Chris Squire, the bass player from Yes, who died last month after a short illness, was my musical idol. I like a huge range of bands and different genres, but Yes have always been the constant. They were the soundtrack to growing up during a period characterised by loneliness at school and uncertainty at home.
Childhood is often described as a magical place (Narnia, Neverland etc.) that we leave one day, perhaps unaware we’ll never be able to return. But I’ve always thought of adolescence as a more profound transition. As teenagers we do have an sense that things are changing: ourselves, the life around us and how the world defines, observes and reflects our image.
So it’s bitter sweet. We want to be grown up but we’re still just kids in the grand scheme and that paradox is not always comfortable.
But although the confusing feelings we experience in adolescence become closed to us as we mature, they’re never forgotten. And music is often the key to those memories, the pattern in the random cracks where we can unlock the door and remember who we used to be when we weren’t who we are. From Alabama Shakes to Frank Zappa and everything in between, our musical DNA is almost as unique in its coding as the patterns in our cells and no less important. Categories don’t matter a damn as long as the music matters to you.
And Yes matter to me, none more so than Chris Squire.
Chris was the consistent presence in Yes throughout its history, the only member of the band to appear on every album that bore the group’s name. Because of my age, it was the second coming of Yes in the early 1980’s that cemented my allegiance. I played the ‘90125’ album until it wore through. Today, I listen to Owner of A Lonely Heart in high definition FLAC and still mentally insert scratches where the needle leapt on my old vinyl copy. I pored over the turquoise inner sleeve and copied that strange geometric logo on school exercise book covers. Anderson, Squire, Rabin, White and Kaye became heroes. I had no idea at this stage who Wakeman, Howe, Bruford et al might be until some of the much cooler older boys informed me (in no uncertain terms) that this Yes, ‘my Yes’, were not really the classic line up of the band.
And so I was introduced to the strange schism that exists between fans of the group who utterly disown the period of the band that so enthralled me. But then on a chance shopping trip to Chester, I discovered a Yes album in the racks containing a clutch of tracks from the early 1970s. What better way to be introduced to classic Yes than through an album called, well, ‘Classic Yes’.
But for a child of ‘90125’, everything about ‘Classic Yes’ was weird and subversive. Instead of the geometric, machine-tooled precision of the 90125 logo, the sleeve was a painting of what appeared to be giant mushrooms growing by a lake underneath a purple sky. And instead of the draughtsman-like lettering of the band’s name, the Yes logo was a gorgeous, swirling, suggestive icon. The eyelet where the sweeping tail of the letter ‘Y’ disappeared into the letter ‘E’ was like a gateway into some grown up musical world that was hidden and mysterious, a secret pathway that promised to take me through the forests of giant fungi to where the cool kids roamed.
Or so I thought.
I wasn’t as yet aware that the only place where cool kids could listen to Yes was somewhere called 1972 and even if I had known, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Being an introverted Tolkien fan who lived several miles away from all my school friends, I was already considered an outsider. Twenty years before Jarvis Cocker coined the expression, I was one of the ‘misshapes’. My liking for Yes would come to be just be another proof point that I was a little bit weird. And that was fine with me. I considered my liking for progressive rock a form of intellectual superiority. Let others worry about girls, haircuts and fashion. I would worship at the altar of the complex time signature and musicians who really knew their shit.
There would be many car washes to fund that journey but finally, one grey Saturday morning, I took a bus ride to Chester, perhaps one of my first solo trips (and most definitely not psychedelic), clutching my hard earned £5 to go and buy ‘Classic Yes’. I didn’t realise it, but life was about to change.
It didn’t change immediately, though. It may seem strange bearing in mind what I’ve just written, but when I first heard Track 1, Side 1 (“Heart of the Sunrise”) my first thought was ‘What the hell is this?’ Not only was ‘90125’ precise in terms of its typography, it was precise in terms of its sound as well, a tribute to the polished perfection of Trevor Horn behind the mixing desk. Long before anyone had heard the phrase ‘digitally remastered’, ‘Classic Yes’ was a much more organic affair – and I don’t just mean the industrial quantities of dope that the band and producer Eddy Offord consumed during the recording of landmark early albums like ‘Fragile’ and ‘The Yes Album’. The quality of the mix wasn’t great and the music was like absolutely nothing on ‘90125’ – like absolutely nothing I’d ever heard before. I was the son of parents whose musical compass veered closer to Country & Western or Rod Stewart than ‘Close To The Edge’. What was I supposed to do with ‘Sharp, distance, how can the wind with its arms all around me’?
This was a problem. I had spent three months of pocket money on this thing. It wasn’t like I had to like it but on the other hand, five pounds was the hardest of currency for a fifteen year old. I had to at least try. And in doing so, my misshaped rebellion would take me a little further from the mainstream. Being a classic Yes fan was going to take more effort than just name-dropping whoever happened to be on TOTP that Thursday. And that in my eyes was a very good thing.
In reality, it didn’t take long. How could it? The more I listened, the more I was enthralled. Quickly and rapidly, I gathered all the albums. A new Yes tape every Christmas or birthday was almost de rigeur for most of the 1980s. But the more I listened to Yes, the more I wanted to be Chris Squire. His voice was the one that I latched onto in the harmonies and his playing was just unbelievable. My contemporaries were wrapped up in the New Romantics, the dog days of punk or the emerging sounds of hip hop but for me, the musicianship was too limited to have much appeal.
How could I be excited by some bloke with a weird haircut playing four notes over and over when I could listen to some bloke with a weird haircut create riffs as complex and varied as concertos? Chris Squire’s style of playing can only be summed up as “lead bass”. He was so much more than just part of the group’s rhythm section, instead playing astonishing melodies over and around the rest of the songs, all whilst singing a different part to Jon Anderson. I know that there have been many outstanding bass players in the history of rock and roll, but no one else has ever seemed capable of such incredible diversity and technique. Chris’s passing is a massive blow to all Yes fans and one that leaves us sad and grateful for his legacy as a musician. The man may be gone, but the music will bring joy to our hearts for as long as we have ears to listen.
As a final tribute to this wonderful musician, here are my own favourite Chris Squire moments, starting with one that technically-speaking isn’t Chris Squire at all.
Miguel Bass plays ‘The Gates of Delirium’
Miguel Falcao is a Portuguese bass player and a massive Chris Squire/Yes fan. Some years ago, he posted some note-perfect bass solos on YouTube to highlight the virtuosity and sheer dificulty of trying to play some of Chris’s bass parts. I adore these videos because although you can still hear the original track underneath, you can listen to Miguel’s flawless renditions of the bass in the foreground. The sheer speed and complexity of the playing is truly remarkable. Miguel is clearly a pretty awesome musician in his own right, but as he says:
“Here I play the second section of ‘The Gates of Delirium’, also known as “the battle” suite. Most appropriate, I would say… I managed to play it in two nights of recording, having to stop after on the first night I had run out of fingers… they still hurt :)) The speed at which this version was played is really on my technical limits…”
I’m not a bass player so I can’t really comment but for someone of Miguel’s incredible talent to say ‘this stuff is bloody difficult’ just shows the class of the man who wrote and played the original.
“The Gates of Delirium” (Live at Cobo Hall, Detroit) from ‘Yessongs’.
This is the original version of the YouTube video above. Check out the flowing bass melody under the main motif around 12:50.
Close to the Edge
Still for many people the high water of progressive rock. I love the pulsating riffs of Total Mass Retain and Seasons of Man whilst the beautiful harmonies in I Get Up, I Get Down showcase Chris’s vocal abilities, so vital for that distinctive Yes sound.
Starship Trooper.
I remember Chris playing the Würm section of “Starship Trooper” when I saw the band at the Hammersmith Odeon on the Close to the Edge Symphonic tour in 2001. This long instrumental section builds up like a gathering storm, where the bass part is a rolling, booming thunderous force. It gathers into something quite monstrous before Steve Howe’s guitar solo shreds the heavy atmosphere like a bolt of forked lightning.
We all knew what was coming. And Chris knew we knew. He moved to the centre of the stage, a wolfish grin on his face, pretended to roll up his sleeves, and then set about creating an mini-earthquake in West London. I’d like to think amateur seismologists in the area were alarmed.
I mentioned above the schism that seems to exist for some fans between the different periods of Yes so I’d just like to mention in passing that my favourite version of this song is the one the Rabin-era lineup performed at a concert in Dortmund in June 1984. I have never been able to fathom the vitriol that gets directed towards Trevor Rabin, a brilliant composer and guitarist, without whom, there would almost certainly have been no Yes revival and no glorious swan song for the band in the 1990s and 2000’s.
Hold On & Our Song
These two songs from ‘90125’ epitomise what that Yes revival was all about. Tight, contemporary, almost poppy. With Trevor Rabin on board, the band effortlessly leapt into the MTV age whilst still retaining the musical complexity that was the hallmark of the Yes sound. And the baffling lyrics. I said earlier I pored over the inner sleeve. Thirty years on, I still have no clue what Jon Anderson was singing about half the time.
On The Silent Wings Of Freedom
‘Tormato’ is not regarded as a classic Yes album by any stretch of the imagination. It had the misfortune to come out as punk was cranking into full gear and the band seemed to be uncertain of themselves. It contains one of Jon Anderson’s more “wibbly” and sentimental pieces, “Circus of Heaven” which even now makes me gnash my teeth and wail. Thankfully, it also contains “On The Silent Wings of Freedom”, the final track on the album and the one where the band, and Chris in particular, seem to throw caution to the wind and just go for it. Coming after so many of the classic tracks from the early 70’s, it often seems to be overlooked, a weird and wonderful thing that no one is quite sure exists.
Homeworld
“Homeworld” is the first track on ‘The Ladder’ album and was originally written to soundtrack a computer game about space exploration. This was a fitting arc for the band since their ‘Fragile’ and ‘Close to the Edge’ albums featured iconic Roger Dean artwork that showed fragments of a disintegrating planet landing like floating islands on other worlds. Chris’s bass and harmonising on this track are truly “classic Yes” and make “Homeworld” one of my favourite tracks. Unlike some bands that are content to rest on the laurels of their box set, I think Yes were making credible and interesting new music right up until Chris’s death. ‘The Ladder’, ‘Magnification’ and even ‘Fly From Here’ (made with Benoit David replacing Jon Anderson on vocals) are great records and contain tracks that would make my list of favourite Yes moments, just as much as perennial favourites like ‘Roundabout’.
In The Presence Of
“In The Presence Of” is a case in point. From the ‘Magnification’ album, it’s perhaps the best example of modern Yes rekindling the classic Yes sound. Chris’s lyrical, soaring bass part in Death of Ego and True Beginner make this a latter day “Starship Trooper” building slowly and inexorably to a blazing finale from Steve Howe on guitar.
Can You Imagine.
I include this because its one of the very few group tracks on which Chris sings lead vocal. If the band decide to continue as Yes, one of the problem they will face is that they aren’t just trying to find someone to play the bass. Chris’s singing voice has such a distinctive tone that I fear he will be irreplaceable. I loved his ability to sing under Jon Anderson’s lead vocal – their voices together possessed some magical alchemical quality that is as much a trademark of Yes’s sound as those vocal harmonies are for Queen.
Ritual
“Ritual” is side 4 of the controversial ‘Tales from Topographic Oceans’ album, a record that is lauded and derided in equal measure. As a fan, I can say objectively that there are bits that I could well do without and hardly ever listen to. But Side 1, “The Revealing Science of God” and the final track, “Ritual”, are right up there with the best of Yes. From my point of view, Chris’s playing on the live version is sublime. Listen to this from about 10:45 onwards and you’ll hear a a pulsating, fizzing, freewheeling masterclass in lead bass.
Yours Is No Disgrace.
So I have a theory that every band, regardless of the size of their following or genre, has a track that shows them at their ultimate best, a signature tune in which everyone – singer, guitarists, bass, drums and keyboards – can be heard at the top of their game. As an example, I’ve always thought ‘Good Times, Bad Times’ is the zenith for Led Zeppelin. Page, Plant, Jones and Bonham never sounded tighter, like a Rolls Royce jet engine throwing out monstrous amounts of power yet always staying tightly and precisely controlled. And for Yes, the same is true of ‘Yours Is No Disgrace’. Everything that makes this band special to me is crystallised into nine minutes and forty eight seconds of magic. Soaring vocals, intricate guitar solos, wonderful keyboards, fabulous rhythms, multiple changes of pace and mood and the whole shebang locked on the groove and propelled forward by Chris Squire on bass.
Chris may be gone but Yes will always live as long as people love music. Onward, through the night and thank you for the memories. Yours truly is no disgrace!
Feature Image – © Richard E. Aaron, Getty Images
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