Published on Dec 10, 2001
It seems every band that survives for even a fraction of Yes’
incredible run — now in its fourth decade — goes through peaks
and valleys. Welcome to the valley.
Mind you, the arena-rock 1980s edition of Yes – of which
Talk was the last, dying gasp – was not without its
redeeming qualities. At its best, the creative tension between the
band’s old guard, in the form of singer/lyricist/space cadet Jon
Anderson, and the new, in the form of
guitarist/vocalist/leather-pantsed showman Trevor Rabin, resulted
in music that was interesting in ways beyond the ken of most other
80s rock. The problem was always this: Yes wasn’t invented in 1983
when Rabin and bassist/vocalist/keeper of the flame Chris Squire
joined forces; by then it had a storied 15-year history of
challenging musical convention, a legacy to which the more
commercially-inclined Rabin was a most uncomfortable heir.
By 1994, Yes’s notorious revolving-door lineup had reached a
point perhaps best described as “last man standing.” Creative
tensions between Rabin and Anderson had simmered through two studio
albums until Anderson quit in 1988 to form his own band of Yes-men,
the eponymous Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe. A subsequent legal
battle over the name “Yes” resulted a merger between the two groups
into a kind of “Mega-Yes” that toured eight men strong in 1991, but
the companion
Union album, stitched together from separate sessions
undertaken by the two factions, was a botched mess. In the
aftermath, Anderson was apparently convinced to throw in with Rabin
for one last stab at commercial success with the 80s lineup, which
also included Squire, Tony Kaye on keyboards and Alan White on
drums. The rest of the band basically gave Rabin free rein for
Talk; he produced and was the primary writer and player on
every song.
The result was an album that tanked, a tour few people saw, a
quick exit by Rabin and Kaye, and the revival of the “classic Yes”
lineup featuring Steve Howe and Rick Wakeman. Why, you ask? Well,
let’s take it song by song. Or perhaps more appropriately, blow by
blow.
“The Calling” was the album’s main shot at a hit single, but
fails the basic “Owner Of A Lonely Heart” test: if you’re going to
build a seven-minute song around a simple guitar riff, make it a
memorable one. A song that ought to rock, plods instead. Tony Kaye
at least gets to play a few notes on his Hammond – the only place
on this entire album where his presence is detectable.
“I Am Waiting” is one of the album’s – hell, the band’s – low
points, a ten-years-late Journey ripoff with lyrics so
embarrassingly dim Steve Perry himself would’ve turned up his nose
at them. “Highways, starways, many ways to be open tonight.” Oh,
please. As far as the music, I can’t help but agree with Daily
Vault alumni Loznik’s acid assessment: “utter pants.”
“Real Love” and “State Of Play” both attempt a yin-yang vibe,
playing grinding Rabin riffs off airy Anderson vocals. And both
fall flat, thudding along sounding as flabby and pompous as
anything Yes has ever produced. The ’70s lineups could get away
with a little pomposity because they had the musicianship to back
it up. On these tracks, however, Rabin struts his three-chord riffs
and effects-laden solos like they’re Beethoven, only to end up
sounding like a hopeless wanker.
“Walls” carries the dubious distinction of being among the most
frequent nominees for “Worst Song Ever Released” by the band, a
semi-regular exercise over on alt.music.yes, the erratic, ornery
newsgroup for Yes aficionados. The amazing part is that it took
three people — Rabin, Anderson and Supertramp frontman Roger
Hodgson — to come up with a lyric that brings fresh meaning to the
word insipid. When John Mellencamp sang about the walls tumbling
down in 1982, he sounded like he was gonna kick’em down himself. On
this track, Yes sounds like they’re hoping the walls will crumble
if they just whine loud enough.
“Where Will You Be” is pleasant fluff, a little Anderson
flower-child poem set to looped electronic percussion with Rabin
thankfully hanging back most of the time, his only real
contribution some flashy acoustic string-bending in the bridge.
“Endless Dream,” this lineup’s only shot in its twelve-year
lifespan at a Classic Yes-length epic, is, well, endless. For the
instrumental opening, Rabin doesn’t even bother to try to come up
with something new; he just lifts the percussive synth loop and
tempo right out of the intro to his own “Changes” back in ’83, adds
a few power chords, and calls it new. White is the only guy who
sounds the least bit challenged, banging out some fairly wild time
signatures that are the closest this entire album comes to sounding
like classic Yes.
The rest of this interminable 15-minute track is a pastiche of
airy Andersonisms and thumping Rabinisms that tries hard in places,
but ends up sounding like a parody of Yes – long and complex, to be
sure, but also slick, showy and virtually weightless. Only
Anderson’s strong lead vocals and some nice harmonizing late in the
game with the criminally under-utilized Squire prevent this track
from being a complete bomb.
The final nail in this album’s coffin is the production. Rabin
took great pride at the time in being a pioneer, recording and
mixing the entire album on an Apple computer. The problem is, the
album SOUNDS like it was recorded on a computer. Nothing feels
alive or organic; it’s all tinny and metallic, shiny edges on the
highs, cavernous bottoms on the lows, processed vocals and
electronic percussion. It could have been subtitled “Music for CPU
and Modem.”
As much as I long to be finished reviewing this particular
album, I cannot depart without drawing your attention to the
moment, about 3:30 into “Endless Dream,” where the music falls
back, leaving space for a little duet between a cheesy processed
guitar riff and a pseudo-freaky synth effect. It was as the two
obnoxious noises played off each other that I looked at the credits
one last time and recalled that Rabin played all the synths on the
album, too. And laughed out loud, as I realized how deftly this
little interlude captures the essence of
Talk — Rabin is playing with himself.