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Yes :: 09.17.04 :: Chronicle Pavilion :: Concord, CA
Thirty-five years. In that time most people will change jobs ten times, go through five or six serious romantic relationships, move into a dozen new apartments, and replace every skin cell on their body 35 times. And yet, Jon Anderson, Rick Wakeman, Chris Squire, Alan White and Steve Howe have been doing that voodoo they do so well for that same span of years. They have shared a lifetime together and with a small legion of followers that have allowed this music to overlap with their own lives, to seep into their pores and become part of who they are. It's something bands that have been around only a few years cannot possibly comprehend. It drastically changes the dynamics between performer and audience. No longer is it an exchange between consumers and producers but a meeting of old friends, a chance to sing shared songs, a meeting of like minds.
Yes by Gottlieb Bros. |
I've seen Yes quite a few times over the years. I caught them in the round on a stage clogged with every member that could be rounded up. I've seen them indoors and out, small halls and huge, and memorably during the '80s payday heyday when they used black and white Popeye cartoons for an opening act and strangers passed me joints because I was sitting by myself. Through all their permutations two things have remained constant: The undeniable passion and artistry of these men and the undisguised love for those men by their fans. Rarely have either of these truths been more self-evident than during a calm, cool night in Concord as the band trekked across America again, showing no signs that this is a last gasp or a farewell. Quite the contrary, this is a band revitalized, clearly convinced that their expansive message of peace and prog is needed now more than ever.
Walking into the open-air amphitheatre on the edges of the San Francisco Bay Area, I could hear the flatulent strains of Dream Theater echoing over the low hills and wide-open roads. The keyboard sounds were something from another era, a time when hair metal morphed into art metal and Steve Howe was spending time in Asia. What little exposure I've had to their music makes me put them in the same round file as Queensryche, admirable ideas but painful to behold if one's musical tastes haven't been frozen in carbonite long ago. My companion and I wandered around the new age rocker paraphernalia booths catering to the well-heeled middle-aged audience. Sure, there were younger folk in attendance but at least half of those were brought by graying dads and hip uncles. At 36, I fall somewhere in between, a lover of superb musicianship and seeker of the eternal jam.
One thing missing from the stalls was the familiar cannabis incense at every other Yes show I'd ever attended. There were even less beers in hand than usual. This crowd was by and large quite straight, here for the music without need or want for additional enhancement. Wandering up to the lawn behind reserved seating, just like a high school, I found the burners, huddling against the wind in denim jackets and AC/DC t-shirts, working Bic lighters under cupped hands. Ah, my people. It was heartening to see that the FM lovin', MGD and Marlboro Red constituency is still listening to Anderson and company.
Jon Anderson by Tony Stack |
Roadies held a black curtain in place as we caught glimpses of huge inflatable things coming to life around the instruments. The lights fell and the new set, designed by longtime album cover artist Roger Dean, was revealed to the strains of Igor Stravinsky's "Firebird Suite." Nothing like a spot of pomp in your circumstance, eh? Anderson stood center stage, a dandy in a fluorescent, paint-splattered dress coat, everything about the man--including his utterly amazing voice--never betraying his march into senior status. With a little leap, he launched into "Going For The One," a fan favorite but not a radio hit, this time enlivened by Howe on lap steel guitar. Like many things Yes, it was huge, flowing, epic. The giant sized stage props fluttered around the band, blow-up amoebas and microbes from Topographical Oceans, organic and sharp-edge-less like much of Roger Dean's art work. Alan White's drum kit creaked to life, multiple arms extending from the sides of the riser with large tom-toms beaten by robot hands at the end, a drumtapus surfacing. Banners with the single word "Peace" hung on the left and right, a simple declaration of the true heart beating within all this spectacle.
Watching the close-ups on the video screens, one was struck by how much this band looks like a bunch of professors from Hogwart's Academy. If any of them have a mind to act I suspect the Harry Potter folks would welcome them with open arms, especially Wakeman (instructor of the dark arts) and wisp-haired Howe (conjuring and practical technique teacher). There is more than a hint of magic to what they do so the connection doesn't seem that forced, especially given how several generations of musicians have been tutored by their music. It never fails to impress how five men, the digits of a single hand, can make such an enormous sound. It's not just the amplification. There's something more, a will to build big, perhaps, or a widescreen vision that doesn't allow simplicity.
A few songs on the entire venue lit up, from within, as these bards performed, for what must be the 100,268th time, "I've Seen All Good People." The power of this song is it never gets old to anyone who loves it. Standing amongst a few thousand people, I could see smiling faces everywhere. How often does that happen? How often these days do you find yourself knee-deep in honest delight? I wanted to backstroke in the warmth of it all.
Steve Howe by Gottlieb Bros. |
Howe plucked what looked like a lute (later identified as a Portuguese guitar) whilst Squire reminded us that his bass, that nimble, powerful creature, is the secret ingredient that propels much of Yes' music. In a long black coat and open-chest white dress shirt, necklaces swaying, Squire is fit and feisty, ever the rock 'n' roll animal amongst the musicologists, jumping and strutting as he pounds the heavens with his axe. Though they are white AND English, Chris brings a kind of funkiness to their elaborate constructions.
The only misstep of the night came with their cover of Simon & Garfunkel's "America." Their version, despite being a baffling fan favorite, has not aged well, a Stilton well past its prime. Even Howe's interjections of blues and country licks, presumably to honor American musical traditions, couldn't redeem this one. It was one of a few moments in the evening where the band really piled up in the jam sections. All of them have a lot to say and sometimes they try to say it all at the same time. Interestingly, one of the usual culprits for this type of over playing, Rick Wakeman, laid back far more than in the past. Still encircled by a wall of keyboards, Wakeman, who looks increasingly like a character in a Werner Herzog film or a comic book super villain in his metallic green glitter jacket, seemed to listen intensely to everyone and placed his contributions with care. Every single solo he embarked on had impact, and, dare I say, intelligence to it.
I climbed back to the lawn for some wind in my hair when the band attacked personal fave "South Side of The Sky," which set the twirlers dervishing on the green. Nearly everyone, except for a few die-hards, in the seats was in fact seated so it was fun to see people try to dance to this quite non-dance music. Spiky note clusters, a glorious Elven Gregorian group chant, and a lively exchange of solos between Howe and Wakeman marked this as one of the highlights. It was, not to overuse a word, epic.
Yes by Tony Stack |
One strange aspect of the night was how I missed every single guitar change, of which there were many, for Steve. I'd close my eyes or turn away for a split second and when I looked again he'd have a different stringed thing in his hands or on a stand in front of him. It was another piece of magic, a slight of hand that never fluttered the music even slightly. It was Howe, alone in the spotlight, who ushered in the acoustic mini-set with a busy rendition of "The Clap." It was another instance of overplaying, something Howe engaged in more than his cohorts at this show. Guess when you have that much technique running around in your hands it's hard to stop it from coming out.
A baby grand piano was wheeled out and what proved to be a nice new twist on their catalog ensued. They played a highly reworked "Long Distance Runaround," a composition especially well suited to rearrangement, the pretty tune and lace edges coming to the fore in this acoustic setting.
On a tiny kit, nestled amongst his brothers, Alan White conveyed a sense that he might be having the best fun of anyone on stage. And fun was a hallmark of this show. For all the lofty notions and high-minded ideals behind their music, Yes seemed, more than anything, to be having a ball. During the acoustic section they joked, told stories, and suggested that all President Bush needed to do was smoke weed again and everything might turn out all right. During the introduction to the reworked "Roundabout" by Squire, Rick pulled a newspaper out and pretended to read, a bit of classic British television shtick and an indicator that there might be more Python in this bunch than all their classicism would suggest. There were jibes about "Yours Is No Disgrace" being written in 1955 and "Owner of a Lonely Heart" making them famous for "about ten minutes," showing a welcome sense of self-deprecating humor.
And you and I climb, crossing the shapes of the morning.
And you and I reach over the sun for the river.
And you and I climb, clearer, towards the movement.
And you and I called over valleys of endless seas.
It was during "And You And I" from the enduringly brilliant Close To The Edge album that I got a lump in my throat. The opening line about a man who conceived a moment's answer to a dream seemed especially poignant to me. That answer, that moment, is the one that's been unfolding for these guys for a long, long time. Despite an abiding pleasure I find in them, Yes is not my favorite band. There is a small, deeply personal line that stands between us but I can understand how they could be someone's favorite. Watching Yes gave me a glimpse of what it might be like to have my own favorites stick around for three and a half decades. This quintet still pulses with real joy for what they do. Every word, every note means something to them and their gratitude towards those who come to hear them play is palpable and charming. I can only hope, pray even, that I'll still be listening to my short list of precious ones when I'm collecting my first social security check (yes, I know the system will be bankrupt by then but allow me my illusions). As I listened, eyes shut, to the huge waves crashing in this piece, I hoped that Yes inspires other bands to stay with it through all the drama and downturns, through all the flashes of riches that fade, through all the dry spells and dark nights. The rest of it is worth it all. They are living proof of that.
Within the world they've created is a vast array of philosophical and musical terrains. Like Ezra Pound's Cantos or Krzysztof Kieslowski's Three Colors trilogy or any other huge scale work of art, it would take a lifetime to really explore what they have brought into being. It's a complicated tale, rife with contradictions and stumbling, but the ending is beautiful, initialed with loving care for anyone who's taken the time to listen.
Dennis Cook
JamBase | California
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