The sure and steady pace at which Yes has progressed through their four albums seems to suit them just fine, and in Fragile the fruit is at last beginning to ripen.
Some problems remain, however: They're good and they know it, so they tend to succumb to the show-off syndrome. Their music (notably "Cans and Brahms" and "We Have Heaven") often seems designed only to impress and tries too hard to call attention to itself. Is anyone really still excited by things like "Five tracks on this album are individual ideas, personally arranged and organized by the five members of the band .. etc."? They've got it in them to do a lot more than provide fodder for those strange people who get
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it off to visions of keyboard battles between Rick Wakeman and Keith Emerson. Then too, with the nimble Wakeman and his many instruments, a guitarist (Steve Howe) who can finger-pick like the devil and, apparently, a wealth of collective imagination, they could inject at least a tad more variety into their work. As it is, most of the songs sound like variations on one idea rather than distinct entities sharing a common style.
But make no mistake the Yes people have a lot to be excited over. Gorgeous melodies, intelligent, carefully crafted, constantly surprising arrangements, concise and energetic performances, cryptic but evocative lyrics when all these present Yes is quite boggling and their potential seemingly unlimited.
As in the opening "Roundabout," marked by a thick, chugging texture which almost imperceptibly accumulates, during deceptively innocent little breaks and fills, a screaming, shattering intensity that builds and builds until suddenly everything drops away but Wakeman's liquid organ trills, some scattered guitar notes and Jon Anderson's pure, plaintive voice: "In and around the lake/Mountains come out of the sky and they/Stand there." It's a tour-deforce, a complete knockout, and perhaps the most quietly devastating moment to appear on a record in recent memory.
The heavily atmospheric "South Side of the Sky" is also a grabber, a song that goes from full chorus and band (that's loud) to a segment that is nearly Oriental in its pristine simplicity just wandering piano, electronic swirlings and the whoosh of an icy wind. "Heart of the Sunrise" is the third extended cut, and it puts everything they've got into a wide-ranging and most impressive package which demonstrates that progressive (remember progressive rock?) doesn't mean sterile and that complex isn't the same thing as inaccessible.
When it's all working, the music made by Yes is what the best music always is, a powerful and moving emotional experience. It's probably the first music to come along since some of the Kinks' older stuff that actually brings the beginnings of tears to these jaded eyes of mine. Don't bet it can't happen to you. (RS 104)
RICHARD CROMELIN
You can say a lot of nasty things about progressive rock, and many people have -- most frequently, that the genre emphasizes musical chops over soulful expression. Still, prog rock cannot be faulted for lack of youthful ambition: In the case of Yes, the British band's often overbearing pretentiousness resulted in moments of rare grace and beauty, a bizarre and fleeting -- if totally unrealistic -- coupling of classical textures with rock & roll pathos.
Curiously enough, Yes' 1969 debut is a relatively down-to-earth affair -- and a not very inspired one at that. The quintet's reworking of the Beatles' "Every Little Thing" illustrates its knack for mysterioso, angelic harmonies, led by singer Jon Anderson. But the band's original compositions are sketchy at best. The psychedelic Time and a Word, from 1970, offers little improvement, perhaps because of the dubious decision to attach an entire symphony orchestra to the already cluttered arrangements.
It was the addition of Steve Howe's guitar pyrotechnics that finally allowed Yes to find their true identity. The following year's Yes Album is a gigantic leap forward, with extended workouts such as the ethereal "Starship Trooper" emphasizing the band members' individual virtues. In Bill Bruford, Yes had a hip, jazzy drummer; in Chris Squire, a bassist willing to dominate the mix with his elephantine lines; and in Tony Kaye, an organist who used his Hammond sparingly, for funkier effect.
Kaye was unceremoniously dismissed so that virtuoso Rick Wakeman could join in, perfecting the definitive Yes sound. Sure enough, 1972's Fragile is quintessential classic rock. "Roundabout" is an undeniable prog-pop singalong, but the album's happiest moments are subtle, brief passages such as the bucolic instrumental segment of "South Side of the Sky" and the gleefully baroque line that Wakeman repeats hypnotically during the climax of "Heart of the Sunrise." Fragile is the kind of album that affords revisionists a chance to reconsider the merits of the art-rock school.Die-hard Yes fans will cherish these reissues' pristine remastering. The bonus tracks are lackluster -- a handful of previously released single versions of songs and rough mixes. The only notable curio is a newly unearthed studio take of Howe's bubbly guitar instrumental "The Clap." As for nonfans: Even you have to admit, if Yes hadn't reached so high, we wouldn't still be paying attention now.
ERNESTO LECHNER
(RS 915 – February 6, 2003)
