Together with Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and Genesis’ Foxtrot, Yes' 1972 masterpiece Close to the Edge is probably the most fully realized album in progressive rock. It captures the band during an incredible (if fleeting) creative peak, and perfectly sums up the prog ethos; its lofty ideals and natural attraction towards the whimsical and cinematic. At its best, Seventies prog aspired to develop a universal musical language that drew equally from classical and the blues, folk and jazz, psychedelia and Eastern mysticism.
Just like The Beatles before them, Yes questioned the parameters of what a pop song could be, expanding its limits into the vast unknown. Yet, there is a succinct, triangular symmetry to the band’s fifth album: the 18-minute title track took up the entire Side One of the original LP, mirroring the structure of a symphony – think the avant-garde dissonance of Stravinsky, a favorite of singer Jon Anderson, or the orchestral phantasmagoria of Maurice Ravel. It was pieced together chaotically, merging song snippets by Anderson and guitarist Steve Howe, adding bits of a raucous group jam for an intro that kicks off with the sounds of water and chirping birds, then erupts into psychedelic rock at the speed of light. In the mournful mid-section, keyboardist Rick Wakeman channels Bach on the pipe organ, recorded at a London church.
There were only two songs on Side Two: “And You And I,” a folk elegy about the search for purity and truth, its pastoral moments anchored on Anderson’s helium-voiced harmonies and the crackling of acoustic guitars. The acid-funk jam “Siberian Khatru,” on the other hand, grooves like a hurricane, fueled by Bill Bruford’s supple drumming and Chris Squire’s bulldozing bass lines. In the era of Tame Impala and Arcade Fire, these three tracks sound eerily prescient – more alert and vital than your average 53 year-old archaeological artifact.
This particular junction of Yes lore has been documented exhaustively, so Rhino’s super deluxe treatment is geared to devoted completists and audiophiles. Steven Wilson had already remixed the album in 2013, and the set offers a brand new remaster and remix, with a Dolby Atmos option. The instrumental mixes are revelatory, especially on “And You And I.” Stripped of the layered harmonies, Squire’s acrobatic bass lines steal the spotlight, as they should.
The studio run-throughs of the entire album are a delight to sample, as the occasional rough patches and vocal improvisations add authenticity to the band’s obsessive crusade for perfection. The radio edits, single versions and “Steven Wilson edits” are inconsequential.
In terms of live material, the set includes the band’s iconic December of 1972 performance at The Rainbow in London – a couple of songs were in the original, triple live LP Yessongs. Since the 2015 Progeny box already gave us seven full concerts from the same tour, an additional show is welcome, but a bit of an overkill.
If anything, the Rainbow tracks illustrate the youthful grit with which Yes combined their virtuoso tendencies onstage with a certain in-your-face raggedness. They sound on fire on “Heart of the Sunrise,” the closing track of 1971’s Fragile that presaged the full bloom of Close to the Edge. Wakeman’s solo spot – playing excerpts from his solo debut, The Six Wives of Henry VIII – will make you smile with its bombastic flourishes.
Bruford jumped ship and joined King Crimson right before the Close to the Edge tour began, presumably exhausted after laboring through the quintet’s tour de force. The Rainbow tracks feature drummer Alan White, who handles hours of intricate time signatures with aplomb. He would remain with the band until his death in 2022.
Following Close to the Edge, Yes was unable to replicate such dizzying heights. Still, their following three albums are essential listening: a misunderstood epic, 1973’s Tales from Topographic Oceans is sprawling and majestic. A horrified Wakeman bolted (“To play music, you have to understand it," he said), and the band reacted by pumping up the adrenaline on 1974’s Relayer – a strident slice of near-metal mania. 1977’s Going For The One celebrated the virtues of form and proportion, redolent with the faint aroma of a final farewell. With the exception of 1980’s Drama – a giddy experiment in proggy new wave – the band’s remaining LPs to date sound like the remains of a shipwreck: a futile attempt to salvage bits and pieces from the old days. Think of this lavish set as a love letter to the moment when Yes found a sparkle of sheer genius and ran with it.
