Published on Jan 19, 2004
It’s late fall, 1983. I’m a senior in college, driving through
the tree-lined streets of Davis, California with the radio on,
having sort of lost track of my long-since-imploded favorite
progressive rock band Yes, whose last really good album (
Going For The One) had come out six years earlier. Flipping
through the channels, I catch the beginning of a new song…
Hmm, decent opening guitar riff; kinda neato pseudo-symphonic
synth effects; crisp, spacious, modern (’80s) commercial
production; a beat you could just about dance to, and… the
vocals… WTF? Is that Jon Anderson?!?
My reaction to “Owner Of A Lonely Heart” (the band’s only #1 hit
in its 35-year existence) was probably pretty typical for a fan of
“Classic Yes” — first shock, then fascination. What happened? And
who’s playing those fat, in-your-face power chords, because it sure
isn’t Mr. Fluid Elegance Steve Howe.
The story goes like so. After the 1980
Drama lineup of Yes broke up, guitarist Howe and keyboard
player Geoff Downes linked up with Asia, while vocalist/producer
Trevor Horn went back to producing, and bassist/vocalist Chris
Squire and drummer Alan White forged on as a duo. For a few heady
weeks, there was talk of a new band to be called XYZ
(ex-Yes/Zeppelin), to consist of Squire, White, Jimmy Page and
possibly Robert Plant. That idea didn’t pan out, though, and some
time later, Squire and White hooked up with South African
guitarist/vocalist/composer Trevor Rabin. Their new unit was to be
called Cinema, and featured Rabin as the main composer and singer,
along with (eventually) former Yes-man Tony Kaye on keyboards.
Trevor Horn was invited in to produce and recording ensued, but the
label expressed concern over Rabin handling both guitars and lead
vocals. Around the same time, Squire and former Yes lead vocalist
Jon Anderson had gotten back in touch, and Squire sent over the
Cinema tapes. Anderson was intrigued, the label was delighted, and
the rest is history. Yes was reborn, albeit with an entirely new
sound, dominated by Rabin.
That sound was, simply put, prototypical arena rock. Big, flashy
guitars, steady, thumping beats, sleek production and tight, poppy
songs. On the one hand, it was a sound that served mainstream rock
bands like Foreigner, Journey and Boston well in the late ’70s and
early ’80s; on the other, it was a slap in the face for fans of the
progressive, experimental vision Yes had been thrilling fans with
since 1969. From whichever angle you approach it, one thing is
undeniable, though; in the context of 1983,
90125‘s approach was fresh, modern and exciting.
Still, for long-time Yes fans like me, it was a challenge to
sort out our feelings. Do you cringe at the commercial tone of the
new music, or feel grateful that Yes is back and try to get with
the new program? Are they sell-outs, or survivors? I have a
colleague at my day job who, when presented with a dilemma of this
magnitude, is fond of proclaiming “I feel strongly both ways.”
Which is about as fair an assessment as you’re likely to get out of
me about
90125. One Trevor Rabin supporter over on Amazon.com called
90125 “Yes’s best album of the ’80s.” I agree
wholeheartedly, even if it’s sort of like naming the least homely
dog in town the “best of show.”
Say this for
90125, it’s the best set of songs the Trevor Rabin version
of Yes ever produced. “Owner Of A Lonely Heart” is a fine little
ditty, perhaps a bit dated now, but full of energy and undeniable
hooks. “Hold On” and “It Can Happen” rock out to similar effect,
with the latter even having a bit of a prog edge to it thanks to
the sitar. These tracks have a cohesive sound, as though Rabin’s
arena rock yin and Anderson’s airy prog yang have found a happy
medium.
Signs of trouble were there already for any who cared to read
the tea leaves, though. “City of Love” and “Changes” were
essentially Rabin solo tracks with some Anderson vocals added, and
featured very un-Yes-like crunch on the thundering guitars. “Leave
It” was another Rabin showcase, although its soaring multi-part
vocal harmonies suggested a lighter side to Mr. Leatherpants (as
Howe partisans would dub the usurper). Not to be outshined by
Rabin, Anderson and his sunny sentimentality dominate both the
soaring, rather pretty “Hearts” and the forgettable “Our Song.”
Overall, the album works remarkably well for what it is — the
fusion of two very distinct and to some extent opposite approaches
to music. Many critiques of this album are somewhat unfair; Trevor
Rabin was right to have reservations about calling this band “Yes,”
even with four former members on board. It was a different band
playing a radically different style of music from anything Yes had
produced before. Placed in the context of other arena rock bands of
the era, Cinema/Yes performs well on
90125. The songs are punchy and often memorable, and
certainly feature more skillful/creative musical backing than any
other arena rock outfit at the time could muster. It’s just that,
placed alongside a prog-rock masterwork on the scale of “Close To
The Edge,” they look like cheesy miniatures. Context is
everything…
In closing, one last caveat. The thing we occasionally
high-and-mighty Steve Howe fans must remember about the Rabin era,
and
90125 in particular, is that while the Howe-less Yes was
“tarnishing the band’s legacy” (not my sentiment, but not an
uncommon one), our man Steve was busy with Asia, cranking
(wanking?) out some of the most awful top 40 prog-lite ever
recorded. Compared to twaddle like “Only Time Will Tell,” “Owner Of
A Lonely Heart” is freaking Mozart.
It was the times, folks. It was the times.