Yes at Its Creative Peak

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"To my mind, Yes may be the single most important of all the progressive rock bands."

Geddy Lee of Rush

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I was a late arrival to the Yes party, I suppose.

The band's "Fragile" album had been in the music stores for a long time before I acquired a copy, but it was brand–new to me, and I was hooked by the other–worldly music I heard.

I may have been just discovering Yes, but that was far from the band's most current release. Among the Yes albums that were released after "Fragile" (but, again, before I got a copy of it) was "Close to the Edge," which hit music stores on this day in 1972 and marked a bit of a turning point — for the band and for me.

With my first purchase of a Yes album, I entered the world of progressive rock, where I would find the likes of Pink Floyd, Emerson Lake and Palmer and Jethro Tull — and others. And, while I listen to other things, too, I've never left that world.

When I bought the "Fragile" album on cassette long after its successor, "Close to the Edge," was released, I had just persuaded my parents to let me have a portable cassette recorder, and "Fragile" was one of the first cassettes I bought. I can't remember now why I bought it. I hadn't heard any of the tracks — and it didn't take long for me to figure out why. In those days radio stations seldom gave much airplay to songs that were longer than about four or five minutes — and many of Yes' recordings were nearly twice as long — even longer on "Close to the Edge."

Needless to say Yes wasn't getting much air time. And if it wasn't played on the radio in those days, chances were good I hadn't heard it.

I must have heard about Yes from someone, but I can't think of who that might have been. I wish I knew because that person was responsible for introducing me to one of my favorite musical experiences, and I would like to express my sincere gratitude.

But the experiences of listening to "Fragile" and "Close to the Edge" were very different.

While many of the tracks on "Fragile" were lengthy, they weren't as long as the tracks on "Close to the Edge," which was like a Yes symphony in three tracks/movements.

For nearly 50 years, Yes has had a distinctive style, but it was never really the same after "Close to the Edge." That was the last album that included drummer Bill Bruford, who joined King Crimson. Bruford was as distinctive in his own way as The Who's Keith Moon; others could take his place after he left, but they could never duplicate his sound.

Not surprisingly, I suppose, Yes has never again reached the creative heights it reached with "Close to the Edge." After 45 years, it holds up where other Yes albums do not — and remains fresh and new even upon repeated listenings.

An Album for All Seasons

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My memory of "90125," the Yes album that was released 30 years ago today, is bound to be different from most people's.

Sometime after it was released, I was called in to the offices of the Arkansas Gazette to interview for a job opening on the sports copy desk. After the interview, I was so sure I would get the job (and I did) that I bought "90125" on my way home that night. I listened to it all evening after I got home. Even today, when I listen to it, my mind flashes back to that evening.

I continued to listen to it nearly every day after I got the job and as I prepared to move to an apartment in Little Rock. It became the soundtrack for that period in my life. To this day, I cannot listen to it without thinking of those days.

The job at the Gazette required me to work nights — until after midnight. I remember listening to "90125" most nights when I got home. I tried to keep the sound down, but my neighbors must have heard it at times. They were good sports, though. No one ever complained.

The big hit from the album was "Owner of a Lonely Heart," which is still probably the most recognizable track from the album.

(By the way, I always thought the title of the album had some kind of significance — but I just didn't know what it was. Turns out there was a good reason why I didn't know. There was no significance, none at all. It was lifted from its Atco Records catalog number: 7–90125–1.)

"Owner of a Lonely Heart" was already a hit when the album was released on this date in 1983; it is probably still the most recognized track. Three other songs from the album — "It Can Happen," "Leave It" and "Hold On" — were released as singles in the months that followed, but none ever duplicated the success of "Owner of a Lonely Heart." Not even close.

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"Leave It" started getting a lot of airplay a few months after the album was released. I had Mondays and Tuesdays off in those days, and I often drove to Hot Springs to watch the horses run at Oaklawn Park that spring.

Even though I worked in the sports department and had the advantage (if that is what you want to call it) of the insights of my co–workers (including the fellow who covered the horses for us), I never did very well at the track. At a certain point on those occasions, "Leave It" started playing in my head. It was good advice, and I usually had the good sense to follow it.

And so it is that I have a mental link between "Leave It" and my afternoons at the track.

"It Can Happen" was making the rounds of the radio stations that summer. I always liked it. I'm not sure why.

Maybe it was the upbeat message of the song. Maybe it was the sitar — it was simultaneously reminiscent of my early childhood, when I heard the sitar in Beatles songs, and of my teen years, when my father listened to a lot of Ravi Shankar's music. Both were certainly influences on my musical tastes.

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If "It Can Happen" and "Leave It" had been released in reverse order, I might not have had the good sense to leave the race track when I did because "It Can Happen" would have been sending me an entirely different kind of message as it played endlessly in my head.

"Hold On" was released two years to the day after the album was released. I'm not sure what kind of message I would have taken from it if it had been a hit when I frequented the race track.

As the title suggests, it offers encouragement to anyone facing a formidable challenge. It isn't an original title. There were already lots of songs with that title when this one was recorded, and there have been many more since.

So, clearly, the title wasn't unique. Was the message unique? Not really. Trials and tribulations have always been part of life and always will be. That's what makes a song like "Hold On" so universal. We've all been there (or will be), and most of us can empathize with others when they're up against hard times.

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At least in my case — and I'm sure it must be this way for others — "90125" was an album for all seasons. It motivated, advised, encouraged and commiserated.

Gilmour's Solo Debut

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If you were a teenager in the 1970s, the odds are pretty good that you heard Pink Floyd at least once — whether you were a casual listener or a devoted fan.

For the casual listener, Pink Floyd probably meant songs like "Money" or "Time."

For people with more exposure to Pink Floyd, there was a lot more to listen to. But, in the late 1970s, there was a lot of movement going on within Pink Floyd. Roger Waters was promoting an idea that eventually became "The Wall," Pink Floyd's double album from 1979, and members of the band were working on individual projects.

David Gilmour, who had been with the band since 1967, was working on a solo project that was first released on this date in 1978. He wasn't leaving the band — he was just stretching his creative wings a bit.

My memory is that the main track from that album, "There's No Way Out Of Here," got a lot of radio air time that summer.

And Gilmour, in addition to being a well–established guitarist, had a voice that was perfect for songs like "There's No Way Out Of Here," which was similar to classic Pink Floyd tracks like "Wish You Were Here."

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Frankly, I never understood why his solo debut wasn't more highly regarded. I thought it was a pleasant enough album, easy to listen to, accessible even for non–Floyd fans.

Possibly at times, though, the songs on the album sounded a bit too Floyd–like. "There's No Way Out Of Here," for example, sounded like a Floyd demo that, for whatever reason, was left off a Pink Floyd album and never revived.

Casual Floyd listeners wouldn't have picked up on that, I suppose, but dedicated Floyd fans — and experienced music critics — may have. I certainly saw similarities in songs like "Raise My Rent" and "So Far Away" — but, to be totally honest, the whole album sounded like Pink Floyd outtakes to me.

Reasonably short outtakes, admittedly, but outtakes nonetheless.

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At that time in my life, that appealed to me. Pink Floyd's most recent album at that time was "Animals," an album I have grown to appreciate more as I have matured, but, at the time, I found the long tracks to be somewhat tedious. While I always appreciated the unconventional nature of Pink Floyd's music, I was drawn to the more traditional album arrangements of "Wish You Were Here" and "Dark Side of the Moon."

I guess I was more predisposed to like albums with a single track that took up an entire side of a record if that record was made by Yes, which was always more of a symphonic experience for me, anyway.

By the way, technically, "There's No Way Out Of Here" was a cover. It was originally recorded by another band a couple of years earlier.

But few people were aware of it at the time, and fewer still probably are aware of it today.

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And for Floyd fans, it is worth noting that "Short and Sweet," a song that was co–written by Gilmour, strongly resembled "Run Like Hell," which would be included on "The Wall" the very next year.

Talk about coming attractions.