us like the music of the sun/And take away the plain in which we move/And choose the course you’re running’, but also contain simple, convenient rhyming:
‘Then according to the man who showed his outstretched arm to space/He turned around and pointed/ Revealing all the human race/I shook my head and smiled a whisper, knowing all about the place.‘
While there was, nor is, any law stating rock lyrics had to make any literal sense – many beloved songs containing lines that do not bear scrutiny in terms of defined meaning – Anderson seems intent on conjuring deliberate oblique pronouncements (‘You could clearly see the lady sadly looking/Saying that she’d take the blame/For the crucifixion of her own domain‘), in the name of progressing lyricism.
But in truth sentiments such as ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula‘ and ‘Tutti Frutti‘ are far closer to the essence of rock, which is why they are far more likely to be hummed than ‘Close to the Edge.’
That said, when Anderson makes his entrance as a vocalist after just over four minutes, sounding not dissimilar to Graham Nash, there is no shortage of conviction in the way he delivers an epic, existential narrative that appears to blend the search for self-discovery with a critique of organised religion, (‘How many millions do we deceive each day?’) – the sound of Wakeman adding a church organ to the mix either an ironic touch or heavy-handed way of making a point.
Built upon the acoustic guitar patterns of Howe, side two opener, ‘And You and I’ – separated off, naturally, into four segments i) ‘Cord of Life‘ ii) Eclipse iii) ‘The Preacher, The Teacher‘ iv) ‘Apocalypse‘ (the track credited to Anderson, Howe and Bruford) – is not that far removed from a Lindisfarne offering, save for the prog-folk inflections of Wakeman on synthesizer.
Offering an altogether more pastoral account of what Yes were about, the lyrical couplets remain baffling beyond belief, (‘A man conceived a moment’s answers to the dream/Staying the flowers daily, sensing all the themes/As a foundation left to create the spiral aim‘). The best guess of your genial host here at SAMTIMONIOUS.com is they are based on a personal relationship given the repeated use of the phrase ‘You and I’ – although whether it is in relation to a woman, God or even nature is nigh-on impossible to determine.
Irrespective of the mystery shrouding the words, it is not only a clear example of their outstanding ensemble playing but Yes also manage to set themselves apart from fellow proggers by virtue of impressive background vocals – and while they can give Crosby, Stills and Nash a run for their money in the harmony stakes, not even Crosby at his most word-binging would go so far as ‘Coming quickly to terms of all expression laid/Emotion revealed as the ocean maid.’
Closing track ‘Siberian Khatru‘, that at 8:57 is a mere snippet (‘And You and I‘ clocking in at just over ten), serves well in the circumstances as a finale, gathering together as it does all their folk, jazz, rock and classical sensibilities.
Written by Howe, Anderson and Wakeman, in this instance the whole is greater than the sum parts. Yes once more are majestically cohesive as striking electric guitar work and rumbling drums come to the fore, but here the band sound particularly assertive. Yet again the words are a daunting challenge (‘Gold stainless nail/Torn through the distance of man as they regard the summit‘), for either intellect or interest, but even those unable to make head nor tail of the imagery can acknowledge here was a band with clear sense of purpose (at least to themselves).
Nothing displayed the dichotomy surrounding Yes more than Stateside reaction to ‘Close to the Edge.’ In general critics loathed it, noted New York scribe Robert Christgau bestowed a mark of C+ on his renowned A-D rating system, Rolling Stone omitted it from their Best 40 Albums of 1972 list, with one reviewer dismissing the record as ‘An attempt to overwhelm that results in unmemorable meaninglessness.‘
At the same time however, Yes devotees were sending ‘Close to the Edge‘ into the U.S. top five, but before the band set foot in North America where a mammoth world tour was set to begin, Bruford picked up his sticks and left to play drums for King Crimson, being replaced in Yes by top-notch sessioneer Alan White.
Ultimately the departure of Bruford caused barely a hiccup in their burgeoning commercial momentum and through the immediate future came highly anticipated concert appearances and high charting albums.
To the unconverted 1973 triple live set ‘Yessongs‘ was excessive even by their standards, while the four-track (one per side) double album ‘Tales from Topographic Oceans‘ (1974) revealed little other than just how preposterous they had become.
Aside from having to bed in a new drummer, six months after ‘Close to the Edge‘ was released, ‘The Dark Side of the Moon‘ hit the shops, Yes thereafter faced with the challenge of having to shake off the unwanted title of being, as one astute observer put it, ‘A poor man’s Pink Floyd.’
Not that Yes were poor men by any means, their melodic (sometimes not) extravaganzas and lyrical excesses perhaps best viewed in relation to the April 1977 debut album by The Clash – the first side of which contains eight songs written in pointed parlance about disaffected youths, this opposed to one elongated, mystical melodrama prone to disappearing up its own niche vibe.
Even then with just a single track, side one of ‘Close to the Edge‘ is six seconds longer than its Clash equivalent – proof enough, surely, that punk rock had to happen and was most welcome when it did.
YES – CLOSE TO THE EDGE (Released September 8 1972):
Close to the Edge (The Solid Time of Change/Total Mass Refrain/I Get Up I Get Down/Seasons of Man)/And You and I (Cord of Life/Eclipse/The Preacher, The Teacher/Apocalypse)/Siberian Khatru;
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