ABSTRACT
In his study Hungry For Heaven, Steve Turner argues that ‘the conviction that we are made for a more transcendent world’ is ‘essential’ to the spirit of rock music, that ‘musician after musician propos[es] a spiritual solution’.1 Turner then proceeds to illustrate his argument through discussing the work of artists from Little Richard and Bob Dylan through to Bob Marley, Yes, U2 and many others. Turner’s argument proceeds on the basis of analysing the semantic content of lyrics, while other features of songs are allowed to pass almost totally ignored. This is not an unusual situation, of course, for most attempts at conjuring ‘meaning’ out of popular music assume that the ‘music’ acts as little more than a backdrop to the lyrics. In this article, I shall attempt to show that the ‘spiritual solution’ which may be divined in the music of the band Yes is frequently reinforced, in a number of interesting ways, by the sounds that they make. Yes formed in 1968 around a nucleus of Jon Anderson (vocals) and Chris Squire (bass). Through the next ten years they released nine albums (all but the first being hits), plus live compilations, and were for some (especially post-punk critics) the quintessential ‘progressive’ band (what the trade these days labels ‘dinosaurs’). Original keyboardist Tony Kaye was soon replaced by the more flamboyant Rick Wakeman, ‘advanced’ drummer Bill Bruford left after five albums to be replaced by the more stolid Alan White, while Anderson, Squire and guitarist Steve Howe remained throughout. Re-formed after a break-up in 1978, Squire and guitarist Trevor Rabin have since continued to record with Anderson, Kaye and White under the name ‘Yes’, while Anderson has also worked separately with Howe, Bruford, Wakeman and bassist Tony Levin (colleague with Bruford in the last manifestation of King Crimson). The path of these post-1978 ‘parallel’ bands has had interesting consequences on the development of the music, some of which will surface below.2 Throughout all these incarnations, guiding force Anderson has felt ‘there was and is an
infinite spiritual tone throughout the whole’.3 For the listener, such a tone can literally be felt in a live situation in the way the performers interact, and can often be guessed at with respect to a recording. Explaining, or even discussing that aspect of it, is beyond almost all but the most analogic prose. Fortunately, such a tone frequently leaves its mark on the music itself, and so my approach will take a different course. I shall focus purely on the recordings, those musical traces to which we all have access, to try to pin down the musical techniques which might enable listeners to assure themselves that the ‘spiritual tone’ is not simply a matter of self-publicity.
